We set off again, slicing through the water towards new adventures. The sun warms the bridge, which I don’t really appreciate as I have a tendancy towards dehydration, but it seems to please my companions. The yellow fields give way to shady banks. Ducks fly off in front of us, in short, everything is for the best in the best of worlds.
Big chalky cliffs rise up on the left bank, breaking the monotony. When we get to Ravières we will learn that large pieces of stone are extracted from this rock, material that is used to build houses, garden paving stones and to decorate walls.
Lock after lock we progress slowly towards evening, gleaning gardening tips from lock-keepers who are masters in this field. It’s better than in any magazine, and the conversations also inform us on a multitude of things.

Suddenly a thunderous noise rents the air: it’s fighter Mirages from the Stork squadron at Dijon who are training a few minutes’ from their base. The girls are well ensconced at the front of the boat, having a good chat, and the boys are putting the world to rights on the upper bridge. Blue, orange, and black and white butterflies flutter around us, and the banks merging into the water make you think of an impressionist painting. The water is the colour of sky and the canal is a big blue ribbon crossing the countryside. A little bridge, and we arrive at Buffon, with its forges installed by the great naturalist for his study on minerals. I look at the gardens, with their brilliant colours. The boat berths and off come the bikes again. Navigation is also good sport…we follow each other, some on the towpath, the others on the blue wave, where the shade of trees make patches of pink.
We arrive at Montbard, home town of Buffon, in the late afternoon, the hour when the locks are asleep. The harbour welcomes us in tranquillity. Everyone disembarks, me included, and heads in the direction of the village. There are masses of flights of steps here. The statue of the town’s famous son and his effigy are well-presented so that the author of the monumental “Histoire Naturelle” is not forgotten. From afar we spot a square tower, the only remains of the ancient town walls, and narrow streets lit at night by little yellow lanterns invite you to lose yourself in them. The clock on the Hotel de Ville is surmounted by a little square clock tower enlivened by three bell ringers in the costume of the time. Everything is charming and tranquil. After dinner, our sleep will be peaceful.