I wake up in a good mood, make a pilgrimage to the bakery and indeed discover (and enjoy) a local speciality. Afterwards I stroll through the village, buy some fresh food, but it is crumbling here on every corner… France’s provinces, a sad picture.
Then the tourist information office opens and I ask for advice on interesting things to explore in the area before I fill up and continue – a whole two kilometres to the first lock on the Rhine-Rhone Canal.
The lock keeper is a bit grumpy at first because I arrive so close to his lunch break, but we manage that too, and last but not least he gives me some tips for the road. – From now on, I’m more or less on my own (which is nothing new in itself), as the unmanned locks are triggered autonomously by a remote control. I receive the equipment, instructions and a hearty ‘bonne chance’.
Exciting: This canal was built and put into operation at the end of the 18th century. It consists of man-made watercourses, from lock no. 75, where I am now, to Dole. But then the lane splits or alternates between the natural meanders of the river ‘Doubs’ and artificial ‘shortcuts’, mostly equipped with locks, to reach the higher level of the Doubs again.
It’s a leisurely chugging along – and I realise that it’s completely useless to keep both outboards running. Even with one engine, I consume more fuel per kilometre than with two engines at a rapid pace! (Fortunately, there are passages in the river where I let off the second engine and give it a little gas… Good luck for my own salvation).
At this time of year, there are hardly any boats out. So I have the whole canal/river at my disposal, I will drive until it gets dark (which will always be sooner) – today I make it to Ranchot, past long industrial plants marked as dangerous (no stopping!), as well as through extensive, lovely forests (lingering compulsory). At one point it is grey and smoky around me, then again lovely green and screaming with natural beauty.
When I arrive at the ‘harbour’ of Ranchot, a mere bulge in the canal that resembles a parking strip on the motorway and offers space for perhaps four boats lying one behind the other, I wait for the purser who, according to the notice, should still come by. But no one comes. The toilets are not opened either. The electricity is not switched on. And the village is ghostly quiet. So, as darkness quickly falls, I cook soup with my camping gear and, now sitting completely in the dark, eat what the region has to offer: fine ham, cheese, white bread.