I began 1980 without money, boat or commitments. That left me very little choice but to earn some money, buy a boat and go off sailing.

Actually I had decided three things about my nine free months before university: I wanted to go sailing in the Baltic and, if possible, in my own boat. My earning power dictated that the boat must be a dinghy. So I joined the Dinghy Cruising Association and had a useful exchange of letters with Jim Smith. Through my sister-in-law I got in touch with Tom Moors, who sailed with Peter Clutterbuck to Norway in a Wayfarer in 1969. I talked with the Wilsons, pillars of the UK Wayfarer Association, who gave me the freedom of the Association library and sent me details of the old wooden Wayfarers for sale. I also met Margaret Dye at the Boat Show, who not surprisingly told me to buy a Wayfarer. Being of an obstinate frame of mind, all this advice only strengthened my resolve to buy a ‘proper’ boat, preferably a one-off clinker dinghy.

So when I found Eel I fell for her at once. She is a 17ft double-ended clinker built open boat built in Newhaven in 1957 with a lug set on a heavily raking mast and a small reefing jib. Even though I ‘took her home’ to Scandinavia I never saw anything quite like her. Her lines, and especially her sheerline, are more elegantly curved than the Swedish double-enders and she has more strakes and thinner ribs. She has a dagger board which is not ideal, but it does increase internal space.

Downwind and especially on a reach her performance is more than respectable if she has sufficient wind; but to windward, especially in any sea, her progress is tortoise-like, somewhere between ½ and 2 knots. But she has a very nice suit of sails from Gowen (whose only fault is their colour, a foul blue) and I did manage some respectable daily runs dead to windward.

Eel was launched by the family with the strange mixture of smoked eel and home-made cherry brandy. However, there was no wind and I learnt nothing more about my new purchase than that she rows quite well. Next weekend I brought down a friend to persuade him to crew for me and it was blowing a good 6. I managed to put her aground twice trying to tack, and showed so little confidence in the boat myself that I scared him off. The main problem was her tenderness, which is initially alarming, but as soon as you get some of the blue topstrake under water she is amazingly stiff. Although I’ve once had water running down the rowlock holes, I’ve never capsized her. I then made a few alterations, putting a piece of 12mm ply rather inexpertly on the stern, to provide some dry stowage and a better seat. I also put in a couple of shelves, moved the buoyancy bags and doubled up a couple of cracked ribs. I made plans for a bow cover and a complicated tent which is supported by the yard, shrouds and a boathook. These were made by Russell & Chapple in London and, predictably, didn’t fit. So I had them altered very efficiently by Wilkinson’s Sails at Conyer.

I spent two weeks on the Medway, Crouch and Blackwater to test the boat and myself. I managed to run properly aground twice, which with 9” draught is rather embarrassing, and I woke one night convinced I was out at sea, rolling in the swell. It was only when I had the tent half down that I realised I was still anchored safely in Pyefleet.

It was only on June 23rd, a month after I’d hoped to leave, that I was finally abandoned at Felixstowe Ferry Terminal. Inquisitive Swedes surrounded the boat and asked what soon became boring questions: Why did I have no keel, no shelter and especially no engine? And when I told them I wanted to go through the Gota Canal they thought I was joking, and then that I was mad. None of them helped me pull Eel onto the ferry though. Eel is lighter than she looks but with all her gear in is still a very substantial mass to move. I was very glad the ferry was close to the terminal.

The ferry journey was as boring as they usually are but when we approached Göteborg in the evening the islands looked lovely in the evening light with their extraordinary pinks and yellows. There could hardly be a bigger contrast between the islands outside and the squalid dock areas of Gothenburg. I was kept waiting an hour at the customs before they decided they didn’t want me, and then I went for a walk to find the marina I thought I saw on the way in. After an hour’s fruitless searching I returned to the boat rather depressed, put up the tent and went to bed. Next day I found the Tourist Information Office who rang round hire car firms for me but could only find an enormous breakdown lorry, which towed me four miles to the nearest marina and charged me £30. The Bjorlanda Kile Marina is an enormous place, the biggest in Europe, so I just put Eel in the water and hid my trailer at the back of the trailer park. But there is no food shop there and I had to borrow a bicycle to stock up.

