A few years ago my job took me to the Continent, where I lived in Germany for three years. As I was already a sailing enthusiast, I tried to explore the sailing possibilities of continental waters. It came as rather a shock to realise that I was living hundreds of miles from the sea, and in any case the German coast is a difficult place for boating. It is a place of wind-scourged sand dunes where no-one sits on the beach except in “strand-Korbs’, like wicker armchairs with hoods and side pieces to protect the occupant from flying sand. This apparently permanently windy coast has shallow tidal waters and a string of islands. There are dangerous channels between the islands and the shore — in fact, it is the setting of the book The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers, which features Carruthers, and which every dinghy cruiser should read.

Turning to rivers and lakes for cruising areas, I found the river Maas an excellent, though perhaps little-known, region. I well remember one cruise in company which began at a yacht club at Roermond, a small town in Holland. Here there is an inlet in the river bank, a strip of water parallel to the river where boats are moored. Sailing out of this still water into the river current, we drifted downstream with a light following wind, very soon arriving at a lock. Here we gathered into a bunch, holding on to each other’s gunwales so that we could go through the lock together once the lock gates opened for us. There were several clinker-built sixteen footers of a heavy kind, some Enterprises, a very small cabin cruiser, and a few continental types such as the Vaurien, which last were sailed by Dutch people.

Once through the lock we moved off merrily, spreading out along the river as the wind increased in strength a little. With the breeze on the quarter I lay down on the centre thwart, watching the sail and also keeping an eye open for the small motor barges that ply the river. The helmswoman, I remember, was dismayed at my apparent lack of interest in the surroundings — I was supposed to be instructing her how to sail a boat.

The river is hardly as wide as the Thames at Reading, the flat landscape being relieved by a few trees and bushes along the banks.

After an afternoon’s sail, we arrived at another inlet in the bank, this time roughly circular and joined to the main river by a narrow neck. Very soon the boats were made fast to posts and each other, and tents which had been brought in the boats were pitched on high ground nearby. I will not dwell upon the barbecued sausages, canned beer nor the sing-song which of course followed. I cannot claim to have camped there, because I found myself bed and breakfast at a Dutch inn at a village a mile or so away. Everyone else slept under canvas, and complained next morning of cold and dampness in the air. The climate is much the same as in England.

The return trip against the current and against the wind was much more difficult, and one had to sail the boats really hard in the strong breeze that sprang up. At one time the outboard on the miniature cruiser broke down, and we towed them in our sailing dinghy until, reluctant to get out all the sailing tackle they had so carefully stowed away, they raised and spread the cockpit tent! The snaking course of the river gave them a following wind at this point, and the tent covers, held aloft by arms and assorted bits of wood, acted as a sail. Gad, sir! What would they have said at Cowes?

The Rhine, on the other hand, is not a river to be recommended for sailing. The constant procession of huge motor barges and ships in both directions and the strong current make it a dangerous place. Nevertheless, one Englishman living at Dusseldorf decided to build himself a boat and sail it home to Poole. Week by week we watched the seventeen-foot vessel of his own design take shape and grow. His greatest problem, he told me, was bending large pieces of plywood into shape. Finally came the great day of the launching — and she floated!

Sailing away down the Rhine, he entered the North Sea. Off the Belgian coast, the boat struck a sandbank, and the skipper and crew managed to stagger ashore. In case anyone is wondering, that really is a true story. I understand that the boat was broken to pieces by the seas.

The German lakes are excellent sailing centres. In north Germany are the Dimmer See and the Steinhuder Meer. I visited the former, a roughly square lake a few miles wide. An open sailing boat about twenty feet long with two masts and three sails gave trips, across the lake and back, to the public. The steadiest sail I have ever had, she proceeded across the rippling water like a silent motorboat, wind on the beam and helmsman nonchalantly chatting to a passenger. The reedy shore furthest from the landing stage where boats may be hired is fenced off as a bird sanctuary.

