boring bougival,..

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So, we left Limay and spent another full day on the river in the sunshine, heading ever closer to Paris. We passed Poissy and the lovely Conflans St Honorine - an old gorgeous town that is home to more permanent barges than anywhere else in France. There is a real barge community here - even their church is on a barge! We had initially intended to moor here but found it to be full so carried on through more locks. By this point we had become much better at locks and had a great system going - I climb on the front with one of the ropes from the cleats Mike fitted in the middle, grab an antler, bollard or ladder rung, throw a rope round then wait for Mike. He comes up and takes over rope duty while I go back, fend off the stern and switch off the engine. As we rise, he pops a second rope over the next bollard and slips the first rope. It works well and we’ve had no more repeats of scary swinging by boat hook! Next we looked for a mooring our guide book had advised was pretty but not suitable for boats with a draught of more than 2 metres. We only draw 0.9 so went for it - there was absolutely no chance of us entering the moorings - we had 2 feet of water under us and could see the bottom before we even got to the entrance - further ahead birds were standing up!
We decided to get to the next lock at Bougival before it closed at 7.30 - by now it was 6.30 so we had to really push it to get there. It was during this little charge that we saw the broken down police boat and couldn’t stop to help. When we got to the lock and tied up we had a couple minutes to spare. In the lock was a barge and another boat. The gates didn’t close though. We soon saw why as a police rib zoomed up and in. ‘Oh crap,’ I thought, ‘they’ve come to get us because we didn’t help them out. This is it, trip over.’ No such thing, they just smiled, waved and went to the front of the lock. Phew! Just a few hundred meters from the lock was a municipal mooring. We were pretty tired from a long day in the sun so headed over and tied up. Opposite was the police rib and several firemen looking like they were trying to mop up a spill or mend an outlet in the river - that explained the urgency.
By now it was late and we were hungry so we tidied up, showered, locked up and headed over to the town. Before we could leave though, I had to wait whilst Mike struggled to carry his giant toolbox inside and lock it away. I watched as he heaved it the few feet it needed to go and couldn’t help but wonder who he thought was going to steal it - did he believe the hulk had taken up opportunist theft?? Toolbox safely stowed, and no sign of the hulk around, we got on our bikes and cycled into town. It was dead. Every bar, cafe and shop in the town centre was closed, lights were off and very few people were about. But, it was a Sunday evening so we guessed this was why. We found a bistro and an Indian restaurant open on the main road by the river and checked them out. The bistro was very expensive but the Indian looked reasonable. A Dane and a Brit eating Indian in France - how cosmopolitan! We were seated and presented with an orange drink with red stuff floating on it as we perused the menu. Turned out the drink was orange juice with grenadine and it was lovely! I ordered chicken korma and Mike ordered a biryani. It was pretty good.
We were fairly alone in the restaurant - a family of 4 were finishing up as we arrived and shortly after we ordered an older gentleman with a blond around our age and dressed in a tight top and skirt came in and took a booth in the corner after chatting to the waiter. It seemed the gent was the owner or manager as a fuss was made of him and their order taken quickly. Soon enough, the waiter disappeared with a bag of food and got on a moped (delivery or sneaky theft?), and the older gent disappeared into the kitchen and brought out our food before returning to his own table. Our guess had been right. Mike and I speculated over what the relationship was between him and the blonde. They didn’t seem overly comfortable with one another and she was on her phone a lot, as was he when he had done his stint serving food. I suggested they were step child and parent, or estranged father and daughter who’d only recently got re-united. Mike said he thought they were escort and client (ever the optimist!). I said if that was the case I hope he was paying a reduced rate as she was hardly engaging in any conversation. He found this hilarious and suggested I become a pimp with good business acumen like that. ‘What?’ I said, ‘If I was paying for someone’s company, they’d have to show a bit more interest than that. My ho would need to earn her money!’ We never did find out what the relationship was between them.
Next morning we decided to do some ‘errands’. We got up early and cycled back into town. We wanted to buy postcards and send them off, send the key fob Mike accidentally kept from his van keys back, find an internet cafe to catch up with people and check out places to stay in Paris and do a bit of exploring. The town was like a ghost town. Windows were shuttered and signs posted announcing liquidation, or annual holiday. We had discovered by now that a lot of France is closed for August. Businesses just paper over their windows and put a sign up announcing their annual holiday, date of re-opening and wishing everyone ‘Bonne Vacances’. Shops, cafes, museums and restaurants may also be closed because it’s Sunday. Or Monday. Or sometimes Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday. Saturdays are pretty much OK, apart from the odd place that’s only open for the morning. Or the afternoon. Anyway, we found a small newsagent and a post office open so were able to get the postcards done. We found a cafe announcing Wi-Fi access but couldn’t get online - it turned out that it was an Orange hotspot and customers of Orange were the only ones granted access. We paid the lovely French lady for our coffees and decided to head up to the next town on our bikes.
Mike had spotted a dirt path on the side of the river leading from our boat and suggested that would be a much nicer bike ride than the main road. He was wrong. The path had been cut for walkers and joggers. It was lumpy, bumpy, came perilously close to the water at times and was littered with tree roots and rocks. We also had to repeatedly stop for or dodge the joggers using it. Even more annoyingly, every now or then through a gap in the trees, I would notice a smooth tarmac road with no-one on it, which I couldn’t get to because of the 6 foot fence between the trees and it. Obviously, I made my discomfort clear and had a moan to Mike. His response was to tell me to man up, we’d be on the road in a minute. I wasn’t sure how he knew this as he had not been here before either, but decided to follow his advice, man up and shut up! Before long we came out on a gorgeous park which took us all the way through to a wide and smooth path leading to Chatou and the Ile D-Impressionistes. The Ile D’Impressionistes is home to Maison Fournaise, where Monet, Renoir and their buddies would go to eat, drink and paint. The inn is still as it was back then and a stunning sloping flower garden has been planted all around it. It was lunch time by now, but we decided to skip the Maison Fournaise as it was expensive. Can’t imagine that struggling artists paid these prices, but they did make the place famous, so I guess it can charge what it wants!
Instead we cycled over the bridge to Rueils Malmaison, a bustling, modern town with restaurants, fountains and gleaming office blocks all around the pretty water front square,. Every restaurant had a terrace and the whole square was full of business people, families and tourists eating lunch. We picked a restaurant and sat down to a 2 course lunch for 15 Euros each. It was lovely and afterwards we explored a little more and spotted a pontoon right in front of the restaurant square, with space for several boats. We went down and read the sign, which told us that it was free to stay for 48 hours. We needed little discussion before we chose to ride back to Bougival, collect the boat and come up here. Our minds were firmly made up when we asked our waiter about accessing the internet and he told us the town provided free internet for all. Sold.
In the pilot guide we have, Bougival is described as the ‘playground’ of 18th and early 19th century artists, painters, poets and rich folk. What or where they played, I can’t guess. The town is old and pretty, but many signs of life seem to have disappeared with the playboys that once hung out here. It was literally like a ghost town. I would recommend skipping Bougival and moving straight on up to Chatou and Rueils - they still have their beautiful old parts, history and scenery, but have moved with the times and are bustling, accommodating and vibrant.

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