We returned from the UK to Saint Mammès to find Liberty still afloat and seemingly undamaged. Apart from the TV having fallen over, and some cups and glasses tumbled about in the cupboards - evidence of the wash generated by boats large and small passing by on the Petite Seine - there was nothing to worry about.

Laurie, the young woman in the Capitanerie office, said she had been concerned a couple of times when she saw how much Liberty was rocked by the boat wakes so she too was releived to discover there was no damage.

We stayed for an extra couple of days in Saint Mammès, and took the opportunity to walk into neighbouring Moret sur Loing, across the Briare canal - a much prettier town than Saint Mammès. Saint M is a bit downmarket, a bit down-at-heel, whereas Moret is charming, with the requisite half-timbered 500 year-old houses, towers, cobbled streets and some lovely parkland bordering the river (see pic). Being a Sunday, people were promenading, or having pique-niques on the grassy banks beside the water, children running around and laughing, and everyone in late-summer good humour. On the river, kayakers paddled about, making the most of the weather.

Back at the mooring we suddenly found ourselves with neighbours - Klaus and June from Britain on one side, and Tony and Sue from New Zealand on the other. We had them all over for drinks in the evening and did the usual swapping of boating stories. Klaus was German but spoke with a broad north-of-England accent, a curious and entertaining blend that was Pythonesque at times. He was very knowledgable - called himself an Old Sea Dog - and loudly proclaimed he had been sailing since the age of nine. Tony, from St Heliers in Auckland, trumped him, having started boating at the tender age of six. This is normal if you come from certain parts of Auckland - you learn to trim sails before you know your five times table.

Either way, their combined total knowledge of boating was useful to us, especially as both couples had recently stayed in Paris, which is where we wanted to end our year's adventure if at all possible. And possible it was, they insisted. Despite our having been told by the Arsenal Marina in Paris that there were no spaces available, Klaus and Tony asserted that all we had to do was turn up anyway and the Capitanerie would find us a mooring, even if it meant rafting up against another boat. Liz and I decided there and then that Paris it would be, and we resolved to set off the following morning.

Meanwhile though, much wine and beer was consumed, and boating knowledge imparted. Fate perhaps, because if we hadn't got the encouragement we did we'd planned instead of Paris to go up the Petite Seine to a place called Bray, which had been recommended to us by another boatie, and which sounded lovely. But who could resist Paris, romantic Paris, as a final chapter? Not us. We needed a good ending to the year.

The next morning Liz and I did our pre-voyage checks and Liberty's engine started first time. We farewelled our neighbours, promising to keep in touch, and by mid-morning we cruised out of the marina and turned left down the Haute Seine in the direction of The French capital.

A Kiwi friend had said it took him about four days to reach Paris from Saint Mammès, but with Liberty's engine being more than twice the size of his, and armed with the more recent wisdom of Klaus, June, Tony and Sue, we estimated it would be only a two-day jaunt, though beginning with a relatively long first day, which at around seven hours, it was.

But the Seine was lovely, the weather kind, and the trees on the river banks were only just beginning to realise that autumn was upon them, turning embarrassed blushes of pale oranges and yellows, knowing that winter nakedness would soon be upon them, though for the most part the leaves were still green. With the sun shining brightly at times our hopes of an Indian summer looked like being fulfilled. We even saw a topless woman sunbathing on the river bank at one point. Liz told me to stop staring, which I thought was a little unfair as these were likely to be the last bare breasts of the season. The woman probably had no idea how important a role she was playing, and I felt it my duty to at least provide an appreciative audience.

Other impressive sights on the banks included some fabulous homes, mini-chateaux almost, with turrets and towers, steeply-sloping slate roofs, patterned brickwork... many looked like doll's houses. Most had manicured lawns sloping down to the water, with their own private moorings, though we saw few boats. We wondered if we just bobbed up to one whether the owners would take kindly to a request for an overnight mooring, but we decided not to push entente cordiale too far.

Klaus had written us a detailed itinerary of the route to Paris but despite his instructions we failed to find his recommended mooring, and fetched up close to a lock called Evry and moored beside a sports field and complex. It wasn't a marina, just a concrete quayside with no security, so we were a little concerned, especially by the number of people walking and driving by. In talking with Tony and Klaus the previous evening we'd heard some horrific tales, including one about a couple whose boat was stolen, and then held to ransom. Obviously they weren't on board at the time, and they did manage to get it back without having to pay, but it unnerved us. Most boats can easily be released from their moorings by untying or cutting the mooring ropes, after which the boat can be cast adrift at the mercy of the current. With luck the boat might just run gently aground in shallow water, but where we had moored, just upstream from the lock there was also a weir, and our concern was that if someone did release the boat in the night we might not know about it until Liberty was washed over the weir, tumbling three metres or so over the edge and possibly capsizing with us on board. Not the best scenario to have playing in your mind as you try to get to sleep.

We discussed how to minimise the risk, and Liz came up with the solution. 'Drop the anchor,' she suggested. Brilliant! So we did, in the hope that if the ropes were stealthily cut in the nigt and the boat was swept into the current the anchor would dig into the river bed and stop us from drifting helplessly and going over the weir.

It gave us some peace of mind, and so we drifted... off to sleep.