Since I realised I could sail to or from the Isle of Wight without much difficulty I have wanted to sail to France. I do not consider a dinghy a suitable place for a crew to rest while underway, so I would not undertake a passage of more than twelve hours; every man to his own form of cruising. So I decided it would have to be the Dover area, and so that to be free or not go on my own judgement, I would sail single-handed.

For a couple of years I postponed the idea while I gained more experience; last season I was put off because I became diabetic, but this year my diabetes appeared to be getting worse, and I felt it might be now or never.

My opportunity came at August weekend. I did not tell my family my plan, to save them anxiety, but I did tell a few friends I could trust, just in case. The last minute preparations were a little hectic, and by the time I had got the trailer rolling towards Kent the whole venture had lost its joy, it had become a concern. Every forecast for the previous thirty six hours seemed favourable, yet when I stepped out of my van on Rye harbour the wind felt strong enough to blow me over. Determined, I found the Harbour master, who was most helpful about where to launch; but when I told him I was bound for Boulogne his smile turned cold as he reminded me of the disaster they had last year when two out of a crew of three were lost from a capsized dinghy.

The slipway was good but my morale was poor. I got afloat and found a little space between the many boats for Jady Lane to take the mud for the night. As if to make sure I enjoyed my supper, a fisherman said "Wouldn't go to Boulogne if I were you, it's bedlam over there at this time of year".

On Saturday morning I was awake in time to hear the forecast: the direction was suitable but the force was four to five. It was a grey morning; I pushed out into deeper water and cooked myself a huge breakfast, filled a couple of thermos flasks, put in a reef, and let go down the harbour on a fast ebb. The Harbour master, bless him, was out to see me leave. I promised to let him know how I got on. I had never sailed in this area before and I now think I sailed too close to Dungeness peninsula, because I had a very rough ride, with the wind coming up channel and causing a rough sea as it met the shallows. Before I reached the head I knew I was beaten, and by ten o'clock I was back at Rye entrance, where I beached on a falling tide.

For years I had thought about this cruise. My boat was closer to France than she had ever been before, she was loaded with food, water, extra buoyancy, outboard fuel and even a distress rocket, but she was beached and her skipper defeated. I went for a walk to stretch my legs, then rested on the floorboards to think. I decided to sail to Folkestone, assuming that if I could round Dungeness I could get into sheltered water on the east side. I did not like Rye harbour and I did not want the humiliation of sailing back, so I had a leisurely lunch, and was ready to move out when the water returned about 1300 hours.

Before I reached the head I had one of the roughest sails of my life. I used about half my mainsail only, yet I was sailing too fast for comfort in a sea too high for any fourteen footer. To go back seemed as difficult as to go on, so I stuck it until clear of the head, and then turned to run with the wind astern for the shelter of the Folkestone side. At this point she tore through the seas, roaring down the long steep waves and digging heavily into the wall of water at the bottom of each trough. This frightened me, so I heaved to, took down the main, set the mizzen, and sailed in comparative comfort round Dungeness on some seventeen square feet of canvas.

Once round the corner the sea was quieter. I hoisted the main and had a good sail to Folkestone. A mile before the entrance the wind died and I used the Seagull to round the wall and find a mooring in the inner harbour. I had supper and rowed ashore in the coracle. To my surprise the water had almost left the harbour when I returned, and a soft sheet of mud separated me from my bed. I learned later that part of the harbour is sand; you just have to know which part.

It was a weary sailor who fished his pyjamas from the bottom of his sleeping bag that night, determined to hear the midnight forecast. Several times I dosed off, but when that polished voice said "Dover: West F3" I was suddenly awake. France was a possibility.

Sunday morning was grey but exciting. I devoured another huge breakfast, filled my thermos and crept out of the harbour with no jib or mizzen, and a shortened mainsail. Once outside I realised my cautiousness was quite unnecessary, and I was soon cruising comfortably with all sails drawing. I pointed towards the south, intending to use the Varne as my first mark. The decision to 'go' was to be reconsidered about lunch time, when I could have sailed back to Folkestone or to Dover if I decided against crossing. Under a thin layer of cloud visibility was good, and to my delight within an hour I could see Cap Gris Nez. For the first time since I left home the whole plan seemed easy, and when I sighted the Varne Ship, France was 'on'.

I left the lightship about a mile to starboard, and started ferreting through my food cabinet for cold bacon, lettuce, cheese, chocolate and coffee. Then back to my pipe with a lookout for the North Colbart buoy. It was now about 1400 hours. The Boulogne coast was clear, but I never did see that Colbart buoy. About this time a little rain fell. Perhaps that reduced my vision or perhaps I had passed further west than I had planned. To sail over the Colbart was a risk I was prepared to take on this day when the Pas de Calais was so docile, but still I knew when I was on it. For several miles the sea was confused and irregular, and I can well imagine this is no place to be on a rough day. There were no other marks between me and my goal, so I was glad to be passed by a crossing ferry. Her speed made me doubt if I was moving, but her last whiff of smoke as she disappeared over the horizon, gave me my first fix on Boulogne. The chart showed two hills beyond Boulogne, only 630 and 980 feet high, and I thought I could recognise both. I began to consider the direction of the tide at the entrance, and to plan my approach. Then I remembered that I was only just past half way, and that my best plan was to forget everything except direction for another three hours. The wind slackened and moved a little southerly. My progress was very slow. If I closed my eyes for a few moments I lost my marks, and those two hills seemed to get harder to find each time I dosed off.

