Wednesday, 18 July 2018
Distance 5 km
Duration 1 hours 5 minutes
Ascent 71 m, descent 1 m
As our train did not leave until 9:46 am, we rose at leisure, but even so we left before any of our fellow campers showed their faces.
We scrambled up the now familiar goat-track and into the high street, which was in morning shadow, with the flags of Bastille Day hanging motionless.
On the way to the bar we picked up our usual ration of pastries – three croissants and a pain aux raisins – and took our time enjoying them with coffee.
It was already hot but we did not have to worry for once, as we were not walking.
Also the stinging from yesterday’s encounter with the blackberries was almost gone this morning.
The train station was only a few hundred metres away and the journey to Migennes took about an hour. We felt like royalty, being wafted along effortlessly in soft, air-conditioned seats.
From there to Tonnerre the train was replaced by a bus – something to do with track work – and another pleasant hour went by.
The bus followed the Canal de Bourgogne, and as we skimmed along, we paid attention to any bars along the way, as we would be walking back over this route in the next two days.
At St-Florentin some passengers wanted to get off in the centre of town, but the driver said that he was only allowed to let people off at the railway station, which in this case was a couple of kilometres away, across the canal. In the end he good-naturedly let them out, muttering that he hoped he wouldn’t lose his job.
At Tonnerre, the bus sped past the turn-off, which gave us a moment of panic, but then circled back to the station, where we got off.
This town had been the end of our walk on the Canal of Burgundy in 2015, so our aim this year was to finish the job by continuing to the end, where the canal pours into the river Yonne at Migennes.
It was now lunch time and we remembered a delightful restaurant in the hotel opposite the huge Hôtel Dieu, where we had eaten before. Without hesitation we marched straight there and were shown to a table on the terrace, which hung out over a side lane.
The lunch menu offered three courses for €13, two for €11 or one for €9.50. We had the single course, as we intended to come back that evening, and it was totally delicious.
Keith, predictably, had steak, and I had lamb, cooked lightly in the style called “rosé”. Both were garnished with a lovely array of roasted vegetables. With this we had a half-litre of white wine and of course a basket of bread.
At the next table was a jolly old fellow of 87, who lived a little way along the canal and came here for lunch every day. He asked Keith about his profession and, on hearing the word mathematics, started addressing him as Einstein. What about me? I asked, but he did not respond.
We emerged well satisfied and strolled down, under the railway bridge and over two branches of the meandering Armançon, then beside the canal until we reached the camping ground.
We had stayed here before and it was still good, with spacious lawns and plenty of trees.
Beside the reception was a little terrace with tables and umbrellas, where you could buy drinks, or even simple meals, and the sanitaires were positively palatial.
Many of our fellow campers were long-distance cyclists, who seem to be magnetically attracted to canals, but once again there were no other walkers.
After our ablutions I amused myself by sewing yet another patch on my disintegrating shorts, which by now had patches on patches. Fortunately they only had to last three more days.
In the evening we went back to the same restaurant that we had visited at midday.
This time the terrace was bulging with diners and the only tables free were in the sun, but we thought that it would not be long until it set behind some houses, although the man at the adjoining table said exasperatedly that they had already been there for half an hour and the sun had not moved at all. I predicted five more minutes, which turned out by a fluke to be right.
Another couple arrived, Germans from Cologne, and they spoke a bit of French, so we all conversed in French until the French couple left, whereupon we swapped to English.
They were on their way to Seville, a drive of 2,200 km, which sounded appalling, even to our Australian ears.
We started our meal with a buffet of fresh, delicious crudités, but then discovered that we did not have much appetite left.
Our grand lunch and the lack of walking was catching up with us. I put most of my duck leg away, although it was lovely, and even Keith could not finish his escalope of turkey.
However he did somehow manage a crème caramel after that.