Barge Luciole
Hotel Barging
Burgundy, France

"Barging?" asked Cathy incredulously.
"You’re kidding, Right? I don’t do bilge-oily water or fish-stinky rooms."

Ah, Cathy had not heard—but then neither had I until last year—that the canals of France, indeed all over Europe, have been transferred from lowly transporters of goods to idyllic movers of visitors.

"Oh no—not that kind of barge!" I replied. "These barges have been converted into cruisers—think small country inn afloat. We’d drift through the French countryside, eat gorgeous food and visit delicious medieval villages. You can even walk or bike the riverbanks as we go."

Cathy was not convinced. Several hours later, after she’d combed The Barge Lady’s website—a niche travel agent, who eats, sleeps and breathes European Hotel Barges—Cathy was on board with the barge idea. We were finally taking our trip to France—the one we’d been planning since we were college roommates. Given that was four decades ago, we no longer wanted to backpack or do the girlfriend-drive thing, but we weren’t ready for the tour bus, either.

Barging would get us into the countryside, let us explore on our own and still leave us time to spend (and spend) in Paris. The Barge Lady recommended the mid-price Luciole, a 14-passenger barge owned by a British couple who are long-time bargers. "It has some of the best crew and food in the industry at any price," she said. We signed on.

Come the Saturday of our departure, however, Cathy repacking for the cruise was having second thoughts. It was a cold October day and we’d need woolies along with our other necessities. I was insisting that we take only our carry-on bags to maximize cabin space, dropping our larger suitcases at our next hotel. This was a major constraint for the far-better-turned-out-than-I Cathy. By the time we arrived to meet the Luciole crew who would take us to the barge in Clamecy, she’d begun to question the wisdom of the whole endeavor.

By the time we had spent ten minutes with our eleven fellow guests, I was worried, too. There were two Brits and their wives who seemed fine if you didn’t mind old World War II Vets and a couple from the states—one with a serious case of run-at-the-mouth. Then there were two other Americans too quiet to read and we would pick up our twelfth traveler in a village where he was leaving his motorcycle.

This could be one long week on one small boat, I thought as we drove towards Clamecy. A vulture wheeled round a small tower on Louis XIV’s royal hunting ground. Don’t make snap judgments, I reprimanded myself firmly.

We arrived in the late afternoon. Just in time for Cathy to rush out for a walk after seeing our cabin. No doubt to keep from saying something she might regret later. She returned after dark. Her face glowed from the cold and she was full of the wonder of climbing tiny storybook lanes through an inhabited medieval town on the River Yonne.

At dinner, we discovered the chef was no slouch either. Greeted by candle light, white linens and fresh flowers, we enjoyed the food from start—local brie marinated in basil and garlic with a Vézelay 2007 "Le Clos" Elise Village—to finish—fresh apple and marzipan tart with cream anglaise and ice cream.

The company turned out to be not too shabby either. The home country run-at-the-mouth was well-meaning and the British Vets turned out to be comics on the sly. They met in line to enlist for WWII and have played straight man for each other ever since. Their idea of a good time was to laugh. And we did—so hard our checks ached.

"This is as close to camping as I expect you’ll ever get," I cracked as we returned to our decidedly snug cabin.

"I thought it was," she replied, deadpan. Cathy was attempting to find a bit of straight wall to lean against to read. Her bed, along the curved side of the boat, had our hang-up clothes for a headboard. Borrowing the bottom bit of my bed along the inside wall, we were reminded of our dorm room and decided it was the larger of the two spaces. On the other hand, our dorm room was not tidied-up every time we left it. Nor was it supplied with down quilts, fancy sheets, private bath (make that shower) or Molton Brown luxury toiletries.

By the end of the third night, stuffed and laughing again, barging the Luciole seemed like an inspired choice. Slipping through the countryside (canal speed limit: 4.5 mph) I watched the world go by and the fish jump. Then studied the limestone karsts combining with the blue sky and orangey-green-gold foliage and their river reflections. A newly repaired path along canal’s edge allowed Cathy to walk along with the barge—with time left over for photo shoots. Visits to nearby medieval towns, châteaux and wineries gave us a real taste of the area. It was, we’d decreed, the perfect way to see Burgundy.

By the fifth evening we knew our kind and stalwart Captain Neil Gorrie not only lived in Clamecy, but was genuinely besotted by all of Burgundy, becoming its competent and enthusiastic reporter. His interests fueled ours and we learned much about the area’s secrets and charms. Neil divulged, never pontificated, fascinating stuff as we undertook side trips from hither to Yonne. (The Brits made me do it!)

Seven days later, gathering e-mail addresses of new friends and noting our favorites of the 37 wines and 15 cheeses we’d tasted, we slipped through our 35th and final lock to dock under the majestic Cathedral of Saint Etienne in Auxerre. We were well-fed, well-versed and well-rested. And Cathy, at least, had gotten lots of en-plein-aire exercise. 

Only our cheeks ached.

Barging. Who knew?

 Kate Crawford   October 2010

LINKS WITH ATTITUDE   
                        
Barge Luciole on the web.
Article on Barge Luciole excursions.
Article on Barge Luciole cuisine.

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