LE PORT DE CHEFFES

Can't you hear? The rhythm of the beaters hitting the soaked laundry on the edge of the washboat; the washers calling out and the boat guys getting in the way. Sheets hanging from the dryer, slamming in the valley wind The Ro-Ro, in a word, calms his horse, who is impatient for the loading time; the tufa and slates pile up on the cart. The shovels slide in the sand, the forks prick the pile of stone. Wooden hooves and wheelbarrows make the plank resonate, an unstable bridge between the deck of the boat and the shore. The hooped wheel irons crush the gravel on the way up The young apprentice, with his wooden shovel, throws the water overboard, emptying the hold always ready to drink the river. The to and fro of the saw, the adze that cuts; the hammer and mallet that pegs, that nails. The carpenter adjusts the edges of the tired barge which deserves some care to remain almost watertight. The tailpiece lengthens its thread, a patient walker who whistles along its comings and goings; he twists the sailor's beam without a seam or splice. Tensioned between the horse and the boat, the rope will glide smoothly, bending the high grass of the towpath, until it reaches the port of Angers, Sablé or Le Mans.