Next morning I finally got under way. I beat out of the marina, losing my way once, and then out into the bay. I felt I should be relieved to be afloat but in fact I was apprehensive about the trip ahead and my ability to tackle it. The weather reflected my feelings, clouding over fast, and the chart marked defence areas and firing ranges, some too close for comfort. But once I rounded my first buoy things felt a little better. With Eel on a reach, her best point, we crossed the mouth of the Kungalv River and slipped round the corner inside Basto Island. Here I was baffled completely by the number of islands, so I anchored and spent half-an-hour studying the chart which got me little further. But since it was all marked as 2 metres deep, I didn’t worry. I put up the tent and cooked my supper watching the first of many memorable sunsets.

The next day it was blowing harder and there was a gale warning in Fisher. But I put in one reef and beat out of my private archipelago to join the substantial yacht traffic outside. I followed everyone else towards Marstrand, dropping the main at one point to tuck in a second reef. Luckily Eel reaches quite nicely under jib without a helmsman which makes reefing easy. I covered the last 3 miles in 40 minutes which was pleasing. Arriving off the east entrance to Marstrand I couldn’t believe the chart or my compass. I couldn’t see a hole, and it was only when a motor boat came out that I dared go in. This entrance is the best way to come in to Marstrand. A very narrow channel through wooded hills suddenly reveals the castle overlooking the pretty town with the yacht harbour at its centre. Marstrand is a 12 metre centre and there were Team Marstrand stickers in all the shops. Unfortunately all the shopkeepers must have been out sailing because nothing was open.

The gale warnings persisted but the Swedish forecast predicted 10 m/sec, a good 5, so I went all the same. I would have had to beat to go outside Tjorn so with a good tail wind I went inside. The gales never came but the rain did, and I sat for two days in continuous heavy rain. But I made some progress with daily runs of 15 and 22 miles and reached Uddevalla, where I spent my last ore paying harbour dues. Uddevalla is a large industrial town, with enormous shipbuilding cranes and a large quarry which colours the water a brown-red for miles around. There I found a bank open at last and cashed my English cheques under the Euro-cheque system. The gods were kind and provided more tail winds which wafted me west along the north side of Orust, past Vindo Island (home of Vindo Boats) to another idyllic anchorage off a sandy beach inside rocks south of Hogh Island. I just managed to get the tent up before a rainstorm, which was followed by a total calm. The silence was so absolute that I thought I heard a boat rowing by and looked out to find that it was just my burgee swivelling on its bamboo stock.

Next morning I went through the most fascinating channel I saw in Sweden. The chart inset was on a scale of 1:10000 and still not easy to follow. The Strömmarna Channel goes through 3 right angle bends, skirting underwater rocks and going alarmingly near exposed ones. However, it is well marked, and easy to navigate once you put your faith in the chart rather than your intuition. Emerging from Strömmarna I bent through the bridge and into open water again. Outside I had a tail wind which pushed me past Lysekil and the Korno Islands towards Kungshamm. I noticed a varnished yacht cutting through the Lango Archipelago, so I followed him, trusting in his navigation to avoid the many rocks. We came out well ahead of those who stuck to the marked channel. But when we turned the corner at Kungshamm and started beating, they all overtook me quickly. I continued beating slowly inside the islands against a squally north-easterly until I reached the Sotenkanal, which avoids a lengthy and exposed outside passage. I tried to beat through, but what with avoiding other boats and the lack of steady wind, I made little progress. In fact I succeeded in obstructing one boat so much that they offered me a tow which I accepted gratefully. They admitted that they would like to try beating through but it’s now against the law. Half an hour and three miles further on, they dropped me off and I began beating again eventually reaching Borallstrand, a little fishing community. Here there were plenty of double-ended open fishing boats though of simpler shape than Eel. That day was my longest run on my own, 30 miles.

