Beautiful Solutions: Pont Canal

The day before we were to leave Agen, France, Sébastien asked, “Is there something else you’d like to see before you leave?”

We’d already covered a lot of South-of-France territory—Bordeaux, Toulouse, and the medieval villages of Issigeac, Nerac, Pujol, and Monflaquin. We’d toured the Chateau de Bonaguil, and wandered the streets of Agen with its half-timbered buildings and lively street life. We'd cheered on the local team at a rugby match. Ici c'est Armandie!

I didn’t hesitate for a second in my response to his question. “I want to go back to the Pont Canal.”

The Pont Canal, a.k.a. Agen Aquaduct

The Pont Canal is a bridge that spans the Garonne River and is part of the Canal du Midi, one of the oldest canals still operational in Europe. There is a lock and canal basin both upstream and down from the Pont Canal.

A corner view of the Pont Canal/Agen Aqueduct, before it crosses the Garonne River.

First, a little history about the Canal du Midi:

The origin of the canal involved a dream – to connect the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. Why? To enable transport of goods from Bordeaux, on the Atlantic, to Mediterranean ports and to circumvent the Iberian Peninsula, which was a long, stormy, and dangerous route.

Those darn pirates!

The dreamer was a man by the name of Pierre-Paul Riquet. He wasn't an engineer, but he had an idea about how to meet the challenge that had prevented the building of such a canal--how to ensure there would be enough water flowing through it year round. His idea was to get water flowing from the Montagne Noire (Black Mountain), a range in south central France. He proposed an innovative irrigation system to ensure that the canal would always have water.

The Canal du Midi project started in 1666, during the reign of Louis XIV, and took around 14 years to complete. At any given time there were between 2,000 and 12,000 people working on the canal, using only shovels and pickaxes. Workers included as many women as men 😊. The canal project incorporated major innovations in hydraulic and structural engineering and has the reputation of being one of the greatest construction works of the 17th century.

Unfortunately, Riquet did not live to see the finished canal—he died in Toulouse, seven months before it opened.  

After completion, the Canal du Midi transported goods (including mail, woolen cloth, silk, salt, wheat and wine) and passengers. The boats were pulled by horses on the towpaths that lined the canal. Trade brought wealth to the communities along the canal’s route and many palatial homes were built during that time. In 1787 Thomas Jefferson took a trip down the canal and studied its construction, hoping one day that a similar canal could link the Potomac to Lake Erie.

In 1996 the Canal du Midi was declared an UNESCO World Heritage Site due to its innovative engineering and artistic design.

The Pont Canal/Agen Aqueduct came along later with the first stone being laid in 1839. It solved the problem of getting the canal across the Garonne River. The aqueduct is a dressed stone masonry structure consisting of 23 arches, and at the time of its completion was the longest navigable aqueduct in France.

When Ingrid and Sébastien visited us in the U.S. a few years ago (for Cheyenne Frontier Days), they gifted us this poster of Le Pont Canal.

But here's the thing I find fascinating: Riquet and the canal-builders did not simply build the canal for utility. They also created it for beauty. Many of the locks, for example, were built in a lovely oval shape. It's a design taken from Roman times and derives from the knowledge that an arch shape can withstand pressure from surrounding soil better than a straight wall.

To reduce evaporation and stabilize the canal bank, trees were planted—plane, poplar, ash, cypress, pine—resulting in a unique, shady, and trés jolie landscape.

The trees that line the Canal du Midi, and their reflections, are mesmerizing.

Then it happened. Progress.

First, the railroad, then the automobile. With the arrival of rail transport in the late 19th century and then motorways, the Canal du Midi’s role in moving goods declined and then halted. The last commercial barges floated the canal in 1970.

Unforeseen consequences, unpredicted results

The canal lives on in different ways and is today a treasure of a different kind. Plants and animals thrive in its tree-shaded route. Pleasure boats have replaced the transport barges. Walkers, joggers, and cyclists make use of the former towpaths. The fine people of Agen stroll along the paths, stopping to greet each other.

Could Riquet have foreseen the evolution of his canal?

A group of New Zealanders, with their rental boat, traverse the Canal du Midi near the Pont Canal. With their bikes on board they are ready to enjoy cycling along the former tow paths. Here, the lock is raising their boat to the next level.

I'm reminded of a quote by Buckminster Fuller, the American architect, writer, and futurist, that says,

"When I am working on a problem I never think about beauty. I only think about how to solve the problem. But when I have finished, if the solution is not beautiful, I know it is wrong."

How lucky that Riquet and others involved in building the Pont Canal and Canal du Midi found a solution to their transport problem and made it beautiful. They show us that engineering and art can collaborate, and that even as the canal's purpose changed over time, the beautiful solution remains.

Many of the furry inhabitants of Agen enjoy walks along the canal.

Sébastien and Ingrid graciously returned us to the Pont Canal on an exquisite fall day and as I soaked it all in I thought about how one of the great pleasures of travel and learning about the history of a place is the reminder that what we are experiencing in the present moment is a mere snapshot in the grand histoire of our fascinating world.

We can't foresee it all, and can't predict the future. We can only create, make it as beautiful as we're able, and trust the rest to time.

Our hosts demonstrate the art of the saunter, South-of-France style.

Still Desiderata-ing After All These Years

There are words that you hear as if they were meant for you. This is how I've always felt about the prose poem, Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann.

I probably heard it for the first time in the 1970s, when I was just starting to pay attention to such things and when the poem, penned in the 1920s, experienced a resurgence in popularity.

The word “Desiderata” comes from Latin and means “things that are desired.” 

The language Ehrmann uses is a little out of vogue: feign and vexatious, and there are tons of not-currently-in-favor semicolons. But no matter how old fashioned, the text has been alive to me since I first encountered it.

