I am alone on Liberty for 12 days.

Not adrift, with no sign of land or anything like that. I'm not having to drink my own urine (at least not yet). It's just that Liz has gone back to the UK for half-term, to lend some moral support to daughter Yasmin who is half-way through her A-levels and finding it a bit stressful.

Meanwhile, Liberty is moored in the pleasant port of Marseillan, on the south coast of France. If you stand on the top deck on tip-toe you can almost see the Mediterranean across the coastal lake called the Etang du Thau.

We crossed the Etang the first time back in late March when we were heading west to join the Canal du Midi. Then it was a blue-sky day with a slight breeze, plenty of sun, and we thoroughly enjoyed the approximately hour-and-a-half crossing, opening Liberty's throttle more than we could on the canals, and revelling in how distant the land seemed on all sides. It was like being at sea, but without the risks of icebergs or Perfect Storms.

But last week, when we finally came off the Midi and back onto the Etang for the relatively short 20-minute journey to Marseillan, it was after a thunderstorm; the sky was still leaden grey, and the wind was fierce. In fact, it was probably at the point where we shouldn't have entered the Etang, and was whipping up waves and whitecaps, and coming straight off the Med. What's with this hallowed 'Mediterranean Climate' thing? I don't get it.

Anyway, Liberty corkscrewed her way across, being side-on to the waves. I hummed the theme to Gilligan's Island. I know the respected technique is always to cruise into the oncoming waves, and then choose your moment to turn about and have them behind you, as required (at least I think that's how it works). But Marseillan was within easy reach and we decided to suffer the swell and get the journey over with as quickly as possible, so we stuck with the corkscrewing. Not the sort we are used to either.

Liz was scared, definitely. I was worried a bit too, but only because the boat was moving around more than she'd ever done since we bought her, though I never felt like she would capsize or that we were in any real danger. That's the beauty of naivety.

The fact that I'm writing this now tells you we made it okay, but it was a great relief to arrive in the small port, and find fellow-boating friends Richard and Sophie waving madly from the quayside to indicate where we could moor. We executed an elegant turn mid-harbour, which belied our previous 20-minutes of terror, and with Richard and Sophie's help moored conveniently right outside a cafe, into which we all repaired for a celebratory tot.

Two days later and Liz is off to Nimes to catch her flight to the north of England, which is where she is now. We both have a long list of things to do. Top of her list is: 'Buy an Apartment', while mine begins with: 'Fix the loose nuts on propeller shaft flange'. I think I get the easier of the tasks.

Marseillan is proving to be a nice stopover. It's a well-off town, full of restaurants and cafes all specialising in seafood, and the marina is clean and well-kept. Meanwhile Liz is in Liverpool. Hmm.

Though having said that, this is a cosmopolitan place, with lots of English. As I sit on the boat - sorry, as I slave away trying to undo the flange nuts - the voices that go by range from, 'I say, look at that absolutely spiffing old yacht', to 'Blimey, fink wot that'd cost yer!'

Though the binman did stop this morning and tell me in French that Liberty was a nice boat, so it's not all Brits. My problem in communicating in French is that I can say more than I understand, which of course confuses the French; they assume that because they can understand me, I can understand them. Wrong. Pas vraiment.

This is where Liz and I form a perfect unit when we are out together; she understands French much better than I do, so as long as we're together we survive quite well. But I am Lost in Translation at the moment, and the end of half-term can't come soon enough.

But now I have to go to the bricolage - the DIY store - and negotiate the purchase of a pressure relief valve for the boat's boiler. On my own, without Liz.

Wish me luck.