The next day was classic Skärgärd sailing. There was plenty of wind, enough for a single reef, but it was still warm enough for swimming trunks and a tee shirt. Unfortunately the wind was still head and marvellous bents in open water were mixed with tedious short tacking between islands where everyone got becalmed. I had to row a couple of miles, which was murder in the heat. However the wind, when I found it, was a good one and I had another classic sail, ending up in a shallow anchorage north of Lönnh where I had my first swim. The bay was protected by some rocks and my only company was a few sheep who ate the sparse vegetation at the top of the island. The peace of the evening was ruined for me by a disaster with a complete pack of raisins; I was still finding them in the bilges 8 weeks later.

Next morning I dodged out of my anchorage easily because I could see the bottom and the rocks all the way. I beat seawards to join the outer channel and the N-S traffic flow. Feeling adventurous I fetched outside all the islands towards Sör-Koster and did my only passage in the full swell outside the islands. It was more difficult going back inside the islands, where the sea rebounded off the rocks and became confused. It was nothing dangerous but just enough to show how nasty it could be in bad weather. I had to pump out the spray twice before reaching the Stromstad channel, which I followed up to the town, a rather touristy holiday place. Here I managed to arrange a lift from Halden to Nossemark on the Swedish canal system for the next Thursday. So after arranging to meet my twin brother at Halden on the Wednesday I spent a few days bathing and sunbathing and slowly made my way to the Idefjord. This fjord resembles a bent arm, with Halden at the elbow, and for most of its length it is the border between Sweden and Norway. It always has a current flowing out of it and it took me a whole day to beat up to Halden against it. Halden is a centre of the newsprint industry (we were told that The Times is printed on Halden paper), but it is also an old town with a very impressive fort overlooking the town and yacht basin. I spent two days there and was written up in the paper under the headline “Hardhaus fra England mellomlandet i Halden”. I was rather disappointed to find that ‘hardhaus’ means adventurer, not crackpot.

Getting bored after two days in the same place, I sailed down the fjord. I found a reed fringed anchorage in a bight of water fed by a little river which steamed eerily at night. Meanwhile my brother Robert had arrived in Halden at midnight. He spent the rest of the night walking round Halden, studying the photo in the paper to see where it had been taken. When I arrived back next morning we conducted a recriminatory conversation over the water as I bent up to the quay. Then I had to re-visit the castle as Robert, a historian, wanted to see the spot where Charles X11 had been shot with a button. We managed to find no less than three different monuments marking three different places so gave up in disgust. Next morning we took down our mast and rowed round to the river passing enormous timber sheds and a tug pulling fifteen large log rafts in a line. At 1600 exactly a lorry rolled up and the driver very quickly craned Eel onto the trailer where she looked very small. At 1700 we were back in the water at Nossemark, 30 kilometres away. The service is available for motor boats up to 34’ and keel boats to 25’ and 4’ depth. It costs £45 which seemed excessive for Eel but not for a keelboat.

It didn’t take us long to get up to Stora Le, an impressive stretch of water, rather overpowered by the profusion of trees on both sides. With a tail wind we reached the other end in half a day, though we were embarrassed by an Indian canoe which put up a small square sail and went straight past us. At Lennanefors we entered the first of the short stretches of canal and paid £14 dues. Here the canal is blasted out of the rock and it was just wide enough for us to row up it with oars scraping both sides. In all the locks you could see the bottom, the water was so clear. The sides were just as the dynamite had left them, uneven, rough and jagged. They were fendered with tree trunks but you still had to be very careful. Our passage of the canal was made in superb weather without a breath of wind. We had to row most of the way, which is not much fun even in a good rowing boat like Eel. The scenery was superb, the water over the side so clean you could drink it. But after two days rowing in the sweltering heat we had a full scale stand up argument, focussed mainly on rowing styles with technical talk of rhythm, steadiness and turning in the water, which must have sounded strange to passing Swedes. However, when we arrived we had a good supper and a look at the famous Hogsbyn rock carvings which had very distinguishable Viking ships and wheels, as well as a lot of indecipherable squiggle. The most interesting bit of the canal was at Havend in the gorge which carries water down from Lake Aklangen. At the top is a large road bridge and lower down a railway bridge and underneath these the canal is carried over the gorge by a short aqueduct, and then through 4 locks. Unfortunately this complicated canal system produces enormous queues at both ends and we had to wait 2 hours before getting into the first lock. We stayed that night in the Kop mannebro archipelago, which is more populated but, because of its islands, rather prettier than the lakes higher up.

