Mike and Liz Afloat - at last

Okay, this is going to be a long one as there is just so much to take in, but in true TV promo fashion, here's what's coming up... We take over Liberty, Giorgio Armani expresses his disapproval, a boat begins to sink at its mooring, and Monsieur Gerard shows us his builder's crack. Read on...

Last Friday we arrived in Van Rouge back at the Burgundian inland port of St Jean de Losne at noon, and although we knew Liberty was bobbing at her mooring awaiting our arrival we had another priority... get to the supermarket to buy some celebratory Champagne and lunch, and then go to the boat brokers H20.

We got there minutes before they were due to close for the ubiquitous lunchtime (everything shuts) but Nicholas was expecting us and within minutes we had signed the papers for transfer of ownership of Liberty to us. He handed us the log book, the all important key, and a small brass plaque of France for us to attach on a boat wall somewhere. Plus a compendium and diary to record our voyages (the Captain's Log).

We took our backpack with bubbly and lunch and found Liberty on Pontoon E, among many other pleaure craft, some securely tucked up for winter, others with washing drying in the warm sunshine declaring their owners were still aboard.

We opened up the boat, opened up the champagne and sat on the deck in the warm sun. Within minutes we had met our nearest voisin (neighbour) Erica - German, 60-something, weatherbeaten and with a wheezy laugh - and the Swiss woman opposite from Gobi, Helga, who quicky advised us that she had been on board for at least 20 years, and Erica for 26. They seemed pleased to see us, which was nice. A warm welcome.

Lunch on the aft deck was simple... baguette, ham, salami, cheese, but all the more tasty for the location. Liberty is a cruiser, so the aft deck is also the rear cockpit, and elevated, meaning we have a nice view over the marina.

Then it was time to explore inside. Liberty's owners had left everything - not just the pots, pans, crockery and cleaning stuff, but also all their personal decorator items, many with a nautical theme but nearly all dreadful tat. Liz quickly declared that it was all going, if not overboard then to be given away to other boaties.

We posed for photos in the 'Bond Lounge' as we call it (due to the circular dinette and banquette that looks like it should have a fat villain sitting at the table smoking a cigar and declaring "I've been expecting you Mr Bond...")

Sitting there drinking the rest of the Champagne we examined some of the 'tat' including two vases that had paper stuffed in their tops. When Liz removed the paper we discovered what looked like someone's ashes inside. Aaargh! Were these vases... or funereal urns?! Hopefully not, though I strongly suggested a ceremony on deck and burial at sea.

A quick reconnaisance of the boat revelead that everything was as it had been when we'd first looked at the boat a few weeks back, except that the two bicycles on the bow had disappeared. Something we need to follow up, since the contract specifically says the boat comes complete as is.

Returning to the van we grabbed our suitcases and started to make the boat our home, filling wardrobes and cupboards and shelves.

During a pause I spotted a new boat arriving at the end of the pontoon so decided to demonstrate my nautical spirit and help them moor, for which they seemed grateful. The fact that I wouldn't know a danfort from a binnacle didn't seem to worry them.

Later we discovered we had no running water on board - something else to follow up - but a woman further down the pontoon showed me where the taps were and helped me get de l'eau into a container I'd found on board. Mr Helga (Helga's husband, also Swiss, but at this stage nameless so he shall take her name also) warned agains "the Chlor" in the water. "Sometimes too much chlor," he said, then left to continue wandering up and down the pontoon dispensing advice to anyone who would listen.

Having emptied our suitcases and organised cupboards we decided a French siesta was in order, followed by more champagne on the deck. Well, this is the start if the adventure - worth celebrating!

The cloud increased and the temperature dropped a bit, a reminder that the boating season was drawing to a close and all sensible people should be battening their craft for winter hibernation, not drinking bubbles and beginning an odyssey.

Mid-pontoon a lovely large boat cruised in, flying a Kiwi flag. It moored, and I suddenly remembered the New Zealand flags we'd brought and decided it was time we declared some identity also, so I attached a silver fern to one of the flagpoles, and put an 'NZ' sticker on the stern. The previous owners were Welsh and had left their Welsh flag on the bow, which we've decided to leave for the present since Liz was born in Bridgend in Wales and therefore is technically Welsh even though she was there for only a few months.

Helga and Erica strolled past later, Erica with a dog. I asked her its name and she wheezed "Giorgio..." (another wheezy laugh) "Giorgio Armani!" Gales of laughter (from her).

Down below once more, and time to establish our mariner status... well, one of us at least. I am now officially - though self-declared - Captain Bodnar. There's a story behind this: in short, my father was a sea captain, initially on freighters and latterly skippering oil tankers in the Persian Gulf. He died in 1992, not through any maritime disaster though; as far as I know it was a lifetime of smoking that finally scuppered him.

Anyway, I have with me a captain's hat (a replica, not one of my father's unfortunately), so below decks I got this out and attached a Russian naval badge to it, thoughfully brought back from Moscow last week by my Mersyside mate Shaun. So I am now skipper of Liberty, complete with captain's hat, purely for formal occasions of course.

