Death and taxes; the two inevitabilities. Liz and I are successfully avoiding the latter - simply by not earning anything at the moment - and trying our best to steer clear of the former.

Had we been sailing down the Rhone in the past week we may well have been staring death in the face, as the river is in flood and screaming along. There has oviously been some serious rain up north, and sensible boaties don't venture out in such conditions. Luckily for us we have spent the past three weeks in the marina at Beaucaire, moored in the centre of town at the end of the Canal du Rhone a Sete, so no worries there.

This has been deliberate as it enabled Liz to take a break back in the UK to spend time with Yasmin over the mid-term holiday. I stayed on here on board, but did also take a wee side trip of my own, catching the train west to spend a long weekend with UK friends Keith and Hilary on board their lovely Dutch barge called "Picton".

While there we walked along the canal towpath, which passes the local cemetery. Unlike some of the more gloomy grey churchyards and graveyards in New Zealand or the UK, French graveyards are a riot of colour. The one at Castelsarissin where K & H are moored looks more like the Chelsea Flower Show than memorials to the departed. People here don't just bring a meagre bunch of flowers to leave by the graveside once a year; instead they surround the graves with potted plants, planters, and flower boxes.

From the blaze of colour it's obvious the relatives of the deceased regularly tend the plants, ensuring continuing and flourishing growth. This is no place to find faded blooms in old cellophane; this is a living memorial burtsting with colour and contrast.

Keith told me how he had called in to a florists to buy some flowers for Hilary recently, and was taken by a gorgeous display of Chrysanthemums. He asked for a bunch, only to be advised by the florist, "Mais Monsieur, les fleurs sont pour les mortes..."

So Crysanths are for the dead, apparently. As too are poppies, and as I write this we are on the eve of one of the most important days in the French calendar: Armistice Day. Tomorrow is the 11th of the 11th, when in 1918 at 11 o'clock in the morning, the armistice was signed between the Western Allies and the Germans, heralding the close one of the bloodiest - and arguably most pointless - wars in history.

The recognition of those who gave their lives during both World Wars here in France is huge. Every town has its war memorial, even the tiniest of villages. There are often fresh flowers on the memorials too, not just on rememberance days. But tomorrow the nation comes to a silent standstill, in recognition of the debt owed to the departed.

For us the timing is poignant, as on Friday we received word from New Zealand that my step-father John had died. My kids Catherine and James have lost their last grandparent.

I will take a lead from the French and order Chrysanthemums.

R.I.P. Sergeant John Ongaro 1923 - 2013