"Non, absolument pas!” The French woman’s crossed arms and set jaw conveyed little room for negotiation. As immobile as the granite walls of the lock she controlled, this graying lockkeeper in shapeless dress and old leather shoes was not going to allow two tourists in a kayak to pass. “Non.”
Photographs by the authorStill dressed in our travel clothes, we were happy to have the kayak fully assembled and ready to launch in the Yonne River. We were tired but excited to be heading off on our leisurely exploration of the Canal du Nivernais. Little did we know we were destined to be thwarted in our plans by the very first lockkeeper.
The warm afternoon sun and flat water promised perfect paddling. We had launched in high spirits only a quarter of an hour before. Now, her rejection deflated us. Taking a stroke here and there to maintain position, just downstream of the Batardeau Lock on the Yonne River, I was making no headway in my schoolboy French. So much for our letter to the Office National de la Navigation in Paris. We had inquired diligently about regulations. Monsieur Viannay’s reply had assured us all would be well, and the rules brochure he enclosed said nothing about kayaks in locks. This veteran lockkeeper had her own interpretation. “Non.”
The Batardeau Lock was the first of dozens of locks we had anticipated in a languid three-week summer cruise through Burgundy and Nivernais. The lure had been quaint villages and majestic chateaux, punctuated by romantic camping in sunflower fields or under the towpaths’ trees, all fueled by fabulous Burgundian food and wine, amidst the region’s rich history.
Dejected and beat, our 36-hour day was catching up to us. It had begun with a transatlantic flight from New York to Paris, then a taxi from Orly Airport to the Austerlitz Station, and two trains south to Auxerre, capital of the Yonne department and fourth largest city in Burgundy, where we had assembled our folding double kayak on the banks of the Yonne River. Weighing just 75 lbs, our 17′ Aerius II Klepper packed into two durable green canvas bags. One held the skin, seats, sprayskirts, and miscellaneous frame parts. The other, shaped like a golf bag, held longer frame pieces and the two-part paddles. The longest piece measured 4′ 3″. For overseas travel, we simply checked the bags on commercial flights as oversize baggage.
Now, tails between legs, we reversed course and headed back toward Auxerre. I sat aft, controlling the rudder with foot pedals. Molly had the bow seat. Experienced paddlers, we were proud of our blade work, tight and in unison. Over Molly’s head I could see the majestic Cathedral of Saint Etienne with its Gothic flying buttresses. Framed by trees along each side of the river, it grew closer with every stroke.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore!” Despite being rejected by the keeper of the Batardeau Lock, the view as we paddled back toward the cathedral of St-Etienne in Auxerre lifted our spirits.
Along the city’s waterfront, pleasure canal cruisers (squat, low-powered houseboats) were moored in a row. Péniches, the standard 38.5m-long motorized commercial barges, passed by in the channel; a few historic ones had been tastefully converted into luxury hotel barges. Beyond them sprawled medieval Auxerre. Thwarted by an unhelpful lockkeeper, we were, even so, in France, surrounded by picture-postcard scenery. All would be well.
I was coming off 10 years of knocking about the North Atlantic and Caribbean Sea in big traditional schooners where stunning voyages were always marked by higher highs and lower lows. The thought of a boat trip abroad with no squalls or gales, no wind against tide, no threatening shoals, when the toughest decision might be the choice between Chablis and Chardonnay, had real appeal.
Young and in love in an old French town, we nevertheless needed sleep. A river’s-edge clump of trees and brush would suffice, we hoped, to hide our boat. Rather than disassembling, packing, and lugging the boat with us as we went in search of a bed, we locked it to a tree and took the risk. Near Auxerre’s clocktower, above what had been a gate in the medieval city wall, we found a two-star pension with rooms for 84 francs ($13). It was 1987; neither the Euro nor the internet yet existed.
Auxerre to Canal de Bourgogne
Next morning, drinking coffee near a statue of Saint Nicholas, patron saint of watermen, we changed the plan. We had researched and intended to paddle Canal du Nivernais, supposedly one of the loveliest canals in France, which began in Auxerre, and appropriated the Yonne River as it proceeded south.
Roger Siebert.