The next hours were the worst; no trouble from the sea, but waiting for the coast to get nearer taxed my patience. At 1800 I opened the bar and took a little from a bottle. The shot of alcohol brightened my surroundings, but a few miles from the coast the wind dropped, and I started the motor to make my approach. My Stanford chart shows two harbour walls with an entrance about the middle. In fact there is now only the southern wall with a tower each side of the entrance and no wall at the north end. As I approached a ferry came charging out and I was forced to give way northward. It was then I realised the force of the north going stream. When I tried to get back to the entrance it was all my Seagull could do to overcome the current. If I could have crossed where my chart showed a wall it would have been easy. As far as I could see there was nothing to stop me, but I smelt danger and persisted against the flood until, inch by inch, I rounded the tower and entered by the main channel. Once inside the south wall the water was slack and I motored across to the town. Between the high wall of Boulogne harbour Jady Lane seemed smaller than she did in mid Channel. The water was thick with oil and the skyline dominated by tall hard concrete blocks of flats. At the end of the harbour there is a pool, and in the middle of it a raft on which the Sailing Club House has been built. To it sailing boats of various sizes were tied two or three abreast in no apparent order. I could see no one to ask, so I nosed in and made fast.

I changed my clothes, straightened the few hairs I still have on my head, stuffed my pockets with francs and a French dictionary, and set off to row to the harbour wall in my coracle. When I found a ladder I had to pass under a dozen rusty wire mooring lines before I could reach the steps. The oil from the harbour makes the steps filthy, and after my special little effort to look my best I arrived at the top of the wall covered in black grease. I chose the restaurant I fancied, ate and drank. When I had finished my coffee I bought a cigar and strolled back to that grimy ladder, carefully into the coracle, and wearily into my sleeping bag. Of all the nights I have lived on my boat this was the first time I had used a restaurant.

On August Monday I woke early. I would have liked to have stayed, but the day I had planned for resting in France I had lost floundering about Dungeness. The forecast was nor'west three to four so I had no excuse to stay. I planned to use the east going tide up to Gris Nez and that only ran until about eleven o'clock. There was breakfast to cook, shopping to collect. When I got back to the harbour wall with more bottles than I could possibly manage down the ladder, an old man offered me the loan of his bag. Neither of us spoke a word, but I was grateful for his help, and he seemed delighted that I might enjoy a little of his famous cognac by my fire the next winter.

As I motored down the harbour towards the Channel I tried to remove the thick coating of oil from my white plastic fender. Outward bound I was again tempted to sail across the water where my chart showed a harbour wall, but again I decided to be cautious and pass between the towers. To do so I had to take the wash from a couple of fishing vessels who were too busy to throttle back for any fool who would cross the channel in a fourteen footer. Anxious to make the most of the easterly tide I left the motor running until I had all sails set, then I started a slow sail up to the Cape, leaving the Ambleteuse Buoy to starboard.

As Gris Nez came to my beam I turned and tried to sail a few points west of north, but found that too close to the wind for good progress. This was worrying because I was only able to sail to the north, and even allowing for the next six hours of west going tide I reckoned I would be well off Folkestone and might even miss Dover. The thought of the Goodwins at dusk did not appeal to me, but I could only sail and hope. By 1300 I was out of sight of land, sailing slowly but surely northwards. The going was perfect except that I was off course, and for a large area of sea which was covered in thick floating weed. I changed my foresail for a big old sail I carry for light winds, then amused myself with a picnic lunch and a little thermos coffee. As the afternoon wore on I began to realise how lost I was. I did know my position at 1300 hours, since when I knew my course but could only guess my drift. By 1500 I was sure I could hear an engine, but I could see nothing but sparkling sea in the hazy sun. I remembered stories of hallucinations suffered by others who had been at sea for much longer periods, I sipped more coffee and refused to allow my imagination any more freedom. To my relief through the haze I sighted the Varne ship. How I had missed the buoy at the north end of the Colbart I shall never know, but the Varne ship was clear, and I was further west than I dared hope. From that moment Jady Lane seemed to find another knot. It seemed as if I had spent three hours climbing up the long side of a hill and, having reached the top, I could see my destination, and from there it was all downhill. Nonsense, I know, but that's how I saw it that afternoon, alone with no one with whom to reason.

During the afternoon the wind had freshened and moved slightly westward. I was now able to steer the course of my choice and with every inch of cloth drawing I pointed for Folkestone, leaving the Varne ship a mile or two to port. If Jady Lane did not spring a leak, success now seemed certain. The weather was grand, and the Kent coast, while still out of sight, could not be more that six miles away. I was enjoying the sail of my life, but I made the usual mistake of thinking I was home. In fact there was another couple of hours to go. For the first time since I left France I could now see other sails, and they all seemed to be having as good a time as I was. Folkestone was now clear, and the wind losing its force. One catamaran that I had been watching for the last hour was finding it hard to make the harbour. Looking forward to my own supper I started the engine and made a slight change of course so that I could offer the cat a tow. I was glad I did, because I found the crew was dad, mum and a tired looking junior who looked ready to go ashore. They accepted my offer and I pottered round the harbour wall on a beautiful still evening with the cat on a line. Before I removed my lifejacket the customs officers were haling me to come ashore. I invited them to come aboard, but they looked at my tiny boat and my tinier coracle, and politely declined. It was about twenty hours, I went ashore, phoned home, confessed my lie about cruising the Kent coast, and enjoyed the hospitality of the local club.

Next day I had the long haul back to Reading. I had had a busy four days. Single-handed I had trailed to Rye, launched my boat, sailed to France and back, got back onto wheels and trailed safely home. All I had broken was a bolt from my towbar. In my tiny world I had completed my most ambitious cruise. Only by reminding myself of the magnificent accounts of other DCA members could I get myself back to size.