A canal linking the Mediterranean with the Atlantic, an engineering feat of such complexity that many thought it impossible when it was started in 1663, but it was completed some 17 years later, proving the cynics wrong. This is the Canal Du Midi, one of the most famous in the world, passing through areas of natural beauty such as the Camargue and the Pyrenees, and boasting attractive man-made features too, vineyards, villages, the famous humpback bridges, oval locks, and the ‘staircase’ of seven locks near Beziers.

It took us a week to cruise the hundred miles from Carnon, near Montpellier, to Homps, near Carcassonne, a journey which by car could have been done in under two hours. It was a journey back to a bygone age, where speed did not exist, where activity stopped at lunchtime and again at nightfall, and where instead of grey miles of motorway disappearing under the car at eighty miles an hour, and a motorised French maniac half way up your exhaust pipe, we had the tranquil view of the canal meandering through the countryside. Approaching each gentle bend at little more than walking pace, we never knew what to expect next. Sometimes it was a straight stretch with tall plane trees forming a perfect natural archway above our heads and shielding us from the scorching sun, other times it was panic stations as all hands were shouted on deck to cope with the complexities of navigating and operating the many locks, whilst the seasoned and cynical lock-keepers looked on at the antics of the greenhorn holidaymakers. There were delightful medieval villages, with stone cottages covered in flowers and old locals sitting on benches, contentedly watching the passing scene and always ready to offer a friendly word of advice or guide us to a local tavern or shop. Sometimes we tied up at a vineyard, sampling wines and other local produce at prices so low that we wondered if they had made a mistake, or if this part of France used a different currency to the rest. We constantly found ourselves rejoicing at the warmth and hospitality of the people in this area, so different from the mercenary and grasping attitudes of the Cote D’Azur, just a couple of hundred miles further east.

Controlling the rented barge was, in theory at least, easier than driving a car. A steering wheel, a throttle, and two gears, forward and reverse, with neutral in between. That was the theory. The practice was rather different. Turning left caused the stern (back, for the landlubbers) to swing viciously in the opposite direction, usually meaning that you would hit the bank that you were leaving, or worse, another boat. The maximum speed of the barge was perhaps 10 miles an hour, so that controlling it should have been childs’ play. Slowing down was achieved by reversing thrust, but judging this was a tricky process which could take you hurtling forwards or backwards at what seemed as frightening pace, until you hit the canal bank with a resounding thump. Steering should have been a simple question of just that - steering. Again, theory and practice diverged so that what should have been a straight line became a series of zigzags resulting from constant overcorrections, leaving a telltale wake like a pair of snakes fighting. Eventually we got the hang of it after a series of misadventures which left the boat with a few additional battle scars.

It may have been unfortunate that we cut our teeth crossing the Etang de Thau as nightfall approached, on a windy evening. Precisely what the people at the boatyard had told us not to do, and precisely what the rather confusing and disjointed instructions on board told us not to do. Despite fears of ending up impaled on the oyster beds, we made it safely to the far side and moored in a calm backwater to watch a beautiful sunset.

Our greatest challenge was the locks. A sneering audience of more experienced (if only by a few hours) cruisers would grin broadly, and the lock-keepers, who’d seen it a million times before, watched on, expressionless, as the greenhorns committed every error in the book. These included barging into the locks with nobody ashore to tie up, ramming the closed gates at the far end, hitting the sides, tying the ropes tight leaving the boat dangling as the water drained out, or waiting patiently for the lock keeper to appear during the sacred French lunch hour, when nothing, except mad dogs and Englishmen, moves more than three inches from the dining table. On our last day we realised that, as masters of the art, the locks were a large part of the fun.

Our party of six adults, two large teenage boys and a six year old fitted uncomfortably into the 5 cabins of a canal barge designed to sleep, according to the brochure, ‘10 in comfort.’ Perhaps brochure writers find lying on their back with insufficient room to sit up or turn over to be comfortable. I didn’t, and slept comfortably and in splendid solitude on the sun deck most nights. The exception was the night that the area experienced 90% of its annual rainfall in one night.

Overall though it was better than we had expected, especially as we spent most of the long daylight hours round the table on the sundeck enjoying the excellent local cheese, bread, wines and beers. We did cheat somewhat on the wines, and our evening meals were accompanied by some excellent South African reds that we’d smuggled in, and Mrs. Ball’s chutney put in appearance at our evening braais on the canal banks.

A relaxing experience, despite the initial stress induced by having to negotiate the locks, and one made more enjoyable by the lovely surroundings and the slow pace of life. We survived, and we’ll do it again.

We started at Carnon, near Montpellier;
www.midicanal.fr/

www.midicanal.fr/

www.le-guide.com/boatrentalsfrance/canaldumidi/

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