Now, hoping for more understanding lockkeepers, we decided to paddle north on the Yonne toward Canal de Bourgogne. Part of the waterway route connecting the Mediterranean Sea and the English Channel, the Yonne flows into the Seine, which then flows through Paris. We knew little about Canal de Bourgogne, but it was meant to be charming.
The first lock on the Yonne lay only 500 yards away. No lockkeeper appeared as we landed along the bulkhead, unsure of our reception. Portaging might be the answer. Our as-yet-untested Bavarian bootswagen (boat cart) proved itself straight away. Molly pulled the camping gear out of the kayak’s forward section, piling it amidships. We placed the stern over the cart and secured it with straps. This allowed me to heft the bow and push the well-balanced rig easily along the path. We had only 125′ to go; it seemed like a snap.
And so it was, until relaunching time. On the far side of the lock, the water level was 4′ lower. To launch, I perched on a toehold along the top of the sloping lock wall. Heaving together, we launched with a splash. As the boat plunged, I tried to check its momentum with the bow line, and promptly tore the forward eye from the canvas deck. Damn! Lesson learned, from then on, we used our tightly rolled foam sleeping pads as rollers, and took the weight with a strap while relaunching.
The next lockkeeper, an older man, talked on the telephone as we approached. He ignored us. We portaged. A couple fished intently near the lock, without a glance in our direction. No one seemed to care about us or our kayak.
When portaging—as here, early on in the trip while we were still on the Yonne River—I found it easier to push the kayak ahead of me rather than pull it behind. With all our gear moved into the cockpit, the bow became light enough for me to tip the boat back onto the cart and start wheeling.
Intervals between locks were short, no more than a mile or two. We would just get going and then need to stop. A very young woman had charge of the third lock of the day, at Boisseaux. We smiled and waved, but made no attempt to lock through. These Yonne River locks were big. In such a tiny boat it might have been insulting to request an opening. A chatty fisherman offered help, which we accepted, and though the portage was the longest so far—several hundred yards—all worked well. Again, until the relaunch. The drop was simply too far to slide the kayak into the water, even with the rollers, and we didn’t dare pitch it over the edge. We unloaded it entirely, rigged a strap as a sling aft, and attached a bow line forward, right around the boat, before lowering; it worked.
On we paddled with barely a breeze, the summer sun warming the bare skin on our arms and legs. Mallards dabbled along the river’s edges. A cheerful young couple with a six-month-old baby, to whom Molly paid a great deal of attention, staffed the next lock, on the outskirts of Monéteau. When I requested drinking water the man smiled broadly, then insisted that we empty all of our water bottles in exchange for his water—better water, fresher water! A bedraggled 24′ fiberglass sloop whose rig was long gone hove into sight, going our way. It needed to lock through, so we joined them. Finally! Locking was far easier than portaging.
Central Burgundy was our kind of place, a kingdom of waterways where the past was never more than a stone’s throw away. A pastoral landscape that bundled old-fashioned human ingenuity, such as cast-iron lock gear, with remnants of nature. And we liked our teamwork, being dependent on each other. We swung together, feeling a new energy. Paddling north under the bridge carrying the Paris–Lyon A6 highway, with cars and trucks whizzing overhead, modernity intruded, but only briefly. Spirits rising, we paddled on, past the shallow Serein River flowing into the Yonne from the right. Shortly before the road bridge linking the villages of Bassou and Bonnard, a lovely wooden punt lay moored along the bank in water so still it perfectly mirrored the boat. Venerable with age, but well-kept, the little craft’s pumpkin-colored sheerstrake set off its dark green hull; it rode quietly, almost timelessly, a serene scene worthy of Claude Monet.
Nearby, a gentle stretch of level bank presented itself between the waterway and a farmer’s field. It was time to call it a day. A good one, we thought: almost 13 miles with seven locks, two of which we had paddled through.
Our first night’s canal-side campsite amid the tall grass and Queen Anne’s lace beneath the trees was typical of most of our overnight resting spots.
