Sorry, but I haven't finished writing about my birthday yet, and turning sexty. My prerogative, so sit back, relax and we can get this all over and done with in no time.

It all began in the early hours of June 8, 1954. (No, just kidding! Please read on...)

Liz and I waved farewell to Marseillan and crossed the Etang de Thau in cloudy-bright and windy conditions, but this time head-on to the wind and waves. It was actually a very pleasant voyage; on our left we passed the Etang's oyster farms - which basically look like rows and rows of semi-submerged soccer goals - and allmost exactly two hours later entered to the Rhone a Sete Canal, by which time the sun had come out and it was warming up considerably.

We carried on to Maguelone and greenbanked for the night, a nice evening. Liz had been desperate to get the definitve seagull photo and had been clicking away, plus she also wanted flamingoes flying in formation, but they've always been too distant. Flamingoes seem to have a knack of staying just out of reach, unless you're a National Geographic photographer with a huge lens, and an equally huge bonus afterwards for getting the definitive yellow-bordered cover shot.

Liz did finally shoot a seagull, and managed to get a distant flamingo stretching its incredibly pink wings, but the formation fly-past tick-box remains empty. She tried, but... flamingone.

We set off next morning, Saturday, quickly remembering why we'd disliked the R a S Canal so much the first time... it's just dull; flat landscape, no trees, big sky, exposed. Dull. But the nicer weather helped, and we got to the pretty walled-town of Aigues-Mortes and found the mooring for the Canal Hotel, where we were booked in for my birthday weekend.

The woman on reception was excellent, and for the first time in France I understood almost everything she said. We even joked. She was recommending a local restaurant that served regional dishes, and, thinking of the Camargue's famous white horses, I said, "Quoi? Cheval?"

She said I would be killed if I said that out loud in Aigues-Mortes.

The room was small but modern and clean, and the piscine was a welcome bonus, because with the temperature up around 30 degrees a swim was definitely in order.

With the hotel having its own mooring, Liberty was literally parked outside... we could see her from the terrace of our room and from the swimming pool.

Then, a treat for both of us: a visit to the local military surplus store, which we'd discovered during our first visit here last December. A huge store, with everything from M*A*S*H tents and camouflage netting to parachutes and folding shovels. Even porn DVDs, which, for some bizarre reason, were lumped in with the nautical hardware. We assumed the titles would therefore be nautically-themed... Avast Behinds, First Mate (Vol III), Docking Manouevres of Deutschland (Vol I), or maybe Stern Thrusters of Belgium. Disappointingly the DVDs were just what you'd expect, and there was nothing in the selection to expand our knowledge, either of cruisng or boat-rocking.

Not finding a parachute in my colour, we instead walked into the old walled town for a lazy beer at an outdoor cafe in the hot sun, before going to Banares, one of the few Indian restaurants we've seen anywhere in France. The owner spoke excellent English, and we told him that Indian cuisine was very popular in New Zealand. He said, 'It is popular here too. For example, apart from Banares, there is another Indian restaurant 25 kilometres away, and another one 50 kilometres from here...'

Right. He was joking. The next nearest was probably 100 kms distant. Anyway, his food was superb. What a treat to have curry again.

Next day, my actual birthday - and the first one I've had in the northern hemisphere and in summer for over 40 years - started with Liz and I sharing a bottle of Moet... which doubled for breakfast as we were too lazy to go downstairs for the hotel's breakfast and there wasn't any room service. No matter; Champagne trumps croissants any day. And even though there was no fridge in the room, we'd left the Champers chilling in Liberty's fridge. Liz went and got it, plus ice bucket and flutes. Perfect. (Except neither of us can play the flute...)

We then caught the train to Grau du Roi, a huge journey of seven minutes, costing just one Euro each. It was gloriously sunny and warm, unlike the day last December when we cycled there into the teeth of an onshore wind. This was much easier!

And, unlike last December, the Mediterranean fishing port was now alive and kicking... lots of people, and all the cafes and restaurants open for business. We chose a canalside restaurant called Le 19, and I had a local fish dish while Liz had a seafood salad, both delish.