Next day we emerged into open sea again, in Lake Vänern, the biggest European lake (if you exclude the Russian ones). Unfortunately the wind died after two hours and we had to row into Surrnana Hanm which lay behind a fascinating skargard, full of tiny islands. We discovered later that there is a marked channel behind it up the west side of Vänern which I would dearly love to do. We had to walk two miles into Mellerud for our shopping and failed to find charts for the E end of Vänern. Then with a forecast of SW4 we decided to cross Vänern to Lackö, a distance of 20 miles or so. We began in bright sunshine with a force 3 from astern. Soon it clouded over till it was blowing a good 5 or 6 but it was the freshwater sea which gave us trouble. It had a fetch of 30 miles from the SW and was very short and sharp. Eel was hard to control as she corkscrewed violently through it and we had to pump regularly. We put a second reef in before coming onto a close reach into the Ekens Skargan but we moved so fast through the sea that we filled her up to the floorboards with spray in the half-hour before reaching shelter. We ran through the islands, which were luckily well marked, before finding a berth in the reeds half way through. It was now 2130 but Robert insisted that I joint a chicken and stew it. By the time I’d done that and he’d made stock (“we can’t waste the carcass”) it was 2330 and tempers were somewhat frayed.

The wind had moderated by morning and we ran gently through the islands over which we caught sight of the towers of Lackö Castle. We looked quickly round the castle, which was not very interesting as a building though one chapel and exhibitions were good. Again we failed to find charts, so we sailed to Räbacks Homn where, after a long walk, I found that the trains from there are practically non-existent. So we borrowed a chart and made a rough copy. But when we arrived off the Mariestad Channel, sod’s law dictated that we found a buoy which we hadn’t copied, so we asked a fisherman the way and rowed in. Not surprisingly everything was shut when we arrived late on Saturday afternoon, so we resigned ourselves to waiting a day. Not only did we need a chart but by now we were also out of eggs, butter, bread, vegetables, meat, fruit, cheese and jam. So after a hungry day in the rain we got our chart and one of the Gota Canal and beat to Sjotorp, entrance to the canal.

We paid £25 dues, and entered the first lock in some confusion, but by the time we had gone through 8 locks in quick succession we had perfected a technique. As we approached I would jump ashore and would walk her into the lock, attach the stern warp and give Robert the bow warp as a slip. Then as the lock filled up Robert pulled her forwards on the bow warp, so keeping both warps tight while I reconnoitred the next lock or stretch.

The first day we had a tail wind and sailed, but the next day (and, as it turned out, for the rest of the canal) we had head winds. We had to think hard about auxiliary power as sailing was out of the question. We are both experienced oarsmen but the Dalslands Canal had shown us that more than 3 hours rowing in a day is not on. It had also made us all the more determined to do the canal without taking a tow. So we tried towing from the bank and it is surprising how easy it is. We used it as our main source of motive power for the rest of the canal. For some reason everyone tries to pull boats from the bow, which pulls the bow in. We pulled on the stern warp and used a bow warp to keep her running straight. This was very efficient and had the added advantage that you didn’t need anyone at the tiller; you steer with the bow warp.

Our technique became quite good. As we got to a towpath, we would throw the warps ashore and one of us would leap after them. Then tying the ropes together he would stand in the bight, lean on the ropes and start walking. We swapped at hourly intervals and found ourselves making 3 or4 knots, which allowed us to keep up with the smaller cruisers going through the canal. Problems of this method of propulsion are novel ones. The quality of the towpath did not matter much: it was more important what was between the path and the water. Reed beds and small trees became our deadly enemies. The other problem was getting to and from the boat. Spectacular leaps and wet feet are part and parcel of this occupation. Our first day we towed 10 miles before the towpath ran out. The canal at this point is blasted out of the rock and so narrows right down. This necessitates a sign which must be unique: ‘Single track canal with passing places’. Eel was small enough to keep out of the way and we rowed through, counting the passing places (which were marked on the chart) to find out where we were. This stretch ended in a lock which in turn led to Lake Viken which is shaped like a very curved banana. It is a lovely lake with enormous reed banks. We saw one dinghy sailing up a narrow channel in the reeds and saw the top of his sail for the next ¼ hour as he sailed a mile inside the reeds to his summer house. As we rounded the corner of the lake the wind died and we rowed to a lovely anchorage among west coast type islands. But as I dropped the anchor a wind sprang up and Robert (quoting Claude Worth furiously) insisted that we go on. So we got a late supper in a far from ideal anchorage just by a noisy chain ferry at Brosundet.

