There are some clever observations of life that have been made by some clever people, such as where does your lap go when you stand up, and if you dismantle something can you mantle it again? Deep questions, well worth asking.

So it stands to reason to also ask, what happens to mariners when they're not marinating? What do boaties actually do when they're not cruising? Because, from September through to around April, most boaties here in France don't live up to their name; they don't go anywhere in their boats. They don't use the word boat as a verb, they just stay put on their noun and wait until printemps to activate the verb again. (Or they cheat, cocoon their boat for winter and scuttle off home or to warmer climes, the scum)

Those that remain continue to live on board their craft, like us, using their boats as a base, a home... somewhere to stay. We are therefore not sailors any more, at least not for a while; we are staylors.

There are quite a few staylors in the Port de Beaucaire, living on boats ranging in style from Mary-Beth - a gorgeously-shaped mahogany Thames cruiser from 1950 - to Fiere Magriet, a pretty converted barge or peniche that dates back 107 years. In between are other boats that are extremely up-market, with gleaming hulls, radar and remote-controlled gangplanks, to the more ordinary run-of-the-mill cruisers, like ours.

As with the boats, their occupants range widely, in length, beam and overall condition. Here in Beaucaire (names changed to protect reputations, avoid law suits, etc) there's John and Sarah, who are as full-time live-aboards as you could hope to find, along with their dog Molly (name also changed... see previous blog about now much poo there is in a pooch). Then there's Kevin, on his ownsome seemingly, serious, tall, rarely smiles. From further north in Europe we have Wally and Rita, with their immaculate boat looking like it just came from the Paris Boat Show. Mark and Rochelle, who are about to let the side down by migrating south to somewhere warmer for four months, are a hoot. And then there's Harvey, older than any of the boats around here and as grumpy as an old gearbox. He cackles at other people's misfortunes, the miserable matelot. But there's probably some good timber under the peeling exterior.

There are others who we haven't met yet, though we see them and are on nodding terms. They are the ones who don't come to the regular Friday night drinks and pizzas at Le Nautic, a local bar operated by the hard-working and very amicable Fabrice and Cecille. It's here at the end of the waiting week that many of the port's non-marinating mariners form a flotilla of friendship, a marina of merriment, or a bucket of bilgewater (depending who you're talking to). Social it is, but it's also a very useful occasion as you find yourself surrounded by significant experience (some of it literally in-depth) - people who have lived and breathed boating for years, sometimes decades. There's nothing they don't know, and certainly in John's case he knows it all in French as well. The pizzas are good too - the best we've found in France to date.

So Friday nights are spent splicing the mainbrace. This motley crew does however get together for other occasions, such as organised walks, lunches, dog walking, and so forth - and there's a Christmas party coming up. In fact, as with our initial port of St Jean de Losne, there is a regular VHF radio link-up for the port's boating community, at 0930 on specified days on channel 77. During this you learn about the weather forecast, exchange rates of various currencies, social events, there's a call for anyone who has an emergency of any sort or needs help, you can ask for or offer a ride somewhere... it's great. None of the net controllers will ever get an Excellence in Broadcasting Award, but that's not the issue. It's a point of contact - like the Friday night flotilla - that makes you feel part of a community.

Interestingly, one thing shines through from the Friday night gatherings - and from meeting boating people in general - something that's totally different from the usual social events we're used to in New Zealand, and that is that nobody asks what you do (or did) for a living. Nobody. Everyone seems to be concerned only with boats, and messing about in them. This pleases Liz in particular as mentioning you're a policy analyst is usually a conversation stopper.

So it's what you might call a buoyant atmosphere, and one we look forward to marinating in over winter.