Anjodi, Canal du Midi, France

luxury barge cruise vacations on the Anjodi, cruising the
Canal du Midi, South of France

Mutiny on Anjodi.....never..!!
Lori Tobias.

Lori takes control....

Just south of Capestang, France, I take the wheel of our 100-foot, 100-ton barge, “Anjodi,” steering us for Beziers. For days I have watched our captain, Duncan McColl, coffee cup in one hand, the wooden ship wheel in his other, guide us effortlessly along the Canal du Midi. The barge moves snail-paced slow, and piloting it looks to be a fairly simple, albeit slightly boring, task. McColl instructs me to watch the rudder – a small metal V mounted in front of the wheel indicating the position of the actual rudder at the rear of the barge -- and steps back from the wheel.

Up ahead, the canal winds gently. I turn the wheel, roughly four feet in diameter and nearly my height, but the boat barely moves. I turn it a little more and still more, but the barge continues straight on. McColl urges me, “Turn it, keep turning.” Now I throw full weight into it and spin the wheel and keep spinning until finally, just when I am certain I have set us on the unalterable course of catastrophe, the Anjodi noses around and glides through the curve.

Disaster averted, I turn to McColl, “If I didn’t get her turned in time,” I ask, “what’s the worst that could happen? I would just bump the bank, right?” “Yes,” he says, “but don’t do that here, it’s all stone.” Then he raises his arm, alerting me to a curve just ahead, and there I go all over again, spinning, spinning, spinning, urging the boat to come around, never entirely sure it will until that last moment. When I turn the Anjodi back to her rightful captain barely five minutes later, the wake behind us looks like that created by the drunken sailor, my shoulders ache, I am out of breath and I have a new respect for our captain’s piloting skills.

We are five days into the barge cruise along the Canal du Midi, a seven-day journey my husband, Chan, and I have treated ourselves to in honor of our 20th anniversary. Twenty years earlier, we spent our honeymoon on a mammoth cruise ship with hundreds of other passengers. I liked it well enough then, but over the years, my definition of a good vacation has significantly changed. I don’t like crowds and I don’t want to baste in the sun.

Still, we liked the idea of having one central place to call home, of having a guide always at hand and knowing that, by and large, our safety was in someone else’s hands. Barge cruising seemed the perfect answer. While such cruises are thought to have originated in the 1960s, when meals were picnic fare and the bathroom down the hall, today barge cruises offer gourmet food on fine china with accommodations that can reach luxurious. With prices that start at $2,000 per person, it’s not budget travel, but considering that the price includes meals, beverages, sightseeing, transportation on the waterway and one-on-one service – most barges carry only a handful of passengers -- it can be a bargain.

Days before the cruise begins, we fly into Paris, then catch the TGV high speed train four hours south to the town of Beziers. At an old chateau, first mate Darren Borrowman meets us and our fellow passengers, then drives us out to the countryside where the barge sits moored by an old stone bridge. For as far as the eye can see, flatland and hills are covered in a quilt of vineyards and meadow, and save for our group, there’s not another soul in sight.

Captain McColl lowers the gangway and helps us on deck, where a bottle of champagne chills in a bucket of ice. I hurry down below for a peak at our cabin, the Romarin, and find a cozy room finished in blue and yellow, with paneled walls, ample closet space, and, to our surprise, a king-sized bed. In the bathroom, shelves are stocked with L’Occitane Verbena lotions and soap, which, I will quickly decide are the absolute height of pampering.

Back on deck, we join our fellow travelers: Floridians Steve and Diane, who are celebrating Diane’s 50th birthday; Jack, Diane’s brother, and his wife, Randi; and Judy, a travel agent from Texas, and with the April sun shining and the bubbly flowing, the Anjodi sets off. Late in the afternoon, we moor in Homps, pronounced Ohms, population 600, where stone and stucco houses sit closed behind colorful wood shutters and laundry flutters from lines strung in alleys and over narrow back streets.

By evening, the wind has worked itself up to a steady howl, but the barge doesn’t budge. We dine on bruschetta, local trout, smoked duck, fresh vegetables and a cheese plate, which will be a part of every lunch and dinner to come, always delivered with a quick bit of lore from our hostess Jane Van Loock. On this night, the selection includes Reblechon, which, Van Loock tells us, originated centuries earlier in the Rhone Alps when the hired hands snuck in a second milking of the cows; St. Maure, a goat cheese from Loire rolled in charcoal ash, its center ventilated with a wooden straw, and Rocquefort, made from sheep’s milk. In the days to come, whenever Van Loock appears bearing her cheese tray, we instantly quiet in anticipation of the stories she’s about to tell.

In the morning, we awake to the sound of the Homps church bells tolling in three part harmony. After breakfast, we set off, McColl at the wheel, for Carcassonne, a walled city established in 600 BC and featuring 52 watchtowers and three kilometers of massive stone walls. Soon, its peaked black and red tiled roofs and stone turrets rise from the golden hills, and the modern world at hand suddenly seems quite insignificant.

The drawbridge entrance is guarded by a stone sculpture of Lady Carcas, from whom the city takes its name. As the story goes, in 760 BC, the fortress came under siege by an army intent on starving the people out. In a desperate bid to save the city, Dame Carcas instructed the villagers to fatten a pig with the last sacks of grain, then throw it over the wall. On sight of such a healthy pig, the attackers reasoned the villagers must be a long way from starvation and gave up the siege. To celebrate Dame Carcas had the village bells rung all day. And so the city got its name, Carcas and sonne -- French for ringing the bells.

