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dispatch

The writer’s car, topped with a 15-foot canoe, sits by the seemingly placid Seine river. But French currents can run deep.TED DENTAY

Dispatch is a series of first-person stories from the road.

You would never think of France, or Europe for that matter, as a great canoeing destination. But there I found myself – having been afforded the opportunity of living in the Languedoc-Roussillon region – looking at some lovely waterways and just knowing that a canoe was mandatory. What awaited me was an irresistible combination for a senior citizen such as myself: placid inland waterways, historical significance, powerful rivers, plus just a soupçon of oceanic adventure.

Canoeing as many waterways throughout Europe as I could became a "bucket-list farewell" to youthful foolishness.

Here's how it has gone.

The canoe, which has been named My Folly, is the European ideation of the Canadian "Prospector" style, 15-foot canoe, which I thought would suit my needs perfectly.

The French have really no idea of the difference between a canoe, by the way, and a kayak. Their idea ranges from an inflatable thingamajiggie to a super-heavy, injection-moulded plastic construct. So I was forced to head to Eckernforde, close to the Danish-German border, to pick up my purchase from its previous owner, a German engineer from Hamburg.

The Baltic Sea swam in my visions, pun intended.

But – surprise – My Folly is not what a tractable canoe is supposed to be. The bottom's too flat and there's no keel, ergo, Tippecanoe and Tyler Too!

After some "pleasurable" capsizes (please understand: for training purposes only) in friendly waters on the way back to France, I felt ready to tame the mighty Rhine, just upriver from the Cologne Cathedral. I could talk of "blistering speeds" – but I'd be referring to the blisters on my paddle hand. Getting out of the way of heavily laden river barges is a tough upstream paddle. Time for something a bit more tame to begin with.

The centenary of the First World War is an ongoing theme for much of northern Europe today. What better way to appreciate that period than by a paddle up the Marne or the Somme?

After a day of juddering 50 kilometres along the winding forest path paralleling the Marne, the first good launch point presented itself when I popped out of the forest and arrived in Château Thierry. The Marne is a nice, gentle river possessed by a strange emerald-green colour. Some interesting – if somewhat rusty and listing – watercraft dot the shore. Still, the paddle through the downtown area of Château Thierry made me envy the speed with which the pedestrians passed me above the riverbank.

Then came the Somme, an evocative term that continues to convey images of disaster and the First World War. It turns out, the river is not navigable, even with a flat-bottomed canoe.

Continuing ever southwards, I was annoyed with myself for not having navigated the Seine. Then the opportunity came. From the highway I saw the grand waterway, bordered by some golden sand beaches.

I stopped at a small pub that backed onto the river. After a big beer and some informal chatting in the otherwise-empty place, I was convinced by the owners, a lovely couple, that it was likely a good way to lose my life.

Bottom line?

I am now headed for the Mediterranean coast, close to the ancient Roman seaport of Narbonne. I hear the beach is great.

When in Rome … ?

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