A woman eclusier on Samedi had told us the weather forecast for Dimanche was very good. We'd been having a brief conversation about how bad the wind had been, both shaking our heads in collective Euro-despair. And she wasn't wrong. Sunday morning dawned bright and sunny, warm - and blissfully calm.

We topped up water and power, and dropped Liberty's top in anticipation both of nice weather and more low bridges (and power lines... the lowth of some of these has taken us by surprise).

By 9.30 we were on our way, winding our way along the Midi with the new green of spring growth everywhere and the sun on our backs. It lifted our moods significantly, and we grinned from ear to ear. This was the Canal du Midi as it's supposed to be - the Midi that authors, broadcasters and travel writers rave about. The Midi of Romance.

Liz checked the book and decided a good day's cruising would get us to Trebes, a meandering journey involving quite a few locks, some of them multiples of twos and threes, the usual bridges, and a few villages. It was a perfect day, during which we shared many of the locks with a hire boat crewed by one jolly Frenchman and his crew of six women who scuttled about the quay not knowing how to manage the ropes while he was in charge of not knowing how to steer the boat and banging his way in and out of the lock gates. Heaven knows what the insurance premium is on those hire boats.

In each case we let him and his matelots enter the lock first - partly for entertainment and partly for safety - and only when they were tied up did we cruise in and - a matter of pride on my part - use minimal or even no thrusters to moor alongside. Liz and I have honed our rope skills now and we know what we're doing, so our tie-ups looked professional by comparison. (Mind you, a two-year-old with a toy boat in the bath would look professional by comparison)

The Frenchman even applauded us as we glided (glad?) alongside, which made up for our own disastrous crashing and banging in the staircase locks at Fonserannes exactly a week ago. We've come a long way since then, in experience if not distance.

So it was nice to be on the up after a seemingly interminable period of gloom. The things that had affected our mood barometers the most in the previous couple of weeks had been the almost constant grey skies, cool temperatures and wind, ever since we left Beaucaire. We had been lulled into a false sense of spring and security at Beaucaire, where more often than not the sun shone. There, bars and restaurants were beginning to spruce up their outdoor areas ready for more al fresco business. A nearby restaurant boat, which had lain dormant since we arrived back in November, suddenly reopened, its tables glaring with crisp white linen. We saw the owner on his knees painting the boat's planters along the quayside, or possibly praying for business.

So when we sailed out of Beaucaire it was with hope in our hearts, a firm belief that primtemps had arrived and the canals were emerging from hibernation, that the sun would shine more, it would be warmer, and we could dig out the T-shirts and sunblock.

Wrong. As we made our way through the Camargue there was very little sun, and it wasn't warm. The day we reached the Etang de Thau to cross over to the start of the Canal du Midi we had blue skies and sun - but it must have been a fluke, because once on the Midi we were back to grey - the clouds stretching unbroken from horizon to horizon every day, our moods as gloomy.

On a bright note, we did manage to sail a full seven days before needing to plug into shore power, or top up with water, but even at Colombiers the little port was only in the early stages if waking up after winter, the Office du Tourisme finally opening but on restricted hours, the Capitanerie also seeming reluctant to function, rather like many of us feel waking up on a Monday morning after a great weekend, only knowing we have to go to a job we don't like.

We passed canal-side bars and restaurants, their chairs stacked, their canvas awnings still furled. Blackboards, still dirty from winter non-use, promised food, drink, tapas, and tastings... but not yet. It is still too early, still too cold, too grey.

Liz found it particularly hard.

There were a few boats braving the elements along with us, but not many. As we cruised further west each day, and March became April, we wondered when the weather would begin to pick up, but instead the clouds got heavier, the wind strengthened, and when we reached a little place called Roubia it began raining. All night it teemed down. In the morning it stopped, but the wind picked up even more, as if to say, Hah, fooled you.

We took a stroll into the town because the guide book promised a grocery store with wifi, but found nothing. The local wine caves were closed, the whole town seemed deserted, as though invaded by body-snatchers. A lone dog took pity on us and came for a walk, but failed to guide us to any signs of life. He left us when we proved too dull. Later, the sun made a brave effort to pierce the clouds but it was still windy and cold.

