Clockwise from far left: the medieval fortified city of Aigues-Mortes; not your typical cruise fare and dining room; cozy barge accommodations and facilities.
We encountered one stretch of canal that day, however, where we decided it was best to stay onboard. It was when we approached the Pouilly tunnel, a two-mile-long“ mole hole” that takes more than an hour to traverse. It wasn’ t what you’ d call picturesque, but it was still a treat, as few of the other barges even bothered to attempt to squeeze through the narrow passageway. It’ s so snug, in fact, that the boat’ s wheelhouse had to be taken down, piece by piece, before we could proceed.
As we entered the dark and clammy tunnel, we began to hear an eerie tune. But what was it, and where was it coming from? An amused François quickly let us in on the joke. He had instructed a crew member to play Wagner’ s Ride of the Valkyries the moment we entered the tunnel. It was a fitting accompaniment as we crept along past the musty walls, chalky stalactites, and flittering bats. Yes, bats. The tunnel was full of them. But as François was quick to note, bats have better radar than fighter planes and won’ t“ disturb” you. They did, however, swoop just inches from our heads, prompting chuckles and a few shrieks.
The next day, François took us to a historic 12th-century palace atop the hillside village of Châteauneuf.“ l have the key to the castle,” he said as he pulled an old-fashioned skeleton key out of his pocket, then proceeded to unlock a massive door and lead us on a guided tour of the medieval castle. On another excursion, we drove through the thick French forest to the idyllic town of Beaune. Our first stop there was the Hôtel- Dieu, which isn’ t a hotel at all but rather a former hospital founded in 1443 by Nicholas Rolin, an unscrupulous chancellor who thought that building a hospital for the poor would be his ticket into heaven. François, again acting as our personal tour guide, pointed out things we normally wouldn’ t have noticed on our own. In the Great Hall of the Poor, for instance, he explained how the numerous busts lining the ceiling were caricatures Rolin commissioned of the villagers who refused to donate money for the hospital’ s construction.
Later, after a brisk bout of shopping, where Cindy and I picked up a few jars of locally made Dijon mustard, we returned to the barge. It was our last night on the ship, and we set our alarms for the first time. For in his zeal to pack as much into our trip as possible, François had arranged an
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