Let's get one thing clear: ducks are stupid.

As we've cruised along the various French rivers and canals since purchasing our 'bateau plaisance' Liberty last September, we've seen all manner of wildlife, from elegant herons and huge rat-like Coypus to sunbathing turtles and the aforementioned IQ-challenged canards. It's been fun, but revealing too.

Take, for example, herons. Usually they stand on high-alert on the canal bank, watching intently for any sort of fish activity in the water, much the same as the overly-spotted French pecheur, or fisherman. As we approach in the boat, the herons finally register our presence, lazily decide at the last minute to take flight, fly gravefully about fifty metres ahead and re-settle on the bank.

They do this about five times before it finally dawns on them that no matter what they do, we will maintain our course and speed, at which point they realise actually it would have been better in the first place to go over or around us, and resettle where they'd been previously. Duh.

Ducks are worse. They sit mid-stream until you almost run them over, and then flap with great drama and occasional quacking to re-position themselves... safely mid-stream about fifty metres ahead. They have obviously been to the Heron School of Strategy, because of course within minutes we are descending upon them again, ten- to twelve-tonnes of boat with little choice but to maintain course and speed. So they yet again up-stumps and fly off, and do exactly the same thing, multiple times. Duh, again.

The other day though a duck made us smile. We had reached the end-point of our journey west along the Canal du Midi and Canal de Garonne Laterale to a place called Castets en Dorthe. Any further and we'd be on the Garonne River, then the Gironde, and all that that entails... tides, 200 wartime sunken wrecks, and - had we continued - the fury of the mighty Atlantic Ocean. It would be a titanic undertaking, possibly in both senses of the word.

So we settled instead for a nice safe stroll along the canal bank to the last lock before Armageddon. Along the way we passed an example of that species, the Much-Spotted Pecheur - or fisherman - lying on his back seemingly fast asleep while his rods took care of themselves. We took a photo, since it seemed to combine those two particular French passions: fishing and lethargy.

What we hadn't realised was the lovely juxtaposition of a random duck in the picture, because when we downloaded it later back on the boat, we could clearly see what looked to be a duck perched on the sleeping pecheur's knee. Check out the image with this blog, and, as mentioned on the recent Facebook post, no it hasn't been Photoshopped!

Pity it wasn't a heron though, since they're the ones also intent on catching fish. Still, it was a nice moment, and one that canardly have been expected.

We've seen two sunbathing turtles - they seem to like hauling themselves out of the water and onto logs poking up above the waterline, to just lie there. We've seen - and even fed bread to - the rat-like (or more kindly small-beaver-like) Coypu, which swims in the canals with its face and long whiskers poking above the water. It's distinguished by two bright orange front teeth.

We've observed the famed Camargue white horses, some with bright white Egrets riding on their backs, and of course on the Midi there's been no shortage of pink flamingoes, usually standing on one leg with their heads tucked under their wings against the Mistral.

Crows, pigeons, kites, kingfishers, two foxes, squirrels, one huge freshly-caught carp, and this week even a swimming deer have all made appearances. The deer episode took us totally by surprise. We were idly cruising along the Garonne canal, heading slowly back towards the Rhone, when ahead we heard - rather than saw - an almighty splash. This was followed by a smallish object swimming across the canal from right to left, which on closer inspection turned out to be the head of a deer.

Liz grabbed the camera while I tried to stop the boat, but trying to zoom in and focus on a smallish swimming object from a rocking platform isn't easy. Meanwhile the deer had reached the other side and scrambled out of the water to reveal itself as Bambi. It was so little! And so cute! Diddums. Unfortunately, it had crossed from the safe side of the canal to the side with the main road on it, and so proceeded to bound alongside the crash barrier looking for a way to get through to cross the road.

Our hearts were in our mouths as we anticipated a grisly end any moment, especially as it was a fast stretch of road. But ultimately we lost track of the deer, and thankfully didn't witness any carnage. I did however start singing the Sex Pistols' 'Who Killed Bambi?'

Perhaps, though, the highlight of the last few days was a creature of the night rather than day: a nightingale. We had friends from the UK aboard at Meihlan sur Garonne, a lovely tree-lined port away from noisy roads or railways. To celebrate this unexpected reunion we had a shared dinner on our aft deck, with hurricane lamps glowing, candles burning, a proper tablecloth with runner... and to make it even more special it was a gorgeously balmy evening, not a breath of wind. Good company, good food, good wine. Perfect.

Just when we thought it couldn't get any better, around the after-dinner port stage at about 11pm, a lone bird began singing in a nearby tree. The sun had long set, the regular avian population had gone bye-byes, but suddenly this choral songster started up, its crystal clear notes echoing among the branches. It was stunningly beautiful to hear. I quickly nipped below and got my Olympus recorder to capture it. (Enough of the product placement - Ed)

We were stunned. And it seemed to be on night shift, as it continued well past our own bedtime. Perhaps it was celebrating its return from Africa after wintering over there. Perhaps it had just enjoyed our witty after-dinner banter. Didn't matter.

But the irony of it all is that we have probably had the most enjoyment from a creature we couldn't see and couldn't photograph. It was, however, perfect.

Ducks and herons, take note.