France, let's face it, is lovely. In lots of ways, but we don't need to count them all here, and anyway you know most of them. On the other hand, there is the other side of France, the underbelly, the downside, the derriere bit. We're talking street people here. Beggars, pickpockets and Greenpeace. They're all after your money. It's unfortunate that beggars are on the increase in New Zealand, when just a few years ago there were none, but in France they've been...

The French language, as you know, uses gender. Things are either male - le - or female - la. We don't always get this right when we try our mangled French language on the poor unsuspecting locals, but nobody seems to mind, and besides, I've become an expert in the art of slurring to the point where (I believe) I could be saying either. As long as I get away with it... Anyway, over the past two weeks we have cruised up the male Rhone, the female Saone, along the ...

Sorry, but I haven't finished writing about my birthday yet, and turning sexty. My prerogative, so sit back, relax and we can get this all over and done with in no time. It all began in the early hours of June 8, 1954. (No, just kidding! Please read on...) Liz and I waved farewell to Marseillan and crossed the Etang de Thau in cloudy-bright and windy conditions, but this time head-on to the wind and waves. It was actually a very pleasant voyage; on our left we ...

The underside of our boat is in fine shape, you'll be pleased to hear. It's really quite clean, there is a propeller and a rudder, and no obvious damage. You will no doubt think that we have either had Liberty out of the water, or sent down a diver, or have been snorkelling ourselves. Actually, none of the above. Read on... As you'll know if you're a dedicated reader of these blogs, while Liz went back to the UK for half term in late May, I stayed on Liberty, mo...

(NOTE: This isn't one of our typical travel blogs, but it is about a journey and arrival, of sorts...) I am on the eve of becoming what in some circles is known as 'A Gentleman of a Certain Age'. I have however always been of a certain age. I knew for certain, for example, when I turned 30, and later 40. I was certain also that I'd turned 50 when I turned 50. So certain in fact that I remember it as though it were ten years ago. Oops. And now I am certain, yet...