Ghosts

Hello and welcome to the latest blog from The Olivia Rose Diaries on May 30^th 2025.

A week ago we moored up in the marina in Chalons-en-Champagne but this wasn’t our first visit. We’d been here before, eight years ago, as part of our maiden voyage. This was the place where we experienced the first of a long list of problems with our old DAF engine. I wrote about it in my first book, Just Passing Through, and I thought I would indulge myself and share the memories with you via a slightly condensed extract.

To set the scene we were cruising through the town, not intending to stop at that time, when we became aware of what we thought was a car alarm in one of the city streets.

Extract from Just Passing Through

As we motored on the buildings faded into the distance behind us and yet the sound of the car alarm remained constantly loud.

‘Where’s that coming from?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Michael. ‘Can you open the door to the wheelhouse?’

I did and the noise suddenly got much louder. Michael, who was in his usual driving position on top deck, leapt down the stairs and into the wheelhouse. He punched the engine cut-out button and we stood there in the now ominous silence as Olivia Rose freewheeled gently on.

‘Why was it making that noise?’

‘It was the fire alarm in the engine bay.’ Michael’s face was grim.

‘Are we on fire?’ I looked at the floor, which consisted of a pair of heavy trap doors which provided our access to the engine, and tried not to imagine flames raging beneath my feet.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t think so? Can’t you be a bit more definite than that? You’re supposed to know about boats.’

‘I’m not an engineer. My job was to drive boats, not fix them. But we need to open up that hatch.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘We’ll do it carefully. Slowly.’

We eased the hatch up, inch by inch. No flames. Just the smell of a very hot engine.

‘Right.’ Michael sounded more like his usual decisive self and I felt the knot in my stomach ease a little. ‘We’ll tie up somewhere and I’ll have a closer look.’

A hundred yards further back we spotted a pair of bollards hidden in thick undergrowth, no longer used, but they were good enough for a short stop.

‘Great.’ I said. ‘I’ll turn the engine on and we can reverse her back.’

‘Can’t do that. Not until I know exactly what went wrong. One of us needs to jump ashore and pull her back.’

I looked more closely at the bank. It was an unpromising combination of weeds, nettles and brambles, knee high and sloping steeply down to the water’s edge. More importantly, it was a long way away.

‘I don’t think even you can jump that distance,’ I said dubiously.

‘I’m not going to. You are.’

‘I’m not. You always do the intrepid stuff.’

‘It has to be you. I’m the skipper and the skipper always stays with his boat.’

‘And I’m your wife and if you want it to stay that way, you’ll think again.’ I looked at the soupy brown water in horror. ‘I’ll never make that distance. I’ll fall in.’

‘It’s probably not even six feet deep here.’

‘Six feet of water and two feet of squelchy mud.’ I shuddered. ‘I’m not doing it.’

‘Fine. But if a commercial comes along while I’m ashore and I can’t hold the boat you’ll have to get us out of trouble.’ Michael paused, just to make sure that his next words had maximum impact. ‘By yourself.’

I sighed. My driving skills were coming along but I wasn’t very confident yet.

‘You can easily make that leap,’ said Michael in the tone of someone who knows he has just won the argument. ‘Imagine you’re a gazelle.’

‘I’m not a bloody gazelle.’ I glared at him.

‘You are to me.’

This was accompanied by a winning smile. He didn’t get one back. I took a deep breath and leapt.

I landed in a tangled heap on all fours with my bottom up in the air. My feet were only just above the waterline and I could feel them sliding back so the whole graceless manoeuvre was completed by a panicky scramble up onto flat ground.

‘That’s my girl. I knew you could do it.’ Michael threw me a line and I pulled us back to the bollards. Olivia Rose weighs fifteen tonnes but it is surprisingly easy for one person to pull her along, as long as there is no wind or current to fight against. In a few moments we were alongside and Michael had the hatches up and had disappeared inside.

xxxxxx

Eventually we realised that we had to commit to buying a new engine, and this little marina in Chalons-en-Champagne was where we had it fitted. We spent the whole winter here, and despite the crippling cost of the repair, I have very happy memories of it.

Eight years later I can see the ghosts of our younger selves everywhere I look. We still had both our dogs then and I could see us walking them through the park. A family of swans sailed majestically down the canal as if they owned it, just as they had eight years ago, and I wondered if it was the same birds that we had come to know so well, or perhaps their descendants. We sat in the galley eating our dinner and I had a flashback to Christmas day all those winters ago. We had taken the dogs out for a long walk, been caught in a downpour and all four of us were soaked. We threw our wet clothes in the shower room, Lucy and Maddie plonked themselves in front of the woodburner and our Christmas meal was hastily stuffed in the oven. I can still remember how the smell of wet dog competed with the delicious aroma from our roast dinner and how we raised a glass to toast Olivia Rose and thank her for a wonderful first season.

Eight years. During that time we’ve travelled through five different countries – France, Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany and the Netherlands. So many canals, rivers, lakes and, of course, hundreds of locks. I wonder what the next eight years will bring and am quite content that I have no idea. Much better that way.

Living and travelling on a boat has allowed us to exist in a little bubble, one step away from the world and all its troubles. I regard it as a privilege and, rather than taking it for granted after all this time, I value it more highly with each year that passes. However, it is getting harder to keep the outside world at bay. So much to worry about – the wars in Ukraine and Gaza and so many other places, extreme politics and changing moral boundaries, extreme weather and climate change, extreme technology, with AI on the cusp of such a dramatic leap that we can’t comprehend it. So much unhappiness and disillusionment around the world and because we live in a digital age we know about all of it. Every generation has its cross to bear, but I feel that our crosses, in their number, complexity and variety present a unique challenge. Rightly or wrongly, the only way I can maintain a sense of equilibrium is to stick my head in the sand. I am doing it more often and for longer – it works for me.

When we were here eight years ago it was autumn and the colours were gorgeous. The pictures I took at that time are now back at Le Shack, on a memory stick buried in the wardrobe. Our visit this time, in late spring when everything is green rather than gold, coincided with a wet, rather gloomy, weekend, although no complaints as we need the rain. Strangely, I didn’t take any photos. It was actually rather nice to be somewhere and not feel a constant urge to record everything. So you will just have to imagine twelve boats lined up in a row on the pontoons, and you can choose whether the colour of the leaves on the trees that line the wide boulevard that runs through the park are green, or red, orange and gold.

Next week we move into champagne country, travelling along the Canal entre Champagne et Bourgogne , renowned not just for the vines but also for the weeds in the canal. And I promise I will take more pictures!

See you next Friday.

MJ