So. My final Weasel adventure? Perhaps. These are my notes from the final day and the trip across the Channel.

What is wrong with these people? Clearly they’re not like me at all. Perhaps, after all is said and done, I am ill-suited to archaeology. Smart arse know it alls.

There seems to be a desire for nothing to change and for everything to be ‘as it should’. Why, for instance, was there such a negative reaction to the huge Roman style building at the top of La Gacilly? Why must everything conform?

Along the canal we spotted a chateau with a satellite dish. This was seen as some sort of crime against humanity! Perhaps we should have been rowing up the river in a hollowed out log. Actually, I’m not sure about all these structures. I think leaving the trees 50 million years ago was a mistake.

After all, what is the original home of Homo sapien? Pre-civilisation, pre-agriculture, pre-technology…caves, I guess. Well, that’s what I want to see. A landscape unblemished by the trappings of ‘civilised’ human-kind.

But who is the arbiter of how far back we should go? This is, of course, a personal issue and one that makes no sense. We sit in a modern vessel, eating a drinking the products of civilisation (we didn’t have to go and hunt or brew anything) and claim people shouldn’t have satellite dishes.

What has been painfully apparent on this trip is how negative everything is viewed. Too new, too old, too many tourists, not enough modern conveniences (how ironic), etc. None of them view the world with an appreciation of the new as something beautiful. If this is archaeology then I don’t like it very much.

When I see something I’ve never seen before, I am generally all wide-eyed and enthusiastic, wanting to learn about it. I don’t criticise things because they encompass different periods of human history. Ok, if I see something I don’t like then I’ll say so but I don’t just simply dislike everything because it’s painted the wrong colour. Art must be an impossible appreciation for these people.

I hope I am never so bitter and twisted that I see the world through ashen glasses. While I may kid myself with my rose tint, I am, at least, generally a happy soul.

This is why I need to go off on my own from time to time. At first I thought this was because I had fallen into the trap of the lonely but I am now convinced it is because I need to escape the negativity that seems to surround the group like a dark cloud, a thick fog of despair.

The boat could be Charon’s dark barge, cruising the Styx!

Why does Matt ALWAYS look so miserable? What’s that all about? He seems to take great care to make sure his mouth is set in a grimace at all times. This is all you see. Sort of like an anti-Gary. Maybe that’s what he is. My antidote.

I realise how independent he is – I’d be an idiot if I didn’t – but he takes it to ridiculous lengths…as if no-one else exists or even matters. I guess that wouldn’t be too bad if you had something to offer the world.

Why does he just leave the boat without a word to anyone? It’s like he doesn’t know (or care) how a group works. It’s like he feels as if everyone else should just do what his agenda indicates.

But Matt I could understand, after all, he’s just unpleasant but Sean? What was Sean’s problem? I thought I had a great relationship with Sean. He has always been wide-eyed, innocent and up for total fun. Why did he suddenly decide not to talk to me? And all of a sudden he becomes very pally with Matt.

At first I figured Matt wasn’t talking to me because of that night after the Globe when he acted like a child and Sean and I took Bev up to Trafalgar Square. But clearly that wasn’t it. Matt has some other problem with me.

Interestingly, the night at La Gacilly, Bev was up and awake when I returned from walking the streets. We had a long, hushed chat. She told me how she wasn’t enjoying herself, how she feels she can’t be herself. I get so sick of telling her how she’s in a ridiculously self destructive relationship that I don’t any more. What’s the point?

I guess I’m fortunate in that, if I choose, I can probably manage to never see Matt again. The same with all of them, really. Though it would be a shame to lose touch with Lorna, Darren, John and Tom. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they all just put up with me and Matt is the only one honest enough to ignore me.

Anyway, when all is said and done, I think my holidays should only be spent with Mirinda. We see things the same.

