Just rolling with the flow on a self-drive boat in Brittany

Author: By Judi Dash, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, March 15, 1998

Page: M13

Section: Travel

We are screaming at each other at the tops of our voices.

The cyclists stare in alarm, the swans swoosh quickly away, the cows moo a reproach, and the kindly lock-keeper who has been patiently guiding us through our first chain of multilevel waters shakes her head in dismay.

Not to worry. Four nouveau navigators, we are not the most harmonious of boatmates this first morning out on a one-week, self-drive charter through a little-touristed slice of the French canal system. But then every crew is entitled to a shakedown day, and we are just getting out all the kinks at once.

My husband, David, designated captain because he has some ``experience'' (a 12-foot skiff on Lake Erie), is struggling -- loudly -- to master the simple gears that make our 39-foot-long cabin cruiser about as easy to drive as my Toyota Camry back home -- forward, neutral, reverse. He is also barking orders at Joanne and Paul, friends from New York who apparently thought we were kidding when we said we were the only crew, and are balking -- loudly -- at actually handling the ropes. I am finding Captain David a tad Captain Bligh-ish and am urging him -- loudly -- to back off.

We are, of course, having a wonderful time.

The idea of a do-it-yourself cruise in western France had seemed an ideal vacation for two couples who were four fast friends, and indeed it proved a fine way to spend quality time together once we got over the initial clashes of ego and expectation. With few pressures other than provisioning, navigating easy stretches of calm waters, and deciding which canal-side villages to explore each day and when to call it quits each night, we could concentrate on savoring the passing view and catching up on each others' lives -- with time to spare for good novels in private nooks.

We could have signed on with one of the big traditional canal barges that haul dozens of passengers through France's most popular cruising regions -- such as Burgundy or the Loire Valley. Or we could have chartered one of the small, elegant yachts that come complete with a captain, maids, and a gourmet chef. But we wanted a more private adventure, less ado about meals and activities, and a less congested introduction to the countryside that inspired Gauguin and Matisse.

We found the weekly rate -- about $3,500 for our six-berth boat on a September cruise -- more than reasonable. We could have spent even less apiece had we brought along a third couple to split the cost, chosen a smaller four-berth vessel or gone off-season, April or October.

Our leisurely seven-day, 130-mile round trip through Brittany's woodsy midriff took us from the tiny port of Messac (about a three-hour drive southwest from Paris) south along the Vilaine River through dense green forests, past stately manors, stone churches, and minuscule villages with half-timbered houses. At the bustling university town of Redon, we switched to the Nantes a Brest canal and headed northwest to Josselin, famous for its dramatic, many-turreted, canalside castle. There we turned around and headed back to Messac, detouring for a day up a thin tributary to the artist community of Gacilly, where dozens of craftspeople working out of tiny stone workshops on narrow cobbled streets sold pottery, brassware, blown glass, hand-painted clothing, and jewelry.

Our Crusader cabin cruiser, the newest in a fleet of sleek canal boats rented by the 29-year-old Crown Blue Line, was everything we could have wanted in our own personal floating hotel. Inside sliding glass doors were three decent-size cabins (two aft and a larger one fore), each with numerous windows and its own small bathroom; a roomy indoor lounge/dining area; a kitchen nook with a countertop refrigerator/freezer, a gas stove, oven burners, all the dishes, glassware, pots, and flatware we would need; and a large sun roof that slid open to admit rays and breezes. A spacious open-air top deck had a large plastic table (with a wide umbrella for shade) for dining al fresco. We also were outfitted with four lightweight mini-bicycles that allowed us to pedal along the canal paths or explore country roads and villages not directly on the water.

Steering wheels were located both above deck -- the ideal place from which to navigate in fine weather -- and below -- for inclement days, of which we had none. Our boat had a maximum speed of about 10 miles per hour, not exactly hot-rod material but perfectly in synch with the unhurried pace of canal life. A detailed nautical guide to our route had maps showing each lock and how to approach it, where to shift position to remain in the deepest part of the channel, and how to decipher the colored buoys and other water signposts that indicated slightly tricky passages. The manual also provided a short synopsis of each village, pointed out historical tidbits, and suggested restaurants and moorings along the route.

Setting off could not have been simpler. Motoring into Messac late Saturday afternoon, we checked in at the small canalside office of Crown Blue Line, where a patient engineer in blue overalls named Laurent escorted us to our boat and helped us heave aboard our luggage. Laurent showed us how to start the engine, check the water level, and operate the toilets, showers, and stove, then sent us off to a nearby market to load up on crusty baguettes of French bread, fresh cheeses and pates, and other staples we could reprovision at villages along our route. (We came prepared with several cases of fabulous red and white wines we had collected during a previous week driving through the Loire Valley, but these, too, could have been purchased in port.)

Laurent accompanied us through our first set of locks, just a few minutes downriver from Messac, showing us how to maneuver slowly but assuredly into the narrow holding area, tie up loosely at the mooring spot, letting out or pulling in rope as the water level rose or fell, then move on when the gates were opened at the other end of the lock. Then he hopped off the boat, bid us bon voyage and walked back to the base to shepherd another group of nautical neophytes (about 80 percent of Crown Blue Line's customers are beginners).