Next day - Saturday 14 September

Missed a genune drama last night apparently. Helga this morning was complaining aout being woken up about 11.30pm by flashing lights, the police running down the pontoon, and (we think) les pompiers (fire brigade) rushing to save a boat from sinking in the marina.

But before we could find out more, Monsieur Gerard turned up as arranged by the boat brokerage, sur le dot of 9am, and spent the best part of two hours showing us every nook and cranny, every fuse, and every valve on the boat. Nice man, but hardly any English. Between us we muddled through, with lots of sign language, pointing and raised eyebrows, while Liz tried to make notes.

In the process of boat exploration and pulling lids off secret compartments (with M Gerard innocently showing off his 'builder's crack' every time he stuck his head down a hatch) we found all manner of things we had been wondering about, such as the missing Bimini top for the fly bridge, and the elusive bed plank (which converts the upper dinette into a bed), so all good. We also discovered a lonely front basket for one if the bicycles we don't have. Gerard lifted every bit of flooring and even hauled up our bed for access to hidden panels. Bewildering, but at least we know what lies beneath, even if we don't yet know what all the levers and pumps are for.

The upshot of this is that we're now not confident of sailing anywhere for fear of something going wrong. Safer to stay here a bit longer, and maybe wait until more experienced mariner friends of ours (Keith and Hilary) arrive from up north next week so that Keith can give us the benefit of his wisdom.

It transpired that M Gerard lives full time on board his boat, just along from us in the same pontoon. His is the old red one with vegetables growing in pots at the stern. His tomatoes died though, he explained with a look of pain crossing his face... something to do with either a lack of water or the wrong water, we're not sure.

Anyway, so complicated was his tour du bateau and with us exhausted trying to keep up with his technical French we had to have a glass of bubbly (get used to it!) and a lie-down afterwards.

But the sense of community here is deep, and we are enjoying "knowing people" already, and having everyone wish us bonjour or bonsoir (we do the same).

Erica and Helga both did this today, but Giorgio Armani is suspicious of us and barks furiously every time we climb aboard Liberty. He shows none of the class or style his name reflects. I also suspect him of stealing a bath towel I had left to dry over the stern railing, but unfortunately it seems more likely it actually fell off and into the marina. Being a sort of military green colour it must have blended well with the water before sinking to the bottom. I only hope it doesn't wrap around our propeller when we finally venture out!

We went to the supermarche and bought more supplies for the boat. The previous owners have left some cutlery, but curiously only one fork.

Cooked our first proper meal on board in the evening... stir fry Pad Thai chicken. Lovely, and very cosy sitting in the Bond Lounge to eat it. And thanks to M Gerard's poking around we even found the missing circular cushions to turn the dinette seating into a round bed. Excellent, Miss Moneypenny, though where one buys round sheets is anyone's guess.

Liberty day three, 15 Sept

Started raining late yesterday, and heavy at times overnight.

In the marina you get specific boaty sounds... pumps, bow thrusters, diesel engines running, the hollow sound footsteps make on the pontoon as someone walks along... comforting sounds that say life is going on around you.

Glimpsed through boat windows at night are TVs. The lights inside boats at dusk look always cosy, and we now have our own cosiness to enjoy.

Sleeping at night... well, so far we may as well be on land as the boat is wedged in firmly between pontoon and the neighbouring boat (empty), plus being a marina there is little water movement, so, no rocking.

Our 'state room' is cosy, but the close confines of the boat take some getting used to. Banged elbows, knees and heads are common dangers.

Woke to a leaden sky with its knees crossed only just holding on to its water. All quiet in the marina. Sunday morning, Dimanche is a lovely word. In fact French is lovely... it's nice to hear the locals speaking in their sing-song cadence. French to me always sounds like a language of permanent surprise and astonishment, and delight.

You look at other people's boats and gauge their commitment to life afloat according to what they have and how it's presented. Bicycles say they are voyagers who like to explore where they stop. Washing hanging out shouts "we are aboard" more than any flag can. But the flags identify origin, which is handy, but sometimes testsour knowledge of nationality.

Often it seems the tattier the boat the more likely it is to be a live-aboard. Pacific, Erica's barge next door, has seen better days. The wheelhouse is covered with a black plastic tarp. Paint peels. Rust shows through, and on the superstructure there is evidence that someone once started to sand back the paint ready for work, but got no further.

The boats that are tucked up for winter are obvious by the canvas covers fastened over the windows, with everything tucked away, ropes knotted and secure. Items on deck are covered with tarpaulins. Inside you know they have drained their water tanks and pipes against freezing. For the next six months they will sit cocooned until their owners return for next year's boating season.

Mr Helga warned me that even going south we won't escape the cold of winter and We would be advised to stay here, though he goes on to tell me of thick ice on the pontoons... a rare occurrence, he hastens to add. He also warns that the southern marinas will by now all be booked solid and that our only chance of a winter port will be one of the Mediterranean sea ports.

Obviously some challenges await us...