The waterways bible warned us that St Gilles was 'generally rather drab', so our expectations weren't high.

They weren't helped either by the canalside life we saw as we approached the town. Until now, our experience of riverside life had been, well, quite nice really... on the Rhone this meant seeing the occasional chateau, ruined tower or castle, and of course dedicated fishermen who'd set up almost tent villages so they could fish in some comfort. Because of the width of the Rhone these sights were nearly always distant, but on the Canal du Rhone a Sete the waterway is narrow, the vegetation ocassionally claustrophobic as it leans into the sluggish water.

Either side of us were spiky almost ginger-like plants, or a variety of bamboo, along with trees of course, and the odd broad-leafed plants. With that plus the murky brown water there's a definite Amazon feel... not that either of us have ever been there, but you get the picture.

This Amazon environment was enhanced further as we got closer to St Gilles as we saw evidence of what, in South America, would likely be natives eking a subsistence living from clearings in the jungle. Here in deepest southern France, the clearings turned out to be allotments of sorts, some with lush crops of tomatoes or greens, but most with scrappy sheds, and rudimentary fences made from discarded doors or offcuts. There was the occasional rubbish fire, the smoke drifting lazily through the leaves. Had a dug-out canoe left the shore to trade with us we would hardly have been surprised.

And so we scraped into Saint Gilles - literally, as the VHF aerial came in contact with the underside of the town bridge, the lowest we has encountered to date.

The small quay was seemingly full of boats as we idled past hoping to find a space. Surprisingly for a dead-end canal there was even a Le Boat hire place, with all the fibreglass boats lined up, some even showing signs of life as new hirers were shown the ropes by staff.

We had almost started on our way out the other side of town when we finally spotted a gap behind a large private peniche - a former working barge converted for private use - which the owner was working on. Liz asked if it was okay to moor, and he indicated it was, so we tied up.

St Gilles surprised us. Yes, as the guide book said, it was somewhat dull - in fact very down-at-heel - but it had an almost Wild West element to it. This was augmented in no small part by a Tijuana brass band we could hear somewhere close by, playing such classics as Guantanamera. Dogs roamed - not wild, we don't think, but out on their own - and many of the local men had a swarthy, tanned and slightly Mexican look to them. The streets were dull, the houses in need of repair. On many of them the rendering had fallen away exposing the crude stonework underneath.

In the local market, I wasn't surprised to hear a child call out "Amigo!" to someone... it just seemed to fit the scene. Had Clint Eastwood sauntered out of a local bar - of which there were more per square kilometre than Dodge City - nobody would have batted an eyelid; they would just have swapped their cheroots from one side of their mouths to the other, scratched their beards and spat in the dirt. And that would be just the women.

And yet, for all the Western film set qualities, St Gilles isn't lawless. We were on deck, watching three boys aged between 12 and 14 we guessed, emerge from the canal tow path. Two had bikes, one carried a single bike wheel. Next minute a dark blue car revved down the quayside and skidded to a stop on the gravel. The doors flung open and two gendarmes leapt out and made straight for the boys, yelling loudly at them.

We are still not sure what it was all about, but Messieurs St. Arsky and 'Utch were determined to get these young felons off the streets. Fierce questioning from les Flics followed, but equally staunch denial and petulance from the kids, who showed no fear at all. The gendarmes took the bikes and lone wheel and left them against a fence and bundled the suspects into their car, then with much revving of engine and wheel spinning took them away. They were never seen again. Well, not by us.

By the end of the day the two bikes and wheel had also gone, possibly stolen (or re-stolen) by some of Dodge's other dodgy characters.

But on the other hand, nobody murdered us in our sleep or challenged us to a shoot-out at high noon, so we weren't too disappointed. Until the morning, when half an hour before we were due to leave the Capitain from the Capitanerie knocked on our hull demanding €21 for staying. For which we had had no electricity or water supply!

We felt robbed.