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬
A highlight of the trip was as we boarded the ferry back to England. Sean and Carlee were with Lorna and Darren. We cruised on ahead, leaving them at the border control. They never made it onto our ferry because Carlee’s visa was out of date.

This meant they all missed the ferry and had to try for the next one, leaving Carlee and Sean in France.

I had a brief exchange with Lorna in Bayeux today. She can’t stand the negativity either. Nothing’s ever good.

Biggest surprise – at dinner last night, in a fantastic creperie, Sean decided he was talking to me again. I assumed this was because he was sitting opposite me and Matt was too far away. Oddly, he not only talked to me but was full of fun! He decided, rather than have a dessert, he would have a second savoury course. He ordered the same as I’d had because it looked so delicious.

Actually, if I’m being honest, I think he felt guilty. Sean isn’t the sort of person to carry on in this way.

The best thing about Bayeux was how I basically spent the entire day on my own. We parted after much messing about and I just wandered off.

I went down to the river, walked to the cathedral, basically went everywhere we’d been when we went to Normandy. Nothing’s changed.

I ran into John, Darren and Lorna at one stage. After a beer, we all went over to the allied cemetery.

At dinner, I fancied an expensive wine. I told John I was going to order it and pay for it rather than expect the kitty to bear the cost. Although John complained and insisted, I insisted more and managed to win!

When the wine arrived Matt was all over it. Complaining how expensive it was but then insisting on a glass. Pathetic little man. As I said to John, I couldn’t care less, as long as I had a glass. Mind you, it turned out to be a pretty expensive glass!

I am sitting in a grotty little tabac in Redon enjoying a couple of beers. I feel like a local. How many years has it taken to be so confident? I fit in awfully well. Really, all I need to be able to do is to order beer and know the drill for repeat orders and I’m in a very happy place.

Matt and Bev just walked passed. I’m pretty sure Bev saw me. I am equally sure Matt ignored this. Works for me.

I may return to the boat before I get morose.

Up at the crack of dawn, John and I wandered into the village to use the public conveniences (which were very convenient), collect fresh bread for the boat, stock up on a few supplies (for instance, we’d finished off a few bottles of cider which needed replacing) and then wandered back. In typical French fashion, the charcuterie does not open on a Monday.

We set off on the canal at about 9am with most hands awake and drinking tea. We navigated through a few locks – The Captain did try and ram one but we’ll not mention that here – and managed to miss the dock at St Laurent. This pissed Matt off to the extent that when we reached Malestroit (he more or less accused John and Darren of deliberately missing the dock), he and Bev took off, walking back so they could visit a prehistoric site, as the rest of us went up to the medieval centre ville.

What a lovely place. A fantastic collection of gargoyles adorn the outside of the church. The inside had a bit too much Jesus in it for my liking (I prefer a good sprinkling of saints as well) but did have a wonderful construction of wooden scaffolding in the tower. It was a very impressive bit of engineering and we all marvelled at it. Actually we marvelled more at the scaffolding than the church.

Interestingly the bell started pealing as we entered the doors. Lorna claimed it is because she’s a lapsed catholic and they like to let everyone know when one returns to the arms of the church.

We wandered around for a bit before sitting at a bar for a few beers (Sean had a Kir, which he said was very refreshing) before setting off for the supermarket for supplies. While I was wandering around on my own I found the world famous Malestroit lintel. It’s hidden down a little alley and is not that easy to find, except by accident. I tried to convince the others that they should see it but they decided to wait for the photo.

The famous lintel at Malestroit

It has, carved into its surface, three ancient maxims in three ancient languages, Hebrew, Greek and Latin. They say, roughly,
Hebrew: I have hope in your mercy, Jehovah
Greek: Know yourself
Latin: The ground is only one short stay, it is the sky God has reserved for us, like a fatherland

From what I can translate from the sign, it was originally made in around 1470 and was part of a convent. It somehow ended up in Malestroit, over what appears to be a barn door, down a nondescript alley, in 1828. I have to say, the Greek one is the only one that really appeals to me.

