Getting to Lyon: River Saone

---

Getting to Lyon...
we headed off the next day in the drizzle but without the scirocco. We managed 1 lock and a few hours of dreary, wet bobbing along before the rain got horrendous and we gave up. The marina at Macon was full, so we tied up alongside the free moorings in the town. I got soaked to the skin in the process.
Our plan had been to explore the town and sniff out the wine festival that we'd been reliably informed by our dear Chris and Phil was happening. The gods of weather had other plans. As the rain hammered down heavily onto the roof we poured a couple glasses of wine, I cooked and we cosied down for the night with a DVD.
The rain didn't let up all night. Macon was still shrouded in grey at 9.30 the next morning and showed no signs of letting up so we decided to forgo visiting the town and motor on down towards Lyon.
Before we left Mike chose to fill up the fuel tank with the fuel he'd procured in Chalon. Bad idea. After he'd topped up the tank and closed the cap in the sopping wet weather, he fumbled the key to open and close the cap ….
“Shit!” I heard his exclamation filter in through the canvas. What had he done this time?
“What's wrong?” I asked and zipped up the side to see if I could help.
“I just dropped the key, it's gone into the water.”
“Is it important?” I asked
“Fairly,” came his reply “It tightens the caps for the fuel and water tanks. It's useful and I haven't got another one. I could dive down and look for it.”
“That seems like a lot of effort to go to for a little tool, but it's up to you.” I helpfully replied. Mike looked pensive. The he had a eureka moment.
“I'll see if I can boathook it.”
A few attempts at boat hooking proved fruitless. It seemed the water was deeper than the boothooks were long. Then Mike had another genius idea.
“I'll drag the anchor from the dinghy along the bottom and see if I can hook the key that way.” he announced. (I should add at this point that the key is fastened to a big loop of cord, so this idea isn't as mental as it sounds).
Smiling at his brilliant idea, Mike lowered the anchor on a rope and dragged it along the side of the boat. The smile suddenly faded as he started to pull the anchor back up.
“Fuck,” was the only word he said.
“What?” I asked.
“I think the anchor's come off the rope.”
As he pulled it in, his theory was proved correct. The anchor was no longer attached to the rope. We looked at the empty rope, at each other then both began to laugh.
“Looks like I might be diving after all,” he announced “I definitely need the anchor.”
I shook my head, bemused, as he emerged from the cabin in trunks, weight belt, snorkel and mask and asked me to pass his flippers once he was in the water. I did my wifely duty through guffaws of laughter.
It was raining, we were atop a murky river with god knew what on its bed and my dear husband was preparing to skin dive to the bottom to look for a small anchor and a key. At least I could never complain that life was dull!
After a few goes Mike surfaced proudly brandishing the anchor. I took it from him before he submerged again to look for the key thing.
He saw numerous discarded bottles and cans, but failed to find the key for tightening the fuel and water caps. He tried a few more times before giving in and deciding to sacrifice the key to Davey Jones' locker. We could cope without it, we both had the guns to hand tighten the caps.
Two hours after deciding to leave Macon we were on our way. We arrived at Jassans Riottier marina four hours later and the rain had finally cleared up. We pulled in there for the night, got some food in, rustled up a BBQ and watched the swans fighting/mating nearby (I have never seen them behave like they were that evening; noisy, running on the surface withoiut taking off, extending their necks flat against one another, pecking at tone another, swimming by pushing both feet at once with their wings and feathers puffed up around them - I was transfixed for at least an hour before the noisiness started to annoy me).
As the light began to fade, casting a beautiful soft golden shiommer over the water, a little red and white yacht appeared on the horizon. Could it be Chris and Phil? Yes! A damp and bedraggled couple waved cheerily as the boat got closer.
We helped them moor, told them about the lack of power and invited them onboard for a drink. A few hours and bottles later, after we'd swapped stories of our rainy journey down (they had no cover so had had it far wetter than us) and munched on some fruit and cheese, they went back to their boat and we said goodnight. Mike and I planned to get up early and do the rest of the trip to Lyon so turned in.
The following day was beautiful. A soft mist hovered above the river and a few patches of cloud were scattered across an azure sky. We waved to Chris as we motored off at 8.30am. The day got sunnier and sunnier as it went on. We passed gorgeous old towns, including stunning Trevoux nestled in the Rhone valley and reflected in the mirror-esque stillness of the river. We saw carefully crafted suspension bridges, and were breath-taken by Ile Barbe an ivy covered island fortress at the Northern end on Lyon
In the blistering midday sun we arrived into Lyon, marvelling at its beauty as we motored down the Saone. Myriad boats were moored against its quays, some with what looked like small forests on their roofs, but we headed on past to the newly built marina at the confluence of the Saone and Rhone.
We arrived at a low bridge, next to a building site. Two men were fishing from the bridge and two workmen were on their lunch break.
“pardon,” I called “C'est la marina?”
“Oui,” came the reply “Mais le pont n'est fonction pas”. (Yes, but the bridge isn't working)
Our pilot guide had said that there was headroom of 2 meters under a lifting bridge to access the marina. We were around 2meters. We decided to go for it. I climbed up to the bow so I could walk the baot under if necessary and we flattened our aerial, flagstaff and anchor light.
As we got nearer to the bridge I turned to shake my head at Mike. It didn't look like we'd make it. The guys on the bridge called over and waved their arms and shouted.
“I don't think they think we'll make it either,” I shouted back. As Mike satrted to reverse, the guys waved more frantically, beckoning us forward and shouting something I couldn't understand.
“Je suis Anglais, je ne comprends pas” I called back.
“Your boat is fit the bridge” one of the men called back.
I passed the news on to Mike and we went for it. The guys beckoned us forward, then went to other side of the bridge to see us through. We just fit. I was crouched on the bow holding on to the iron supports of the bridge and guiding us through as Mike put the engine into neutral and climbed out to make sure the back end of the boat didn't touch. We got through unscathed and called our thanks to the guys on the bridge.
The marina was not as expected. Only one or two pontoons were installed, and those weren't secured to the walls yet. There was no power, no water, no capitanierie and dozens of workmen were still building pontoons. It clearly wasn't finished despite the navicarte saying it was open 'Autumn 2010'.
We chose to go back out and find somewhere else with power. Becky and Fred were arriving in 3 days and we didn't want them to be stuck on a boat with no hot water or electricity.
Unfortunately, and disappointingly for a huge town at the confluence of two of its country's largest rivers, there were no other moorings available. After two hours of searching both the Saone and the Rhone around Lyon we returned to the unfinished marina, walked the boat under the bridge again and tied alongside the quay wall.
We decided we'd take Fred and Becks out on a cruise when they arrived so we could show them Lyon from the river, it was stunning, and get the water heated up so they couls shower. On the positive side, the sun was out, the mooring was free and close to the train station and we had three days to check Lyon out and find out where the best places for a big night out were before Fred and Becks arrived.

---