Been a while since the last blog, so time for a progress report, because it seems like we've come a long way since then. Cause for celebration? Not really. In fact it's something of an illusion, due partly to there being so many different canals where we are in France at the moment.

If you look at a map of the French inland waterways, south-east of Paris you'll see a spiderweb of canals and rivers, comprising the Haute Seine, the Petite Seine, the Yonne, the Canal du Loing, Canal de Briare, Canal de Bourgogne, Canal du Nivernais and the Canal Latéral a la Loire. I know, your eyes are glazing over, but we are spoilt for choice. Previously, down south on the Midi and the Garonne canals - which join end-to-end - we were forced to travel along following our noses - the opportunities for diversions were few. Here though we can turn left or right, north or south, and if we wanted to we could head off to conquer Germany, Belgium or Holland. The more adventurous can even reach the Black Sea.

However, our plans aren't that ambitious, at least not this year, and we are resolved to continue in France until the end of this cruising season. But because the waterway network is so concentrated here, we have, in just a few weeks, been on multiple canals and rivers and just last week turned right onto the Haute Seine which flows towards Paris and becomes the famous Seine that poerces the heart of the world's most romantic city. (Discuss)

On the way we stopped at Montargis on the Canal de Briare over a long weekend during which France ground to a halt to celebrate the 14th of July, Bastille Day. We'd been tipped-off by an English boating couple that the Bastille Day celebrations were more likely to be held on Sunday the 13th than the Monday, even though it was a national holiday. 'The Monday,' they informed us, 'is reserved for recovering from the hangovers.' Sounds sensible, we thought. We like the French way of thinking.

Our friend Shaun was still with us from the UK, but it had been cloudy, showery, cool and at times just downright gloomy the whole week he'd been here. We felt sorry for him, and somehow responsible, especially since before he arrived the temperatures had been up in the 30s and I'd been cruising in my Speedos. (OK, I know, too much information...)

Bastille weekend's forecast was no better... rain, rain and more rain. And the meteorologists had got it right; it was dreadful. We felt sorry for the French too because it looked like it literally was going to rain on their parade. In Montargis there were notices outlining the festivities, which included a parade through town, a dance (outdoors), and fireworks. Oh dear.

All the festivities were scheduled for the evening, starting at 8.30 so we wiled away the afternoon, dozing, reading, counting raindrops on the windows, and generally willing the weather to clear up. We were Les Miserables.

Amazingly the weather did change, almost on the dot of 8.30. The rain stopped, possibly because there was no more moisture left in the clouds, but the sky remained leaden and threatening.

Nevrtheless we donned jackets and headed into town, by which time we'd missed the parade, which must have been short as it was all over by 9pm. It looked to us like it was all organised around the pompiers - the fire brigade - who took the opportunity to show off their extensive range of rescue vehicles, and to recruit more volunteers. There were junior pompiers wearing black uniforms and shiny chrome fire-fighting helmets, and more senior personnel posing for photos with the Sweet Young Things of Montargis. Despite the skies everyone seemed in a good mood.

We found a tent set up in a small park off to one side with an eclectic mix of people milling around holding wineglasses. Always on the lookout for a free drink we veered in, since ther was nobody asking for tickets or an entrance fee, and were rewarded with glasses of plonk, one of which was a fizzy red. Around us there were older men in burgundy berets, many wearing medals. There were some contemporary pompiers, some of the juniors in their uniforms and helmets, and a range of other people of indeterminate origin, like ourselves. Maybe they were gatecrashers too, but in our defence Shaun is an ex-Merseyside Fire Officer and even has a medal awarded him by Her Majesty the Queen, so we felt a kinship to some degree, and refilled with more wine.

Catering staff came round with nibbles - seemed rude to refuse - and we enjoyed the atmosphere for forty minutes or so before slipping away. Unfortunately we never found out what event we'd gatecrashed, but nobody questioned us or seemed to mind. Maybe it was all in the spirit of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity. I'll drink to that.

The rain held off, it got dark so we couldn't see the clouds, it remained mild and we walked around the closed-off streets along with the rest of the Montargisian avoiding puddles. We ended up in the main square and decided to eat out, so chose a table outside a cafe, and spent an excellent and convivial couple of hours, much of it talking to an Australian couple - John and Faye - who seemed desperate to speak English to someone.

It turned out we couldn't have chosen a better spot to eat because at 11.30 the fireworks started at the chateau directly opposite the square, and we had ringside seats. Ex-Fire Officer Shaun ordered his own pyrotechnic dessert, a Crepe Suzette, which the waitress obligingly set fire to at the table. She looked a bit nervous doing it so I told her he was an ex-Pompier and there was no need for worry. Not so much a distinguished guest as an extinguished one.

After the fireworks, the dance started, and again we were in the right place as the dancefloor had been positioned in the square. Locals streamed onto it as the live band played cover versions of hits, sadly including 'YMCA'. We wondered how it would sound sung in French... 'Ygrec Em Say Aah, c'est bien rester au Ygrec Em Say Aah-aah...'

Doesn't scan well. Luckily they sang in English.

We eschewed the dancefloor - Shaun says he only does 'Dad Dancing' and always gets laughed at - and retired to the boat for nightcaps of port, whisky, and cigars. Liz had decorated the boat in honour of France's National Day, with string lights, some Kiwi silver fern bunting, various national flags we found in board, and balloons of red, white and blue. We were the only boat on the moorings to make an effort.

Next day Shaun left to drive back to the UK. The sun came out, it was warm, the temperature soared. Worse, he got back to an England that had been baking in scorching heat the whole time he'd been in France.

Nothing to celebrate for him, sadly. Though while he was here we did experience liberty, equality and fraternity in the sense that the rain fell liberally, equally on all of us, and as a result we bonded together on the boat. Vive La France.