Before we leave the following day, I walk into the village to buy a baguette or two. Overcast, but no rain….. yet…French villages are flower rated, depending on how many public areas are beautified. Briennon has 3 flower rating.
I have my baguette under my arm, and meet up with two charming boys –
First, a grey stripey boy who winds himself inside and outside of my legs while his master chats unconcernedly to a fellow bargee…
What is it I so love about barging?
Its the experience of the moments… each day is full of slow living. There’s time to engage all senses, and France is a tactile experience.
The flowers gleam – on the bridges, from the hanging baskets, in the many charming pocket gardens
The reflections in the canals play tricks on the mind, the sounds of happy birds singing their hearts out, the rumble of the diesel engine steadily chugging along, water lapping, smells of nature abound, including fresh manure which bring the flies… (these fellow travellers after are in peril from Rob at the end of the day) The black dragonflies dance from wildflower to wildflower, and my lungs joy in the air from the fecund growth of trees and shrubbery lining the canals. But its raining….Does this deter the French fishermen? Nope, they are ready and willing to brave all weather ..
We moor that night in the basin of Artaix. Its become one of my favourite spots. Its a basin surrounded by plane trees. Its magical…the rustling of the leaves, the 9 p.m. sun, and then down comes the rain.