Tall grass and Queen Anne’s lace made a natural cushion for our tent, pitched near a row of old poplar trees, sentinels guarding the canal. It looked tranquil. Boat traffic stopped at night, so we would be undisturbed. Out came the food bag. Voilà! A bottle of Beaujolais would pair nicely with the Époisses, a pungent Burgundian cheese. There were fresh green beans to steam on our camp stove, and slices of Charolais beef in butcher’s paper. My vegetarian paddling partner passed on the beef, but happily tucked into the baguette. It was the perfect end to a fine day.
Of Péniches and a World War
From the tent door next morning we watched the mist rising off the water, filtering the early light. Packing up to the chattering of blackcaps and chaffinches, we discussed the locks: The engineering and ingenuity were impressive; their history intriguing. By frequently interrupting our paddling we would avoid “paddler’s elbow” and wrist problems, but the hassles were real. We had not realized how many locks we would have to portage. Getting out of the boat and stretching a bit was satisfying, but a kayak loaded with camping gear is cumbersome. Steep banks and sloping lock walls had to be negotiated; it compromised the charm.
Transiting our final lock on the Yonne, near its confluence with the Armançon River, we paddled through Laroche-Saint-Cydroine. The town marked the beginning of the Canal de Bourgogne, which stretched 150 miles ahead. If we wanted a goal, there was a 2-mile-long tunnel in Pouilly-en-Auxois 96 miles away along the canal. Carved through solid rock 1,837′ above sea level, it went through a mountain, and to reach it required climbing that mountain—in our boat! I suddenly itched to try.
A former competitive rower, I thought that with determination and luck climbing to Pouilly-en-Auxois might be possible. Molly considered our choices: a slow exploration of Burgundian charms or paddling hellbent uphill for 96 miles, through 102 locks. It was, she said, a no-brainer. And I couldn’t argue. Slow and steady won the day.
This was one of the last commercial péniches still hauling freight on the canals. At one time, a massive fleet existed, all built to conform to the locks’ dimensions. Horse-drawn barges were outlawed in 1970, and the towpaths quickly became the domain of walkers and cyclists.
Miles later, in Brienon-sur-Armançon, we watched grain loading from a modern silo into a stout old péniche, one of the last vessels using this canal commercially. For centuries péniches carried grain, firewood, building materials, timber pit props for mines, and other bulk cargoes crucial to pre-modern France. Built to specifications, one peniche filled an entire lock. Back in the day, some péniches even had a stable aboard (or at least a stall) for their draft animals. But the future was elbowing its way on to the canal. Seventeen years before our trip, horse-drawn barges were outlawed—they impeded motorized vessels—and the towpaths became the domain of walkers and cyclists.
We camped by the canal every night and rarely hauled the kayak. There was no traffic on the canal after dark, and besides, the serene pace at which all canal boats traveled meant there were no troubling wakes—we would pick a place to stop, drive in two tent pegs, one for the bow line, the other astern, and tie up. That was it.
With each passing day we locked through more frequently. As we approached each lock we held back, exchanging pleasantries with the crews of entering powerboats. Once they were settled, we paddled in, tying up to the lock wall, or (with permission) simply hanging on to the rail of a boat as the lock filled and we all rose. Lockkeepers, whom we occasionally tipped, took no special notice of us so long as we went through in the company of motorized pleasure boats.
Charmed by huge fields of sunflowers, sweet villages and imposing estates, and by the wonderful wines, we lost track of the days until one morning when we arrived at the first lock of the day and found it closed. Wednesdays were keepers’ day off. Sufficiently adept now at portaging, this was no hardship for us, but hire-boat crews had to amuse themselves otherwise for a day. We landed, stretched, and scoped out the portage as several older men approached in the sunshine.
Our boat cart worked well, but when offered assistance I was never too proud to accept.
Determining that we were Americans, one fellow boldly asked, “Were your fathers in the war?” (They meant, of course, World War II.)
“Yes,” we replied.
“Then we will carry your boat!”
They insisted. It would have been churlish to refuse. Their appreciation for America’s intervention in the war some 40 years earlier, was still very real.