While 130 miles in a week may sound like a slew of time for a little bit of progress, the 17 locks we encountered each way made the going a lot slower than we had expected. Certainly experiencing lock-life is a key attraction of any canal cruise, and we relished our friendly interaction with the lock-keepers and their omnipresent little dogs, who barked an ahoy at our arrival then ambled over for a pat on the head or a quick belly rubbing.

But the process ate up huge chunks of time as we beeped our approach, waited for the lock-keeper to manually or electronically open the floodgates, maneuvered into a space just a few inches wider than our boat's 13-foot width, tied up loosely to a stone mooring, then waited for the floodgates to close and the water to slowly raise or lower us to the level of the next stretch of canal -- which could be as much as a 12 1/2-foot difference.

Since the locks held only one or two boats at a time, the wait could be substantial at popular times of the day. And once we waited nearly an hour for the lock-keeper to appear -- she was out in the fields milking her cows. Also problematic were the locks' strict business hours, usually 8:30 a.m. to 7:30 p.m., with a lunch break between 12:30 and 1:30 p.m. There was no leeway no matter how plaintively we honked our horn, knowing that each lock-keeper lived adjacent to his lock in a little stone house. Show up one minute late and we could be delayed an hour or overnight.

Our days soon fell into an easy routine. Each morning David and I rose at about 8 a.m. to forage fresh-baked baguettes and chocolate croissants from the nearest patisserie. (One Sunday morning, walking to a village far up the road from our canal berth, we encountered a jovial young man selling breads and cakes out of a large truck -- a mobile bakery that made house calls.) Back at the boat, we made hot coffee in time for Joanne and Paul's 9 a.m. wake-up honk, then left it to them to wash the dishes while David and I lazed on deck, mopping up the last drops of cafe au lait with the last bits of buttery croissant crusts.

Eventually, we would head off. Paul's long legs made him the natural candidate to untie the ropes from the mooring, then jump quickly onto the boat to push off, while David steered us into open water and Joanne and I secured the various doodads around our vessel.

Then we all gathered in plastic chairs on the top deck as Captain David drove and we co-piloted with the nautical guidebook.

The narrow waterways made for easy interaction with others on land and water. We exchanged good tidings with passing boats and waved at canalside cyclists, mothers pushing baby carriages, and old men fishing from the river bank. At some junctures, fishing boats cast giant nets into the water, groups of kayakers paddled by, and we watched rock climbers mounting a steep promontory in the late afternoon sun.

Local folks often watched our progress from atop arched bridges bedecked with flower pots ablaze with color. One little boy and his grandmother waved from their bikes atop a small bridge as we passed under them, then pedaled in synch with us along the bank for several miles before waving goodbye and zipping ahead -- at double our speed.

We tried to time our lunches with lock-closings. Sitting on the sunny top deck, we munched cheese, bread, and pate overlooking a country manor or town harbor -- where schoolchildren marching to or from their own lunch at home giggled at us and showed off their English with a chorus of ``ello''s. Dinner usually was in village cafes; a favorite was a feast of garlicky mussels, fresh lamb, and chocolate torte high above the village of Josselin overlooking the canal and our little boat.

A simpler repast was the much-ballyhooed buckwheat pancakes and local cider at the 1,000-year-old village of Malestroit, where the houses were carved with whimsical figures of acrobats, dragons, and rabbits playing bagpipes.

Most nights we moored at village piers, but if these were fully occupied or we were in an area without a dock, we had to perform a ``wild mooring,'' maneuvering in close to a grassy bank so two of us could leap ashore with ropes and pegs. Our first wild mooring was fraught with pegs that came unearthed, slipping ropes, and a wayward boat, until a passing yachtsman came to our rescue, showed us the ropes, so to speak, then sped off with a wave like some nautical Lone Ranger.

We had a few mishaps during our trip -- as befits any nautical adventure. Our second day out, David stripped the gears on the top-deck steering column and had to navigate from below to the evening's mooring. We called the base in Messac early the next morning and our friendly engineer Laurent arrived within an hour to fix the gears good as new. At some point we also stuffed up two of the three toilets and flooded one of the bedrooms because we forgot the shower drain was activated by a switch -- but again, Laurent came quickly (the base, after all, was never more than a few hours' drive), chastising us good-naturedly and accepting a chocolate croissant and a cafe au lait.

We had the time of our lives, although, for the most part, our stretch of Brittany did not provide the knock-em-dead chateaux, sumptuous restaurants, or historic landmarks of France's more popular boating regions. Our trip was more a cruising than touring experience, but then maybe that was part of the charm. With little to distract us from our lazy loll along the canal, we could surrender ourselves to the passing view, a ripe brie, a vintage Bordeaux, and a few fine friends to share the delicious down time.

For information, call a travel agent or Crown Blue Line's headquarters in Great Britain. The number from the United States is 800-355-9394.