Port Grimaud was built in the 1960s as a “Venetian” village on the water — canals instead of streets, moorings instead of garages. Fishermen still sell the morning catch along the quay, and your tender is the family car for the week.

The Îles de Lérins sit just off the Baie des Anges — Sainte-Marguerite and Saint-Honorat, a twenty-minute hop from your mooring. Saint-Honorat has been home to monks since the fifth century, and they still make wine on the island. Anchor, swim, then go buy a bottle from the monastery.

French sailors will tell you the real secret of the Riviera is the timing: the mistral clears the sky and the sea, then the afternoon thermal fills in like clockwork. Plan your hops around it and you look like a genius — and the anchorages empty out exactly when you arrive.

A catamaran this size does not heel, does not roll and does not rush. Your morning coffee stays in the cup, your guests stay in a good mood, and the skipper gets to look like the calmest man on the Mediterranean.

The Calanques between Marseille and Cassis are limestone fjords — narrow, white-walled inlets where the water turns turquoise and the wind disappears. Anchor inside one for lunch and you will understand why the locals guard these spots like a family recipe.

The Atlantic coast around Pornic is tidal in a way the Mediterranean never is — the sea pulls back hundreds of metres and comes home twice a day. Sailors here plan around the tide the way Riviera sailors plan around the mistral.

La Rochelle is the gateway to the Île de Ré and the Île d’Aix — low, pine-covered islands with white villages, oyster beds and almost no cars. Sail there, moor in the harbour and dinner is whatever the tide brought in that morning.

An electric yacht on the Seine does not roar — it hums. You hear the water, the conversation and the city, and the landmarks slide past in complete silence. That is the whole point of doing Paris by boat.