Cafés, Restaurants, and Boulangeries
Taking our time and pausing at cafés was a happy alternative to sprinting for a distant mountain tunnel. It seemed that rural French folk spent a lot of time in local cafés. They smoked unfiltered Gauloises, drank coffee and kir—two measures white wine, one measure Cassis de Dijon—chatted, and argued. They were joined by cats and dogs: fashionably attired elderly ladies brought cats on leashes; dogs lay docilely at their masters’ feet; other dogs came and went through the open door.
And the café crowds welcomed the silly Americans—warmly, at times.
“You are doing what?”
“We are kayaking the canal to Dijon.”
We provoked laughter and protestations; were offered free drinks or occasionally just shrugs. Temporarily being the center of attention was fine, and memories of the first day’s lockkeeper receded.
We grew to like bivouacking in the wilds along that civilized canal. On the outskirts of Saint-Florentin, however, we pitched our tent in a bona fide campground. Saint-Florentin was the biggest city we had seen since Auxerre, though with only 4,000 inhabitants it presented more as a town. People had lived here a long time. We strolled compact streets under the imposing church, built over several centuries throughout the late Medieval and early Renaissance periods. Two- and three-story homes and shops roofed in brown tiles prevailed, with plenty of trees and flowers.
In Saint-Florentin we came across this rendering of the town’s municipal logo. It was easily 20′ by 40′, re-created in flowering annuals.
On a steep bank of grass, next to an ancient tower, gardeners had planted a rendering of the town logo with red, yellow, purple, and white annuals in bloom. Easily 20′ by 40′, weed-free and precise, it conveyed local pride. Burgundians connected to place in ways we could not fathom. As visitors whose siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles were scattered to the winds back in the United States, we found those rooted inter-generational connections intriguing.
Next morning, insistent roosters greeted the day. I liked the French vernacular for rooster, rendered in English since the Middle Ages as “chanticleer,” literally to sing clearly, from chanter (to sing.) We went in search of café au lait and fresh pastries. On past trips, kayak-camping in Chesapeake Bay, we had been quite content without nice china cups of café au lait. And the 10-day Klepper tour we would make the following summer among Maine’s spruce-clad islands was stunning without fresh pastry. But why do without when Burgundy extended its bounty?
Cozy lockkeepers’ cottages, with well-raked gravel in the dooryard, flowers in profusion, and pollarded poplars were the norm—homes that seemed to scale as if they had always been there. Lockkeepers occasionally offered fresh eggs or vegetables for sale. Some had rabbits in hutches, not as pets, but destined for the pot. No one hurried, the welcome was genuine.
The locks had vertical granite walls and iron mooring posts. A boat heading upstream would enter through the open downstream doors. Ahead of it the closed upstream doors held back canal waters whose surface was higher, sometimes 6′ higher. After the boat was securely tied, the lockkeeper closed the lower doors, then opened a valve to flood the lock, raising its water level to that in the canal ahead. With the downstream doors remaining closed, the upstream ones were opened, and the boat proceeded. All of the gear was operated manually by the lockkeeper, sometimes assisted by boat operators.
For the most part we were given warm welcomes by the locals—none more so than the excited greeting extended by this group of children with whom Molly quickly made friends.
Of Children and Bureaucrats
Stopping along the towpath in one town we were immediately befriended, even swarmed, by a bunch of children six to eight years old. There were no adults in sight, this was their domain, and they had the run of it. The girls wanted to touch Molly’s long light-brown hair. One boy posed on the path, holding my paddle upright and saluting. Full of questions and laughter, they told us that kayakers were not a typical sight.
Straddling the canal ahead, the town of Tonnerre appeared, about the size of Saint-Florentin, but much older. Bronze Age burials preceding the Romans have been uncovered here. Two thousand years ago the Romans called this spot Tornodorum. It oozed antiquity. We could see small houses roofed in thin stone; others with rusty-red roof tiles. As we approached Lock 95 a female lockkeeper, about the age of our mothers, stood near the gate.
Her harangue made the chilly reception of day one seem mild. No, we were not going through the lock! No, we were not going to portage around the lock! I remonstrated, telling her that we had transited about 30 locks so far, paddling or portaging without incident. It did not matter! We could not do this! Our very presence affronted her. She did not care a whit about our welcoming letter from the national office. I asked if I might speak to her supervisor. Through the torrent that followed I determined that the Chef Subdivisionnaire had an office in city hall and would be there later that afternoon. We thanked her, turned back downstream, found a place to leave the boat, and walked into town.