At the supermarket much time was spent in the cheese section as we debated which ones would make the boat the smelliest and then duly bought them. We have a cheese drawer on the boat. It’s very good at keeping the smelly stuff at bay…until it’s opened. You realise pretty quickly that it is the cheese drawer. On the hotter days we’d have to scoop up the runnier stuff and pour it into a bottle for later consumption.

We gradually wandered back to the boat, unpacked our groceries and then settled down for a nice lunch on the top deck. At least John, Lorna, Darren and I did. Sean and Carlee had disappeared and Matt and Bev were…well, who knows. It was lovely sitting in the sun enjoying French smelly cheese, cider and salad.

Eventually we had a boat full as they wandered back in dribs and drabs and we once more set off. The prehistoric site which Matt so wanted to see was a bit of a damp squib, by the way.

The canal progressed through the countryside, arrow straight in parts, as we headed towards our next nights stop, Le Roc Saint Andre. It has an amazing bridge! Before the bridge is a big campsite with a pontoon for boats to dock at but this was full so we continued under the bridge. On the other side was a lovely long pontoon, completely empty. We claimed it for all Weaseldom and tied up.

Next to the pontoon was a small park which contained a cavern with a statue of the Virgin Mary with gifts of flowers (it sort of resembled a very small version of Lourdes) and a couple of young, hormone inflamed youngsters, clearly practising for their dentistry exams.

After docking, we took a wander into the small town. It’s high up on a hill and has a bizarre steeple on its church. It also sells weasel beer. It’s not really weasel beer but the beer I had last time I was in Brittany with a label that looks like a weasel. Suffice to say, Lorna, Darren, John and I settled outside a small bar and consumed a few. We were soon joined by Sean who also had a few.

The odd steeple at Le Roc Sainte Andre

The decision to eat at the same establishment was an easy one. There wasn’t anywhere else. Fortunately the food was delicious and we all stuffed ourselves, drinking cider like it was running out.

Feeling somewhat full, I decided to go for a bit of a walk and was eventually joined by Lorna and Darren as we searched for a chateau that was distinctly indicated on a sign post but, in true French fashion, did not indicate how far it was.

I have a game I play in these cases. I decide how long I aim to walk for and if I have not found the thing I am walking towards by then, I simply turn around and come back. It saves a lot of shoe leather. I explained this to Lorna and Darren and they agreed to play by the rules. We had 15 minutes and then it was back to the boat.

When we reached our limit we turned and spied a couple of shadow figures approaching us. And then there was a great commotion as two owls fought it out in a night time dogfight, high in the trees. It was extraordinary and had us fearing for our lives! Actually, that’s not true. We made up a silly story to account for it. The story ended up somewhat embellished and broadened to include a kitten in a wheel chair that served the older owl in return for the gift of flight. I guess you had to be there.

Anyway, we gradually made our way back to the dock, choosing a path we hadn’t been down, testing our resolve to trust in the gods of night time wanderers, who didn’t let us down.

By the way, we didn’t see the chateau as it was further than 15 minutes away.

As usual (for Weasel things) John & I were first up. Having abluted in the very handy, very clean and, obviously, quite new, toilet block (we endeavoured to seek these out at each stop and each became known as ‘the happy crapper’) beside the creperie, we set off for the nearby village for a visit to the patisserie for some fresh baguettes (we also had a sneaky pastry each). It was then on with the kettle and, after John woke the various weasels with a morning cuppa, we set off to continue our way down the river Vilaine.

Things cruised along very well. We spotted two otters and a kingfisher (John’s first) but best of all, we saw what was either a fairly sizable weasel or a normal size stoat or, what it probably was, a mink. It was black and was bouncing along the bank as if following us. While most people were asleep for the otters, everyone rushed to see the weasel off the starboard bow. It was very exciting.

