Every now and then, while tootling throughout France on a boat, you come across something fascinating. Well, almost every day actually.

But since I am stuck in Migennes awaiting some work on Liberty, I have to wait for the fascination to arrive here, to moor up, and become discoverable. I can't go cruising anywhere just yet while I await some electrical diagnostics, so instead I take a daily walk under the railway bridge to the Migennes basin to see what's what who's who.

Most of the boats there are hire boats belonging to the Migennes branch of Le Boat, but there are usually five or six private boats tied up along the quai, varying in size from 10 metres to 38 metres, and from all over Europe. Often the crews are absent, presumably off at the supermarket, or exploring the district, but if you time it right you can usually find a crew member or two to talk to.

And so it was this evening. I was strolling along the waterside checking out new arrivals, when I noticed one new arrival's crew member leap ashore... wearing a life jacket. This was taking health and safety slightly too seriously I thought, as I watched him cross the communal area and then flop to the ground in the shade of a tree. I couldn't blame him - it was over 30 degrees - but he still kept his life jacket on.

I spotted another crew member on board the boat he'd come from, the Izula, a long long Dutch barge or 'Luxemotor' as they're called after being converted from their former workhorse roles. I asked the matelot - who turned out to be Maryanne from Australia - if I could take a picture of the life jacket-wearing ginger bloke under the tree, and she said to go ahead. 'His name's Gordon,' she advised.

But before I could sneak over, Gordon had already got bored and decided to return to the boat, so I quickly snapped him just a second or two before he leapt back on board, the way only cats can do.

Gordon wasn't the first boat cat I'd seen at Migennes; when Liz and I finally arrived here in September two years ago at the end of our year-long adventure afloat, we met the Lady Patrice, whose owner John from the boat Puddlestone would take her for walks on a lead. 'You can't trust the dogs round here,' he told us at the time.

But Gordon was obviously made of sterner stuff, as was his brother George whom I met a little while later after being invited aboard by Maryanne. She introduced me also to the owner and skipper John, from England, who had owned the boat for just two years.

'She's got an interesting history,' he said. 'She was built in Holland in 1928, and during the war was commandeered by the Germans, in anticipation of being used in Operation Sea Lion!'

This was the code name the Nazis chose for the invasion of Britain, should Hitler's demands for a peaceful surrender following the fall of France be ignored. However, the Germans were ill-prepared for an onslaught either by air or sea, and the invasion plan was shelved in late 1940, but only after a number of barges had already been commandeered and converted, including Izula.

Her purposes today are far more peaceful, far more feline-friendly. Maryanne found George, also in bright orange flotation aid, and held him up for another snapshot. Jonathan assured me the two ginger cats we well-used to boating, having been trained in his other boat on the Thames. Two boats, two cats, naturally.

After swapping notes on routes through France, trustworthy boatyards, and the Canal de Bourgogne where Izula was heading next, I headed back ashore, unfortunately without the chance to scratch behind the ears of two of the bravest crew members I'd ever met. They'd disappeared below, presumably to await the ship's victuals.

More on Izula: https://sites.google.com/site/travelswithizula/