Monsieur and I love kayaking, which is called canoë-kayak in French (pronounced CAN-OO-AY kayak). Why the French feel the need to use both words, I really don’t know. Anyway, apart from our common enjoyment of this boating experience, each time Monsieur and I set off in a kayak we leave the concept of togetherness on the shore. Monsieur paddles one way, I paddle another. We have the same destination in mind but very different approaches on how to get there. In order to save our relationship, we’ve decided never, jamais, to share a kayak again.
To better illustrate the point, at a family event in France last year, we took to the water on a deeper and faster river than we’re accustomed to. Monsieur’s extended family milled around on the banks, watching with interest as we fought a very strong current (and each other). By the time we got out of the boat I had stung my hand on stinging nettle, something had bitten me hard on the back THROUGH the lifejacket and I had a massive scratch on one shoulder which would take at least ten days to stop oozing luscious infection. (Monsieur was blessedly unscathed.) All this because Monsieur plus the current plus me equalled a number of dramatic crashes into trees and the riverbank. When we finally made it out of the water, we were fit to kill one another but worse was yet to come. “Thank you both for such fascinating drama,” laughed an uncle with one eyebrow raised in bemusement, or was that disappointment in our canoe conduct. We blushed in shame. Apparently we’d been yelling quite a lot and I could only be grateful that we’d yelled in English so as not to alarm the natives more. Not only was I anglo-saxone, a label already laden with unflattering stereotypes, but it was now obvious that I was unattractively hot-headed and loud; not exactly the way I wanted to impress Monsieur’s relatives.
Monsieur and I have now attempted to cooperate in a boat three times. Three times it has been the bittersweet mix of wonderful fun, incredible scenery and vivid fantasies of 101 things you can do with a paddle that could be construed as ‘bodily harm with intent’. Seriously, such thoughts are enough to make CSI’s Gil Grissom wince. But leaving the negative aside for a moment, Monsieur and I have discovered a wonderful way to explore the French river system.
Our first foray into canoë-kayak was on the Célé, a river that runs through Cahors of the black wine and Figeac of the Champollion museum. We were arguing after a mere few minutes. I was in the front of the boat and could see that we were about to go over a four-foot rocky fall, so stuck out my oar and stopped us at the adjacent bank. Monsieur initially couldn’t see what all the panic was about, so he was quite annoyed with me. “Go on, we’ll be fine!” he shouted, “No we won’t! We’ll wreck the boat. It’s dangerous!” I yelled back. Eventually, we agreed to get out of the boat and walk it down to the river below. Then Monsieur saw the drop that had seen me scream so loud I’d scared the birds out of the trees above us. “Ah, now I see what you mean,” he said. “You’re right. This is really dangerous!”
That didn’t ruin our day, however. We’d chosen to do a three-hour trip, measured by bridges. There were five and once we had passed under the fifth, we’d be near the landing at the camping ground where we’d hired the boat. That was to be our destination. It was a beautiful afternoon on the river. A family of ducks swam in front of us and whenever we got too close for their quacky comfort, they’d fly on ahead until we caught them up. We could see cows grazing in fields as we paddled on by and baby beavers splashed about us as they built their dams, of which there were many, one being so huge that it was a testament to the local beaver brigade’s work ethic.
At one point, we tried to paddle across the trunk of a tree that had fallen across the river and into the water. There was a lot of bottom bumping as we tried to dislodge the kayak from where it had settled, mid-trunk, but eventually we made it. At another, we reached a picturesque old water mill, with working wheel, but there was once more a tricky drop so we got out and carried the boat to a spot where we could relaunch safely.
We didn’t see another soul on the river that day. It was calm (apart from the occasional disturbance from our temperamental selves) and so untouched that it was easy to forget that such a thing as a car existed. The trees reached across the water, from one bank to the other, dappling the light from above as they formed a protective layer around the river. It was pure magic and, all things considered, we didn’t crash that much. But the day wasn’t over yet.
We passed the fifth bridge, following instructions to head for the bank on our right. “It’s signposted,” the boat man had said, but we found no sign, just cows and there really wasn’t a sensible spot at which to land. Before we knew it we’d gone past the camping ground, the caravans and the tents, and dropped down a little fall with a rush. The water was moving fast here so there was no hope of doubling back and for a long time we couldn’t find anywhere to stop. The banks were all too high. Then it went dark as clouds zoomed together out of nowhere, eclipsing the blue sky we’d enjoyed for the past few hours. Rain tumbled down so Monsieur and I decided, together, that enough was enough. This fortunately coincided with the appearance of a bank that was sufficiently low at which to get ourselves out of the water. With the rain had come a sudden drop in temperature so not only were we drenched, but blue with the cold.
Luckily, there was civilisation near this particular bank, in the form of the place where we’d lunched that day and where you eat a plate of frites if, like me, you don’t like their choice of steak, steak or steak. (I have to add that they were very good frites). As a redeeming act, the owner allowed us to use his phone to contact the man who’d hired us the boats so he could collect us with his trailer, which he did, bumping us along the road to the camping ground where we’d left the car. With chattering teeth we drove back to the little hotel and were unbelievably grateful for steaming hot showers.
So that was the first attempt of Monsieur and Epic to co-exist on the water. It wasn’t the worst but it certainly wasn’t the most straightforward. As for our adventure on the Dordogne last year, well, that’s another story.