It is very relaxing just moving along the water at a leisurely pace. We have to negotiate quite a few locks but, unlike England, they are all manned. It’s all very simple because of this. We just need someone at either end of the boat and someone at the helm. Either we hand ropes up to the lock keeper or the lock keeper hands us ropes from the shore. We hold these to keep the boat steady as the water is let out or in. The back gates close and the water fills up. The front gates open and we move out. All very simple.

Not so simple, however, at Redon. This is where the Vilaine River joins the Brest & Nantes Canal. The lock passes under a footbridge which must also be lifted. We had a rather large audience for this one and they were royally entertained. At one stage the lock keeper thought that two boats would fit. Our boat is so long, this is pretty impossible so, having managed to negotiate the narrow entrance and pull right up to our stern, it was then sent back out…because it wouldn’t fit as well. Anyway, we eventually left the lock and joined the canal.

We stopped at what appeared to be a scouting for boys type adventure park. At least there were ropes and bridges and things in the sparse woodland, tracks and trails everywhere and lost of scouts. There were no berths to be had on the pontoons so we stabbed the bank with our nose and made ourselves fast with a stake, using the handy aluminium drawbridge for egress from the boat. The photos of it look like we ran into the bank but it was all carefully planned.

Most of us headed off to check the place out. Matt went for a jog. Sean and Carlee went and took photos of each other climbing rocks and it rained. Quite a lot. Those that remained aboard the boat were rewarded by remaining dry as well. I was drenched. Matt was drenched-er. We had a lovely lunch, waited for the stragglers and set off, once the rain had moved to another part of France.

We ended up at a small place called St Martin sur Oust where we bought gallons of cider and a cider boule each. John cooked his world famous pasta and tuna dish while the rest of us changed into our pirate gear and a jolly good pirate party was had, with lots of ‘Argh’s and general over enthusiastic boisterousness that anyone listening or watching would have not understood. In fact, cars would slow down, check us out and drive quickly on.

We dined al fresco as the evening was lovely and rain free. We had a very funny night, full of weasel silliness and a lot of cider.

Pirates aboard HMS Weasel

Those that slept woke at 2am and we left by 2.30. I was in Darren & Lorna’s car with Sean and we had a rockin’ 80s party all the way to Dover, inventing along the way the chicken-duck and the Taliban hiding in the back of the car. Sean said he really wants a t-shirt that says ‘I am not Taliban’.

We were among the few unlucky cars called aside to be checked in the random way customs sometimes has and a jollier pair of customs officials I have never seen! Especially for 4 in the morning. They gave the car a cursory glance and waved us through. We parked in lane 45 and queued at Costa’s in the misnamed Food Village.

There was one person serving in Costa’s; there was boat load of people in the queue. We queued until an announcement came for us to rejoin our cars and begin boarding the ferry. The queue vanished as we all returned to our cars, coffee-less.

Eventually we boarded the ferry. The guy stopped us, unsure whether the massive cavernous space before us had enough room – he checked with the captain, frantic on the phone – and, satisfied, waved us through. We parked and wandered upstairs.

I’m used to Brittany Ferries. The Dover Ferry is like an arcade, or a down market mall. It also rattles. And it’s very busy. I don’t think I’ll suggest we ever go to France this way.

We headed down for our cars and left the ferry, joining the French traffic, mostly made up of British cars and then the heavens opened and it poured down. The speed signs indicated we could drive at 170 in the dry and 110 in the rain. This was so heavy we’d be lucky to reach 15.

In Darren and Lorna’s car, Sean and I went to sleep very quickly and, so John says, everyone in his car went instantly into a group coma.

At our first motorway services, Carlee wanted to swap with me so she could sit with Sean, which meant I couldn’t sleep as I’d imagined I would, because I was next to the driver. It was also very warm in John’s car. This meant it was a constant battle to keep my eyes open.