The lockkeepers’ cottages were typically small and neat, with abundant floral displays and well-trimmed lawns. The locks themselves were faced with granite-block walls and often equipped with centuries-old iron mooring bollards, as seen here.
Late in the day, we found the supervisor in his office. About my age, he listened, smiled, asked a few questions, then invited us to his home in two hours to meet his wife and kids and have a drink. “Merci, monsieur. That would be very nice.”
The magical hours we spent in the supervisor’s family garden were to be some of the most memorable of the trip. As crickets chirped and birds settled in to roost, the kids overcame their shyness, befriended by Molly’s smile. Monsieur’s wife served appetizers. He poured wine. They could not have been more gracious. Conversation rolled on, a hybrid of French and English. Mentioning nothing about the keeper at Lock 95, he pointed out that what we were doing was not “conventional.” He did not say it was forbidden.
I repeated that we had transited nearly 30 locks so far without incident; then elaborated. Molly and I had done a lot of sailing and kayak touring. I was a professional seaman, a licensed master mariner who had commanded grandes goélettes (big schooners) in the Atlantic and Caribbean. His eyes widened. I knew that the Tall Ships reference was my ace. People always thought it was romantic.
I extolled the glories of overseas France—Martinique, Guadeloupe, Saint Martin, and Saint Barts in the Caribbean; Saint Pierre and Miquelon in the North Atlantic, near Newfoundland. Had I been to those places, he wanted to know? “Yes, monsieur.” All of them. He knew very few people who had seen those far-flung outposts. As a patriotic Frenchman he was proud of overseas France, and this laughing American sitting in his garden brought those romantic territories closer to home.
When our passage through a lock coincided with one or more powerboats going our way, we would make the most of the company and pass through unchallenged by the lockkeeper. At such times we would always hang back and let the much-larger boats enter the lock ahead of us.
The wine went around. Madame put the children to bed and still we talked, with Molly asking about his career on the canal. He was a functionary in the Ministry of the Environment in charge of that section, he said, a secure government job on which to raise a family.
We left with his promise that if we came to City Hall in the morning, he would issue a permit. He was true to his word.
Next morning, the woman at Lock 95 did not make eye contact. She looked at the permit, and stamped our newly issued passage card. We tipped her 10 francs (about $1.50). Effectively a “Get Out of Jail Free” card, our new customized permit meant no more obstructive lockkeepers.
From a Burgundy Chateau to a Dentist
Five miles beyond Tonnerre, the size and grandeur of the Château de Tanlay surprised us. It is considered the finest great house in Burgundy. Accessed by a bridge over a moat, the sumptuous limestone buildings were constructed in fits and starts between 1555 and 1649. Cylindrical towers on the main house set off the corners of a grand courtyard, all luxury and elegance. One wall on the grounds consisted of a row of shell-headed niches, each easily 25′ tall, flanked by classic pillars.
Tradesmen on scaffolding were working on several stonework sections and the slate roof. I speculated that repairs never ceased; that these men could be the great-great-great-grandsons of masons who had built the chateau. Men from 400 years earlier, who might not have been honored with gravestones, but whose creation endured.
Johann Klepper of Rosenheim, Germany, began marketing collapsible kayaks in 1907, capitalizing on the lure of waterways inaccessible with conventional wooden boats. Sales boomed. By the 1980s, his brilliant design had evolved into a one-piece skin with a Hypalon rubber bottom and canvas deck. Using snap-lock fittings, paddlers could assemble the varnished hardwood skeleton of the boat, and slip it into the skin. My favorite step was the final one, inflating the sponsons that ran the length of the boat, one on each side. Inflation, by mouth, stretched the skin tautly over the frame. Total assembly time: about 15 minutes.
Still ascending the Armançon Valley, we occasionally swam and splashed and fished in the nearby Armançon River, whose waters were clean, cleaner than those of the canal they fed. Though I cast with a light spinning rod, I never landed a fish.