The canal was busy, with fishing boats, jet skis, hire boats, etc... plenty to look at.

After lunch we strolled down to the beach and took a a photo in the same spot as last December, except this time in shorts and T-shirt... much better.

We lay on the sand, I went for a couple of swims, Liz paddled, we people-watched, and generally lazed away the afternoon. We caught the train back late afternoon and later - sorry, this is turning into a culinary-fest! - went out for my birthday dinner to Boem, a restaurant with buckets of ambience, only a few steps from the hotel. ('Garcon! Another bucket of ambience, s'il vous plait!')

With no horse on the menu we both had boeuf, cooked 'a point', and it was absolutely lovely. A gorgeously balmy evening, and the restaurant had a major indoor-outdoor flow thing going on, with a nice variety of seating, from comfy couches to more formal dining tables. Candles glowed, a water fountain played, a cat with a bandana slept curled up on a couch. Perfect. But the celebration, it turned out, wasn't over yet.

Next morning we set off on Liberty at a leisurely pace, slightly lower in the water due to the weight we'd put on, looking forward to reaching the end of the Canal Rhone a Sete. We reached Gallician and moored up, with the aim of going to fill up our five-litre plastic jerry cans with wine at the local Cave Cooperative (€1.20 per litre!) only to find that it was a public holiday and everything was shut. Oh well.

After a lunch break of an hour or so we set off again towards the St Gilles lock where we aimed to stop for the night, only to discover the lovely lines of Sally Beth moored alongside the canal with Jim and Sandra having a BBQ with Patrick and Marina and others. It was a serendipitous reunion with these valued friends from Beaucaire where we'd spent the winter, as we had been looking out for them along the way, knowing Jim amd Sandra had planned on getting their boat taken out of the water for painting at Grau du Roi.

However, their plans had been thwarted, and here they were, waiting until it was opportune to find some other boat yard. It was another glorious day and we joined the throng under sun umbrellas on the canal bank for the rest of the afternoon and evening, swapping stories, catching up, strangling the Fench language and drinking far too much wine.

Magnifique. And then the Maritime Police boarded us with guns on hips.

Liz and I had gone early into Gallician next morning and filled up with wine, then we'd bid (bad?) farewell to Jim and Sandra, and headed to the St Gilles lock. This is a pinch-point for the VNF - the French Waterways Authority - and sure enough this time they had us trapped. Two of the Maritime Police took great interest in us as soon as we tied up in the lock, and one came aboard (after ascertaining the boat was French-registered) to inspect our safety gear and fire extinguishers, and documentation. Bizarrely, because the extinguishers didn't have an expiry date on them, the officer technically couldn't fail them (which was a relief, as they're probably five years old or more).The life jackets passed scrutiny, and he even believed me when I said our boating qualifications were in Angleterre (Oops!). So we were waved on and passed through the lock without incident.

We couldn't help wondering why they were armed though. I mean, how can you run from the maritime cops when your boat probably can't go any faster than 14 kilometres an hour? They'd be able to jog alongside on the towpath, and could certainly overtake you in their high-powered rubber inflatable (which actually had the standard red and blue light bar on too!). They would even have time to send a postcard to the next police station so the local cops could stop you further down the canal. No, they may have believed it, but really these guys were never going to be Hawaii Five-Eau.

And so, fiinally, we were shot of the Canal Rhone a Sete, its wetland dullness, its shy blurred flamingoes and its overly-armed marine gendarmes. We exited the St Gilles lock, turned left onto the Petit Rhone in hot sunshine and began our journey back north, knowing we would be unlikely to ever sail the Midi or Garonne again, and certainly not the Rhone a Sete.

Ahead of us lay the challenge of tackling the backbone river of France - the Rhone, this time against the current, as we headed for the unexplored - at least for us - canals of central France. As we cruised first along the Petit Rhone, we listened for the sirens of pursuing Maritime Gendarmes, and got ready to duck the hail of bullets, because - shhh - we don't actually have any boating qualifications...