This weekend is, apparently, a big thing in France (tomorrow is the feast of the assumption, which is popular) and everyone was out on the motorways. Interestingly, the French seem to like their motorway services a lot. They queue for everything; toilet, food, petrol, baby changing facilities, etc. The services are always packed solid. Actually more than solid. There is generally more people than there is room. I think quite a few had been there for a few days, waiting for the loo.

We eventually made it to Messac, having lost Darren and Lorna and then driving slowly so they could catch us up. We communicated by walkie talkie which managed to pick up other people on the same frequency, generally in French. Anyway, all was fine and the satnav managed to get us to the boatyard without many problems.

Our boat is very long. Rather than being a bigger boat all round, it’s like the makers had decided to stretch it out. It has many berths. It is very comfortable.

The HMS Weasel

Most special is that John and I, as the only singles, each have our own room. Tres luxurious.

We had a bit of argy bargy leaving the dock (hitting other boats, running aground, etc) but we eventually managed to head down the river.

We had dinner at the creperie at St-Anne Vilaine. Of course I had a galette complet and we all drank cidre. The creperie though small is very popular and it’s not difficult to see why. The food was excellent.
I was finding it increasingly difficult to keep my eyes open and, eventually after we made the long trek back to the boat (about 100 feet) I collapsed onto my top bunk. I have no idea what time it was. I was instantly asleep. I woke up at 6:30 feeling more refreshed and awake than I have for a long time.

Left Farnham for Battle as the rain started sprinkling down, a sprinkle which followed me all the way it seemed. A quick change at Waterloo for Waterloo East and I was heading back south. It’s the old spoke thing.

If you imagine London is the centre of a bicycle wheel, all the transport links head in towards it. It could just as easily be any big centre (Manchester, Glasgow, Edinburgh, etc) but London demonstrates it best. What this means is that if you want to travel around the rim, most of the time it’s only possible to go via London. This doesn’t actually apply to Farnham as I could have travelled via Havant and across the bottom to Brighton but this would have meant about six trains and taken about 4 hours. And so I went in to Waterloo and then came back out again. At least I didn’t have to cross London.

And so I found myself on a train heading to Battle (where the tussle happened in 1066) and John’s place, laden with rucksack and netbook, phone and iPod. Looking forward to a jolly good pirating week, I’m listening to a collection of pirate shanties recorded by a few famous rock stars. It’s called Rogue’s Gallery and is definitely putting me in the mood.

So I was first to arrive at John’s. We had a good long chat, catching up, just shooting the breeze, over coffee and then beer, naturally. The rumour was that Lorna, Darren, Bev and Matt would arrive more or less simultaneously. There had been no news from Sean. This is not unusual.

Bev & Matt were next. I’m not sure why but it appears that Matt is not talking to me. He’s gone all sulky. Strange, but then he is, really. It does make things a bit uncomfortable. I did attempt to talk to him a few times but he’s not really up for it so I stopped and just kept being incredibly funny, to force him to laugh. Which didn’t really work.

Lorna and Darren turned up shortly afterwards and, eventually we all sat down to a lovely chilli and sticky rice dinner, expertly prepared by John and accompanied by beer. At some stage we had a text from Sean, saying he’d arrive at 9:30. A while later (at about 9:30) we had another text from Sean saying he’d arrive at 11:30. We decided not to leave him any food and ate it all.

We sat in the lounge listening to a bit of pirate music, eating Lorna’s yummy cake, until Darren was sleepy enough to go to bed. We have to leave the house by 2:30am so the drivers (Darren & John) have to be in bed early. This prompted everyone to retire early as well. I, like a fool, am staying up to work on my dissertation. I shall sleep in the car. I’m very good at that. I am also going to meet Sean at the station. I don’t know why but at least I’ll get some fresh air.

The train arrived slightly early but I was there to meet them and escort them up the very steep hill to John’s place. They were very grateful, if somewhat exhausted. They had a laptop with them. I mention this because Matt has also brought one. Just can’t get away from them! And of course, I have my netbook.