Days slipped by on placid summer waters; there was never much wind. One afternoon, however, a fresh following breeze inspired us to rig Molly’s jacket as a spinnaker. She trimmed, I steered, and we scooted. Pastures of grazing Charolais cattle, wooded stretches, and open fields slipped by effortlessly, punctuated by villages and farms. Secluded campsites were always plentiful, bird life abundant, and the night sky an awning overhead. Life was easy, with simple pleasures.
But the day before we arrived in Buffon—a village I wanted to visit because of the correspondence between the 18th-century naturalist Comte de Buffon and Thomas Jefferson—Molly mentioned a toothache. She never complained, not just on this trip, but in life as a whole. By Buffon, she hurt. During a quick visit to the estate and workrooms of the Comte, we learned that 4 1⁄2 miles ahead, beyond the villages of Saint-Remy and Blaisy, the town of Montbard had a dentist. We double-timed it.
The provincial examination room was not quite a museum, but close. The antiquated dental chair, a bulky porcelain spit-basin, and old-fashioned implements would have been familiar in our grandparents’ youth. For the first time in weeks, we would have preferred a place where the past was not so present. The genial dentist spoke no English. I hoped he had good training. Dictionary in hand, I scrambled to translate.
On most days there was little or no wind, but one afternoon a fresh breeze picked up. Molly’s rain jacket made an effective, if rudimentary, sail, and for a while the paddles were put aside and nature propelled us on our way.
Her situation was rare, he said. The root of her tooth was growing sideways through the gum; he would need to do a root canal.
Molly was firm: “Get pain killers and antibiotics,” she said, “and ask him to stabilize it. No root canal until we’re back in the 20th century.” By the time we left, she was loopy with pain and pills. I tucked her into a nearby hotel and went to retrieve our boat.
We had paddled for more than two weeks, transiting 60 locks and about 80 miles; it had been a pastoral idyll, hassles and all. There were no regrets. But now the paddling was done. I disassembled and packed the Klepper, marveling again at its design, and wheeled it to the hotel on our boat cart.
Work on the 150-mile-long Canal de Bourgogne was started in 1774 and completed in 1832. It links the Yonne River at Migennes to the Saône at Saint-Jean de Losne, and at its highest point at Pouilly-en-Auxois passes through a 2-mile-long tunnel. Once a busy commercial thoroughfare, by the late 20th century the waterway was quiet, and much of the time we had it all to ourselves.
By the time we boarded the train to Dijon next day, Molly’s pills had kicked in and she had reverted to her noncomplaining self. She was up for more adventure, and there would be time for a wonderful tour and wine tasting at Château du Clos Vougeot on the Côte d’Or, and sightseeing in Dijon. But, we agreed, days later as we waited to board the flight back to New York, the real treasures of Burgundy and Nivernais were best accessed by paddling on ancient canals, where charms awaited around every bend.
Jeff Bolster has been afloat in everything from single kayaks to 300-ton schooners, exploring far-flung corners of the North Atlantic, the Caribbean, and the South Pacific. Inspired by a lifetime afloat, his books include Black Jacks: African American Seamen in the Age of Sail and The Mortal Sea: Fishing the Atlantic in the Age of Sail. He lives with his wife, Molly, in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
French Canals in 2025
I have been asked if one might do a similar trip today. An internet search for the Fédération Française de Canoë Kayak suggests that while canoeing and kayaking are thriving on French rivers as never before, such craft are generally not allowed to pass through locks. Portaging around locks is permitted. Some canal locks, however, appear to be surrounded by thick woods or brush, which would make the hauling and relaunching of a kayak challenging. But rural France is still replete with picturesque villages, vineyards, chateaux, and natural scenes, charmingly presented from the vantage point of a kayak, and intrepid adventurers seeking those charms might do better to investigate paddling rivers such as the Dordogne, the Allier, or the Loire, rather than the canals.—Jeff Bolster
If you have an interesting story to tell about your adventures with a small boat, please email us a brief outline and a few photos.
![The first night I spent on a sandbar, I was barely 2’ above the water line and hoped the river wouldn’t rise while I slept. Lock and Dam #20 is downstream in the distance. [between Keokuk and Hannibal]](https://smallboatsmonthly.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/02/MissRiver5957web.jpg)