The real lake district of Germany is in the south, in Bavaria, between the Austrian border and Munchen, which for some reason we call “Munich”. These are famous yachting centres, such as the Ammersee, Starnberger See and Tegernsee. The German tourist bureau in London or Munchen would, I am sure, be delighted to send brightly coloured panoramic views and birds-eye-view maps, together with accommodation price lists, to anyone interested. The Tegernsee is very beautiful, but my favourite was the Chiemsee, near the autobahn (motorway) between Munchen and Salzburg. Sailing dinghies of various sizes are for hire, but although I do not know of any restrictions on taking one’s own car-topping dinghy, it might be as well to check first with the tourist office. The Chiemsee is about nine miles wide and contains three islands, of which the largest, Herren Insel, has a palace like Versailles built by Ludwig II, the “mad” King of Bavaria — but that is another story. The winds tend to be light, especially in the mornings, and there is the occasional storm from the mountains, though not during the week I was there. Prien is a pleasant little town about a mile from the lake, and there was, I remember, a railway connecting the town with Stock at the water’s edge. Stock is a lido and sailing centre. The trains on their mile-long journey were pulled by an ancient steam locomotive, obviously kept as a working museum piece. The point about the Bavarian lakes is that the British tourist has not yet discovered them, unlike the Swiss and Austrian lakes, so you can really get away from it all, with the aid of a German-English phrase book!

Lake Constance lies between Germany and Switzerland and a part of the shore is in Austria. Lindon, a town on an “island” connected to the mainland by a bridge and a causeway, is a good holiday centre. Rowing boats for hire there have notices “this boat must not be used for going abroad”. Another German sailing centre nearby is at Nonnenhorn. Bathing places on the lake tend to be slightly muddy. Sailing is good, though of course bad weather on such a vast inland sea is not to be sneezed at!

My first boat, that is, the first that I actually owned, was not a cruising dinghy — in fact it was an 11 foot 6 inch sailing surf-board, the Sea-Bat. Having imported it into Germany, I found it easy to push up onto my car roof-rack. As it can be carried under one arm, I found it quite easy to get it afloat on the Balderney See near Essen. This is a lake created by a dam on the Ruhr, a river which, contrary to my expectations, is really rural (no pun intended). A multitude of different kinds of sailing craft may be seen there at any week-end, but the flat-topped, unsinkable craft I sailed attracted much attention. “Ist das das Minisail?” asked one helmsman as he passed by. “Nein, the Sea-Bat,” I replied, but he could not understand. “See-Fledermaus!” I shouted, and then he understood.

When the summer holidays came round, I took this unusual craft by car-top to Cannes in the South of France. The trip over the Alps was a little difficult as I had to stop occasionally to re-tighten the ropes holding the Sea-Bat.

Cannes may be divided into two parts — tourists’ Cannes, facing southwest, and the local fishermen’s Cannes, facing southeast. On the headland between them is the exotic-looking building known, I believe, as the “Summer Casino”. Launching the Bat from the almost deserted beach where a few fishermen’s boats are kept, I set sail for the Isles des Lerins, two islands about a mile from the shore. There were only light airs and sometimes a calm, but fortunately the absence of strong tidal currents allowed the craft to move slowly towards the nearest island, Ste. Marguerite. This kind of weather lasted the two weeks of my holiday, with the occasional day of squally winds too strong for safe sailing. I have the feeling that this was typical Cannes weather.

After beaching the surf-boat and pulling it up out of the narrow strip between high and low tide, I explored the island, which is well wooded with pine trees and other types and contains a castle and also a restaurant. At this eating house is a tank of unfortunate lobsters which are taken out alive and carried, their tails clapping, into the kitchens to their doom — a sacrifice to the gourmets who visit the island by motor boats which run a regular service.

While wandering at the further end of the island, I met a Frenchman who showed me the way back to the beach I had come from. He had rod and line and showed me his catch of small fish. “Pour la Bouillabaisse,” he said. I believe this may be described as a kind of fish soup.

There is a good small harbour on the isle further from the mainland, St. Honorat. The people who visit it are real yachtsmen, not like many who have yachts in the harbour at Cannes. There is the story of one yacht whose owner decided to go for a sail one afternoon from Cannes inner harbour, where craft are moored alongside the promenade, enabling the people on board to use them as houseboats. It took six months for him to get back to his position on the promenade again, among the tightly-packed yachts.

The Frenchman on Ste Marguerite told me of the rigours of living on the island in winter, and of the flamingos which used to visit there each year. They no longer appear because of the noise and activity of holidaymakers along the coast. “But it is still fairly peaceful here,” I said. “Oui, monsieur,” he said. “This island — it is the last quiet corner!”