I have committed pieces of the poem to memory and frequently phrases pop into my head as inspiration (remember what peace there may be in silence) or as admonishment (listen to others; even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their stories).

Most importantly, the text of Desiderata has been a teacher, a prayer, a solace at crucial times in my life.

Mali, West Africa, circa 1984

I was a Peace Corps trainee, trying to learn everything I could in a three-month period before moving into my assigned village. How to speak and write in French and Bambara. How to behave respectfully in a new culture. How to build woodburning stoves (primary project), and teach prenatal nutrition to pregnant women (secondary project). It was overwhelming.

Throughout the training, current volunteers were paraded in front of us, each with their own take on “How to be a successful PCV.” We received lots of advice, some of it conflicting and some of it counter to what I knew about my own abilities.

Fortunately, I had tucked a copy of Desiderata into my luggage before leaving home. The words that comforted me in this time were:

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself… 

and

Be yourself.

Above: I am obviously thrilled with the gift,

in recognition of my stove building efforts in NTarla, Mali.

Los Angeles, California, circa 1988

A more fish out of water you couldn’t have found than me, in L.A., after my stint in Africa, working for a big corporation on Wilshire Boulevard. We’re talking major culture shock. I drew inspiration from:

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time…

and 

go placidly amid the noise and haste...

Lusk, Wyoming, 9/11

We all have memories of that day, and mine involve digging out my tattered copy of Desiderata, the same one I had with me in Mali, and holding on to these words:

Everywhere life is full of heroism…

Cheyenne, Wyoming, January, 2012

As we dealt with the news of my stepdaughter’s death by suicide, I was forced to draw on every bit of spiritual insight I could find.

Again, Desiderata helped:

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune…

and

in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul…

and

be gentle with yourself… 

and

Be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.

The poem is taped up in my writing room now—a newer copy, since the old one disintegrated. I looked at it recently, on May 11th, the day of our 28th wedding anniversary, and smiled:

Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

And while I have you, I’ll share the words that never fail me to remind me to be humble, to recognize I may not have the perspective to decide whether everything is tilting toward apocalypse or, conversely, we are evolving toward enlightenment:

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should... it is still a beautiful world.

Who knows what part of Desiderata I will tuck into my heart’s pocket next?

Let's Begin by Being a Beginner

Afore-mentioned grandnephew, long time ago, sending me cryptic signals. Never did figure it out...

My grandnephew, age 13, was twitchy in the passenger seat—all wound up from attending a session of the 4-H robotics program my sister and I enrolled him in this fall. He was going on and on about what was involved in building and coding a Lego robot.

Then he said in an excited, but also slightly panicky voice, “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Of course, you don’t know how,” I said. “You’ve never done it before.”

This exchange reminded me that as a rule most of us are really lousy at letting ourselves be beginners.

But he’s a kid, so of course he’s a beginner at a lot of things.

Those of us who are adults (or a-dolts as husband and I like to say), with all our knowledge and experience, well, are we ever really beginners?

Yeah, actually, we are. We just don’t like to admit it.

All that is required is the humility to be a beginner.

     -Julia Cameron

I started creative writing at the ripe age of 49. I’d written plenty in my jobs, volunteer activities, etc. But I decided to take up creative writing—essays, creative nonfiction, poetry, and fiction.

I made a pact with myself at the time--even wrote it down:

I am a beginning writer. As such, I will be self-conscious and awkward. There will be times when my writing resembles literary acne. I’ll trip up the stairs of story and make a lot of questionable decisions.

I figure it’s all part of growing up as a writer.

Now, I’m 67 and I have been writing creatively all that time. That means I’m a grown-up writer now, right?

Only I’m entering a new phase. I have a novel manuscript that I've been working on for the last four years. I printed it off and after a short hiatus (to let the story clear from my brain a bit) the task of revising the manuscript will begin.

I’ve never done this before. When it comes to revision of long-form fiction, I am a beginner.

Damn. Have I mentioned that I don’t like being a beginner? That I’ve never liked it?

Testing football helmets. Know the feeling?

When I was in the Peace Corps in Mali, West Africa, I was required to learn two languages: French and Bambara. During the three months of pre-service training, we had what was called immersion, which meant that right after breakfast and until dinner was served, we weren’t allowed to speak English. This forced us to practice our new language skills.

Basically, I was mute during immersion, except for the minimum amount of speaking required in class. I zipped my lip so I wouldn’t sound like an idiot.

The staff was worried about me. One trainer (Seth, I think it was) said something that stuck with me. “You have to be okay with sounding like a three-year-old in the beginning. It’s tough on your pride, but it’s the only way you’ll learn.”

I did better once I got to my village. It helps when your survival depends on spitting out something.

I made a lot of mistakes, like the time I was explaining to my friend Hawa, in my halting Bambara, that we have a saying in English: I stuck my foot in my mouth. Only I got the word for foot wrong. I said “sin” when I should have said “sen.”

The resulting phrase was: I stuck my breast in my mouth.

Yeah. I did that. You should have seen her face.

But I learned, tripping and falling all the way. And what’s a few feet in the mouth anyway?

We are always afraid to start something that we want to make very good, true and serious.

-        Brenda Ueland

In my writing group, the Coddiwomple Crew, new members struggle to read their writing out loud. There are usually lots of disclaimers: I don’t really know where this is going… it’s not very good… bear with me. That sort of thing. We always tell them that it’s not necessary, but they do it anyway.

Eventually they get over that and just read what they’ve got.

Fortunately I have my musecat to help with the revision project...

All of this to remind myself that when it comes to revising a novel:

• I’ve never done this before.

• I’ll make mistakes but nobody will die (except maybe in the story).

• It's better if you just dive in.

And in the immortal words of Bob Ross:

As long as you’re learning, you’re not failing.