Inside Carcassonne, cobblestone streets wind past shops and cafes, leading to the cathedral at the city’s heart, the Basilique St. Nazaire. Its 14th-century stained glass windows are said to be some of the oldest in France; its Gothic architecture, among the best in the region.

Back on the barge, lunch includes a wild mushroom quiche, fresh pasta, mozzarella and cheese salad and locally grown olives, a regional specialty. In addition to the red and white wines -- a standard part of every lunch and dinner -- there is also a rose’. McColl encourages us to try it and we reward his efforts with knowing doubt. Rose? Too sweet for me. Then, out of politeness, we agree to a small taste, and find a wine refreshingly tasty. From then on, at lunch, the rose will always be the first bottle emptied.

Chan and I take our first bike ride that afternoon, peddling along the tree-lined path paralleling the canal into a sleepy village, where dogs awake from lazy dreams to bark unconvincingly at our passing, and a small marina rents houseboats for canal cruises like our own. Our first full day sets a pattern that will fit all the days to come: breakfast, a guided trip to the local village, lunch, a journey farther along the canal, then dinner, often followed by the hot tub.

By bike, we discover life as lived by the locals. In one small village, the peaceful quiet of the town is suddenly broken by the voice of a woman coming over a speaker mounted on a streetlamp. It calls to mind Orwell’s 1984, but later, McColl explains such public addresses often serve to let local housekeepers know the market is open or perhaps the butcher shop has just received a fresh cut of meat.

In another village, we duck from a spring downpour into a shop and discover a cavernous book store with floor to ceiling shelves holding countless books, prints and vintage postcards.

One late afternoon, we bike ahead of the barge to Capestang. Evening is fast approaching and the town is a good 10 kilometers away. Not wanting to be caught in the dark, we peddle hard, arriving just as the church bells mark 6 p.m. and a purple dusk settles over the city. The barge is still a good 1 1/2 to 2 hours behind, and we’re not sure how to pass the time. A woman in a housedress and head scarf approaches with her dog. She gestures toward a trail leading to town and tells us, “Patisserie, le bistro, le marche.” We smile, “Merci,” and set off toward town, marked by a mammoth old cathedral rising high above the landscape.

Within blocks, we find ourselves outside the village pub. Inside, a few men nurse beers at the bar, a foursome shoots pool. We’ve heard very little news from the outside world, but it is the midst of the war and though the TV broadcast is in French, clearly something big has happened in Iraq. People are celebrating, there’s a U.S. flag draped across a tank and the American soldiers look pleased in their exhausted, dusty way. Later, we’ll learn it was the day allied troops had taken Baghdad.

Given the tension between President Bush and French President Jacques Chirac, I’m not at all certain in any new village what our reception will be. But here, whatever attention we attract, seems merely friendly curiosity. I request a book of matches, the bartender brings me an ashtray as well, and when I tell him no, he smiles, “Collector?” I nod yes, and he brings me several different packs.

We dine that night on a dinner of bouillabaisse thick with fresh seafood then soak in the hot tub under a sky full of stars. With the cathedral glowing high above the landscape, it seems to me I could almost be looking at the wizard’s Emerald City.

While the barge and bikes are great for leisurely meanderings along the canal, there is much to be seen off the waterway, which is where the van comes in handy. One day, we visit a winery/museum, another, the ancient town of Minerve, set high in the hills and once home to the Cathars, a passive group annihilated during the Inquisition. A replica of the catapult used to break down the city walls stands on a hillside in perfect aim of the town, and a small museum displays models recounting the bloody battle.

In the city of Narbonne, we visit the market, where the selection of seafood – eels, anchovies, squid, tuna, mussels, langostino and all manner of fish – is huge and varied and where even at 10 a.m., men sit sipping wine at small market bars, while the women fill their totes and baskets with local goods.

I sample a taste of rose, then ask to buy a bottle. The clerk hands me a green plastic jug about 2 liters in size. I offer 12.40 euros and immediately the confusion begins. Am I offering too much? Too little? He motions to my hand. I open it and he picks out 2.40 euros, roughly $3. And the wine even tastes good.

Much too soon, it is Friday, our last full day on the water, and one, despite it signaling the end, we’ve all been looking forward to. This is the day we are scheduled to pass through the Ecluses de Fonserannes, a 100-foot flight of locks in the city of Beziers. We are scheduled to be the first through and lead a small parade of boats waiting their turn behind us.

As we drop into the first lock, I join McColl at the wheel. The gates close behind us; the lock fills with water. Moments later, the gates before us open, framing the canal and the city rising above us, and we float to the next lock. At each there is a concrete lip on the gate and McColl must keep the rudder cranked hard to the left or will it hang up on the lip and break off. In his words, “And that’s the end of the season.” The instant the gate opens, he must spin the wheel full to the right, otherwise we are headed straight for the opposite canal wall.

Like a good travel journalist, I’m taking this all down in my notebook. From somewhere on the periphery of my concentration, I hear my fellow passengers’ calls, and yet I don’t. Suddenly, McColl yells, “Lori watch your head.” Fortunately, for once I act first, and ask questions second. I drop to my knees, then look up and find we are passing under a low bridge. I had had my back to it and came within seconds of earning a good headache. “And that,” I say, “was almost the end of my season.”

When we come to the last of the seven locks, McColl must make a 90-degree turn onto the aqueduct over the River Orb. We gather on the deck watching. It doesn’t seem possible, so little room, such a long, cumbersome boat. But slowly, slowly, McColl lines the Anjodi up just right, and without so much as a bump, he guides us over the bridge of water as effortlessly as a walk in the park.

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