Back at the boat we turned the heating on. It failed. Again.

Next morning dawned grey and very windy. We did some washing, read books and the newspaper from last weekend, and waited for the wind to abate. It didn't, but the day brightened considerably, and since we had decided to go less than five kilometres to Argens-Minervois we decided to risk it. The two bridges proved easy, the one lock a bit tricky in the wind, but when we got to what we thought was a public marina at Argens-Minervois we found it full of hire boats belonging to the Locaboat company there, with seemingly no room for us, and also the tiniest and trickiest marina entrance to date.

We aborted our one attempt to enter, and instead moored on the canal further along. At which point Liz declared she'd had enough. Of everything. The lack of good internet access, limited phone coverage, not being in the UK to help Yasmin at half-terms and other breaks, the wind, worrying about bridges and locks, the endless grey skies...

I knew how she felt. This wasn't what we signed up for, and as the saying goes, when the going gets tough it's time to go home. So, I gave Liz the option of going back to the UK for a month or so, maybe she could find us an apartment to buy. Maybe she could fly back out in May, when - please God - the weather would be improved. Or maybe she would decide not to come back at all.

(This would have been a great cliffhanger point at which to finish this blog, but Internet access is limited and you might have had to wait weeks to find out what happened. So let's continue...)

We went for a walk around Argens-Minervois. Dogs snarled at us from behind fences. One, on the loose, charged up a street amd snapped around our heels. Only the local cats seemed pleased we were there.

But again, another ghost town. No shops, closed restaurants (three), nothing happening. No obvious way up to the old 14th century chateau on the hill either. It didn't help our moods, though at least the sun was shining.

We decided there was nothing to do but press on. Liz said going back to the UK wasn't really an option for her (I was relieved), but we both knew that if things didn't improve weather-wise soon we would have to think of Plan B.

As it happened, we woke next day at last to sunshine and blue skies. However, although the wind was less, it was still challenging, requiring use of the boat's bow and stern thrusters as we came into various locks and tried to manoeuvre daintily. This sort of thing involves me managing the boat's wheel, forward-and-reverse throttle and thrusters while poor Liz runs back and forward on the edge of the lock trying to tie ropes to bollards. I would happily swap places but she says she is not confident enough yet to manage the boat. It looks like pure chauvenism, but what can you do?

Perhaps luckily for us there was a hire boat ahead which was just far enough in advance that it was entering the locks before we could get there. Liz, who had walked ahead to make sure the eclusier (lock keeper) knew we were there reported back that the hire boatees were all over the show, which made us feel a lot better.

In fact, despite the wind, we did quite well, and we got the impression that the lock keepers were relieved a) that we weren't a hire boat and b) we at least seemed to know what we were doing (even if we didn't!).

At the last lock of the day the eclusier had a small stall selling local products, from wine and pot-pourris to preserves and even captains' hats. We bought some sparkling wine and jam to celebrate the sunshine.

At the village of La Redorte we encountered the town's banana-shaped (croissant-shaped is probably more appropriate) quay and moored up. It was a nice location, but with very few bollards for mooring - not sure why; you would think they'd see the benefit in having boat people stop over. Take us for example... within an hour of mooring we'd walked along to the local supermarket and bought €50-worth of groceries, and stopped at a "patisserie orientale" caravan on the way back, where the patron treated us to two glasses of sweet tea while we perused his goods. We settled on two dessert-thingies, which he then proceeded to douse in syrup before putting them in a box. I said to Liz, "Tonight we dine in hell!"

We actually slept in hell... I still don't know if it was the chilli con carne or the syrup-drenched desserts that did it, but all night long I felt like I had two stomachs, one lying heavily on top of the other. Bloated wasn't the word. Actually, yes it was. As I said to Liz romantically the next morning, I am the wind beneath your sheets.

But we woke to a calm day, warm, cloudless, and sunny. After a visit to the boat's head I announced to Liz there would be no more wind, from me or France.

She smiled and said, "Either way is fine with me!"