Il pleut. Il pleut again tomorrow and the next day. And for six days after that. There's a boat here in the boatyard that resembles an ark, which might not be a bad thing, given the amount of rain France has had in recent weeks and a dismal forecast promising more misery.

And all this coinciding with our arrival back in Migennes to work on Liberty to try and get her ready for the Return to the Water. If this rain keeps up she'll soon be afloat whether she's ready or not.

It's been in the news of course: the Seine in Paris recently reached its highest levels in thirty years or so, with art galley and museum staff furiously working to move precious exhibits to higher ground in case the river burst its banks and gave a whole new meaning to the word watercolours.

We had been wondering how the Yonne River at Migennes had been affected by all the rain; it hadn't made any headlines but it's where Liberty lives, and although she's high and dry, propped up well away from the river's edge, we'd heard stories of how the river had risen hugely in 2001, to the point where it not only picked up some boats and swept them away, but also delivered some replacements, leaving them stranded in the boatyard when the waters receded, and redefining the term 'boat swap.'

As it turns out, the Yonne is indeed high and flowing swiftly, but has already dropped from its peak of a week ago when it slightly overtopped in places. 'The water came over the banks and in through the workshop under the roller-door,' Simon Evans the boatyard owner told me. 'We only lost one boat, but that's because the owner hadn't tied her up properly,' he added wryly.

I explained we'd returned to work on Liberty in the hope of getting her back in the water in a couple of weeks. Simon scratched his big beard and looked dubious. 'Two weeks? Well, the river's closed right now, so you couldn't put her back in even if you wanted to!'

Actually, we wouldn't want to, even if she was ready; the river looks far too dangerous, its green waters surging past the boatyard in a hurrying 'can't stop, places to be' type of way. 'Must get to Paris and damage some artworks.'

Simon said the river level had dropped since the previous week but wasn't dropping any further, and with rain forecast for the next eight days we at least won't feel like we're missing out on prime cruising weather. On the other hand, it's going to be challenging because a lot of the work that needs doing on the boat is external... scraping, sanding, filling, more sanding, painting, cleaning, and so on... not just unpleasant in the rain but impractical too.

Anyway, the good news is that we found Liberty untouched and as I'd left her on my last visit the previous October. I walked slowly around her; not too bad really... a generally unkempt appearance, some dirtiness and a need for a good scrubbing down, about what you'd expect given the neglect. The boat wasn't too bad either.

Since then we've spent almost every waking hour cleaning, sanding, priming and almost every other '-ing' you can do to a boat that's been out of the water for twenty months or so, and it feels good to have made some progress, despite having to dodge showers.

The boatyard here still resembles a Japanese port following a tsunami, as I described in Against The Current, with boats scattered seemingly randomly as though washed in by the waves. Many are under tarpaulins, awaiting their owners' return, but three or four have occupants aboard.

Not many of these folk seem overly keen to chat or pass the time of day, which is in stark contrast with when we were here to get our boat hauled out of the water in late September 2014. Then the yard was full of people all doing the same, staying on as we did for a few days prepping their boats for the coming winter. With them we played boules, drank wine, and swapped boating stories a-plenty... but not this time.

And this evening I realised why: none of those who are here now want to be here; either their boat's broken down, or it's been fixed but they can't go anywhere because of the river being closed. None of them is here by choice, so we now understand why there may be a certain reluctance to mix'n'mingle with jollity and bonhomie. Pity, because we like hearing other people's sailing stories. (And, more to the point, we've got a book to sell, dammit!)

The jury is still out on whether it was King Louis V or Madame Pompadour who said, 'Apres moi le deluge,' which was actually more in reference to coming unrest than the weather, but given the forecast we think we can say the deluge is definitely here and now, 'Pendant nous le deluge' - and if it keeps up like this we'll be as grumpy as the rest of them.

Maybe we'll go and take a second look at that ark...