But to get back to our holidaymakers. Once André, the technician at Locaboat’s base had finished his visit (he explained everything anyone would need to know about the boat and even made the crew take a bit of a trial run on the river) they put away their belongings at incredible speed and I only just had time to slide inside a camera bag to go and visit the town with them. I find it all very intriguing! After skirting the pontoons of the base and the banks of the river Yonne, whose waters reflect the soft gold of the bridge and the dark slates of the Gondi chateau, we climb up narrow little streets lined with old houses faced with beams of carved wood. Suddenly we come to a house with a porch flanked by two turrets: it’s the Hotel Louis de Giudatti, mansion of the governor of the town and chateau from 1612 to 1643. Next door is another house, but more austere. St. Vincent de Paul stayed here when he was private tutor to Count Paul-Emmanuel de Gondi’s children in 1613. We arrive at a little square with a plane tree in flower, and opposite the nineteenth century neo-classical Palais de Justice rises a little church, dedicated to St. André, formerly the priory church Notre-Dame. The south wall dates from the middle ages (the end of the eleventh century) and from the foundation of the priory.

I, Nénesse, raise up my eyes (which some people call my horns – as if I were a cow!) to look at the frieze on the clock tower which tells the story of the saint. I scarcely have time to take note of one or two interesting details when we are off again. These guys really make me dizzy.
We have a look round St. John’s church, rebuilt in the middle of the Renaissance, then go past a nursery school with a very traditional feel to it and arrive in front of the Gondi chateau, begun under Charles IX and finished under Henry IV. We pass by St. John’s Gate, the remaining part of the old chateau walls, go down a few steps and find ourselves in front of a house with magnificent wooden carving: the house of Bailli. This dwelling, like others we would discover a bit further on, was built in the sixteenth century after the fire of 1530 which spared little of the Burgundian city. We follow the rue Montant to the palace and come across a little square where the house of the “Tree of Jesse” stands, so-called because of the genealogical tree of Christ sculpted in the wooden timbering of the façade more than 4 metres high!

A few metres further on, on the opposite pavement, is another house with wood carving and ceramics, essential viewing for all lovers of old stones like me. And believe me, as a snail I’m really clued up about stones. A plethora of heads, animals and floral motifs carved into the wood evokes the old days when snails were called “colimacons” – much more attractive than “escargot”, I think you’ll agree! This house where a certain Martin Lebeuf lived looks out over the Place du Pilori where robbers and criminals were paraded to the jeers of the general public. Just next door on another old timbered house stands a clock face stuck at noon – or midnight, whichever you prefer.
St. Thibault church stands on the other side of the square. In 1075 a chapel was built here to house the relics of the saint who later gave his name to the entire district. Inside stands a statue of the Virgin Mary, smiling with enigmatic charm, and above the entrance door I also notice a little statue of St. Thibault, the work of the Spanish sculptor Juan de Juni (Jean de Joigny). Around it is a garland of oak leaves and a sculpture of one of my “colimacon” ancestors whose name I forget.
History relates that the people who brought the body of the dead saint from Italy in 1056 so that it could be deposited at Sens at the request of his brother, Arnould, stopped here for the night. A hunchback stayed up all night praying and watching over the body, and in the morning the saint granted all his wishes. We don’t know which ones…
I hardly have time to note all this on a leaf before we are off again. I swear to you these people give me a hard time. On the quayside at the end of the street I spot an advertisement extolling the delights of escargots with garlic butter. What savages!
We recross the Yonne at dusk, pink and blue sunset sky above us, and the little harbour seems to be asleep. As soon as we reach the boat the happy band prepare dinner, secluded behind the check curtains. Me, I feel a bit out of place. I slide surreptitiously out of the bag and hurry up to the bridge. I have a feeling there will be a shower tonight, and that’s good. I love that.