Sunday morning 6 October and we finally leave Lyon, but not before coming face to face with a race issue.

We awoke to grey skies and a cooler temperature, bit of a breeze, and looked out the stateroom windows to see men tying striped tape all around the Confluence shopping centre, beside the ends of Lovers' Bridge, and all along the other side of the marina. We had heard shouting in the night and wondered if there had been a murder, and we were trapped inside the Crime Scene. Inspector Clouseau could turn up at any moment, wanting to see our "lassonce". Lassonce? "Oui monsieur, the lassonce for your boot."

However, far from being interrogated as to our whereabouts the previous night by Les Flics, it turned out the marina was part of a Lyon marathon, and sure enough, around 10.30am three Ethiopians loped across the bridge to scattered applause. About 10 minutes later one of their colleagues crossed also, and about an hour later so did everyone else.

We ducked the tape and went to the supermarket for some pre-departure supplies (to no applause at all) presuming that by now the Ethiopians were all back home, feet up watching the rest of the race on the telly.

We snuck away from our mooring, hoping that Cockney Michael (pronounced "Markel" as in, "Mah name is Markel Caine") wouldn't emerge from his boat for a last-minute conversation marathon of his own. Markel had arrived three days earlier in a lovely old launch with beautiful lines, but with a faded elegance and very smokey exhausts. He instantly began to tell us his life story, but luckily we were about to head out on the bikes. No really, we were.

Every other boat that arrived from there on, Markel was there to meet and greet, and talk, and talk. You know the sort... well-meaning but incessant. "D'you know, last time I was 'ere, this was all a building site," and, "What you want to do is this, innit?", and, "Just the uvver day I was..." and so on. And on. And on.

So we stole away, but I suspect he would collar someone later in the day... "Unbelievable, but those Kiwis slipped their moorings wivvout sayin' goodbye. D'you know, the last time I left a marina..."

Markel could be one of the reasons the Ethiopians were running so fast.

And so off we went, out onto the last tiny stretch of the Saone, turned left and headed for the Rhone, our highway to the south. No sooner had we left than a giant hotel boat snuck up behind us, so we let it overtake, which gave us a chance to view some of Lyon's newest architectural wonders on the left bank. The whole confluence area is under development and some of the building is avant garde in the extreme. This is going to be a must-see area of Lyon in about a year from now.

Meanwhile, said hotel boat had reached the bridge and slowed to a crawl. We could see why... as it slowly crept under the span there was barely 30cms to spare. In fact we think we saw passengers on the top deck duck their heads so they didn't slam them on the bridge.

Knowing that our next challenge was to be the largest lock we had yet encountered we were in fear, nay dread, that we would have to share the lock with the gargantuan hotel afloat, but phew, after passing beneath the bridge the boat turned left up the Rhone. We turned right, and radioed the eclusier that we were coming.

Twenty minutes later we were admitted to the lock, off to the side of a dam used to generate electricity, and found ourselves to be the only boat. But this lock was huge, with an almost 10-metre drop to the next level. Apart from being our biggest lock to date it was also the first we'd encountered with "floating bollards", basically meaning that instead of having to unhook and rehook your ropes as you descend, or play them out, you just hook them round the bollard which then floats down with you as the water is expelled. Easy really... no rope adjustments, no fuss, though we were glad not to have to share with floating giants. And yet, unbeknownst to us, punishment was to come.

We thanked Monsieur Eclusier over the VHF and exited the giant bathtub to continue south, the only other bit of excitement being that a large commercial peniche called Bonjon came steaming upstream creating a wake that tossed Liberty around like we were in a washing machine, even though I had turned her to confront the wake face-on. Books fell over, glasses tinkled, stuff rearranged itself, and we held on for grim death, but nothing serious, despite the impressive pitching and waves.

And so we arrived at Vienne, another ancient Roman town, turned gracefully midstream and came gently to rest at a pontoon just south of the main bridge. Lovely. Now, being boaters of good character, we moored at the very front of the short pontoon in order that any other boat arriving would have enough room to moor behind us. Big mistake.

Because, it meant we were adjacent to one of the pontoon's massive piles, and within half an hour another hotel boat went past, creating such a wake that it slammed Liberty into the pile and tossed us around twice as bad as previously. We leapt on deck and had to physically push the boat off to reduce the banging, but the wash from the boat comtinued for about 15 minutes.

We worked out why; it's like when you drop a pebble in a pond... the ripples go from the pebble to the edge, then rebound, then - if the pond is small enough - rebound again off the sides. That's what we think happened in this case... the wake kept resonating off both sides of the river for a good quarter of an hour, during which we made the decision to sod it, let's move the boat back between the two pontoon piles and damn anyone else who arrives after us!

Just as well, because later in the evening a commercial peniche swept upstream destroying all in its path, and once again we were in an Atlantic storm, but thankfully banging off our fenders rather than the piles. It took the shine off the nice couple of hours we had spent in Vienne at a substantial market and fair after riding in on the bikes late afternoon. In fact, it was three-wine event.

Anyway, at least moving the boat back and dominating the pontoon reduced the risk of our being Markeled.