( The following literary postcards
are from our
regular roving
correspondent and Hornblower fan , Captain
Peter
Burleigh
, whose cruiser , The Butterfly , is the scourge
of French waterways , the vessel's supplies down to breadfruit and choice
champers . His last chapter in the epic Bulldust Diary series appears to have taken French leave , will be flogged on its return to the computer , and posted overseas on Middle East camel patrol . )
By one and a half coffees past eleven, we are wishing for an up-to-date
chart of the canal to replace our scribbled 2001 mud map. In this sparsely
populated region of France, the locals know the canals inside out and have no
need for directions or warning signs for submerged walls, shallow water, spillways
and nasty rapids over sharp stones. The
Captain must remain alert while the cabin girl downs another
Bordeaux Rose. So where are we again?
FLUFF REPORT
Lint on a canal boat can be fascinating – even threatening. A minute in
the glorified shoebox we call a shower will fill the drain with belly-button
lint and other organic waste substances which festoon the body (not my body,
but probably yours). Left to its own devices, this furry flotsam will choke the
sump pump, cause an overflow and sink the boat. Tellingly, the French do not
have words for ‘lint scum’.
UP CHAMPAGNE CREEK
Life is punctuated by important events but I am lucky - mine has been
punctuated by Champagne. At our friend’s apartment in Angers, we drank the
first of many bottles of Forget-Chemin NV Brut ‘Carte Blanche’ from Ludes on
the Marne. Translated poorly, its name means ‘Forget the Way’. After a few more
bottles, I remembered that forgetfulness is a memorable part of life.
The Cathedral of Notre Dame gleams in the sun after its recent shampoo
and sandblast. The queue to enter is at least as long as the queue to leave.
Surely the girl in the pink sweater was only a minute ago far from the entry
door…and moments later she is through and out the exit. But wait. The long,
long line of tourists is a continuous loop, because there’s the pink girl
again. Humankind has at last discovered perpetual motion.
From our files, a genuine World War 1 (1917) French hand embroidered postcard sent by disappointed Harry Draper to Linda, whose previous letter to him had wandered about the world for seven months . These postcards were made by French women at home on strips of silk up to 25 at a time , sent to factories for mounting . The Australian War Museum has a large collection of silks . Little Darwin attempted to find out the identity of Harry Draper and what happened to him . A researcher came across Henry George Germein Draper, of the AIF, killed a month after this postcard was written , buried in the Hooge Crater Cemetery, Belgium. In those days it was not uncommon for a Henry to be called Harry. Of course , he could have been in the British Army , perhaps even a Scot. This postcard was bought in Townsville about 12 years ago . Draper is a name found in parts of North Queensland , including Cairns, where there is a Draper Street.