However, Claude Worth and Robert were proved right next day when we had to row all the way to Karlsborg, which lies at the junction of Lakes Viken and Vättern. Next morning I managed to upset the Primus which ate up my buoyancy bag with surprising speed. We eventually disentangled the top of the burner, which had melted onto the plastic and patched the bag with lilo fabric. We got under way at 1200 after this little episode and drifted into Lake Vättern. When we had been half an hour absolutely still in the sweltering heat, I stripped off and began rowing towards an idyllic and deserted little bay with a superb beach about 2 miles away. As we approached I spotted notices at the top of the beach. So as we grounded I took the dictionary and trotted up the beach, still naked. There I stood working my way slowly through the notice. “Beware!” it said. “Danger to life beyond this point from military exercises.” But they saved the biggest surprise to the end. “We… are watching… you with closed circuit television.” I closed the dictionary and returned to Eel. We rowed out of the bay in dignified haste and four miles on to a better anchorage among the Ombo Islands.

Next day we hurried out of Ombo with a tail wind and had breakfast under way, which was not a success. After a slowish passage in light winds the wind piped up to allow us to beat a badly sailed Folkboat into Vadstena from the outer buoy, a distance of about two miles. With plenty of wind, full sail and with both of us sitting her out on a close reach, we estimated our speed at near 6 knots. Vadstena guest harbour is in the castle moat and Eel aroused some interest in sightseers. We escaped to do our shopping and the sights, of which there are many, since St. Bridget, the northern mystic, founded her monastery here. Returning to Eel I entrusted supper to Robert, who cooked pepper, onion, macaroni, sausage and herring together in the pressure cooker, an absolutely disgusting mixture.

We left Vadstena in a fresh breeze passing the Gota Canal Steamer Juno on the way out. We reached very fast to Motala, finally breaking the mainsail lashing on the yard, which delayed us a while. We rowed as far as the tomb of Von Platen, the Swede who was the driving force behind the canal. We were amused that he was given all the credit in the Swedish tourist literature. It was only in our 1939 Cook’s Guide that we found out that Telford did all the engineering work.

We quickly towed to the first of his spectacular lock staircases leading down to Lake Boren. From above the lake looked marvellous, a clear blue, and it was only when we reached the bottom that we saw there was a stiff little head sea, with fresh head wind. Robert was soon forced to put on oilskins, but Eel keeps her helmsman very dry, and I sat her out in shorts and a tee-shirt. We beat for a couple of hours into the setting sun, anchoring for the night below St. Bridget’s castle at Ulfasa.

When we finally reached the end of Lake Boren we mistook the canal for a river. Robert went off to shop while I rowed up to and through the lock and waited for him outside a splendid 20’s wooden hotel. He came running back with a Swedish paper which revealed that our eldest brother had won a silver medal in Moscow, much to the surprise of everyone. This put us in high spirits, and we rowed at high speed to the locks at Berg where we moored for the night, and went to look at the fine monastery church of Wretakloster. After ringing home to confirm the news, we spent the next day beating up Lake Roxen, a distance of 14 miles. Roxen is very shallow as well as long, and it produced a vicious sea which got us and the boat very wet. As we re-entered the canal we passed a 12 metre of 1932, and a 10 of 1938 which were returning to Oslo. Next day we rowed and towed to Lake Asphlangen. We had to beat up Asphlangen as well, but it was a small lake without much sea. Re-entering the canal at Snofrelstorp (one of the best names we encountered) we towed to Söderköping, eating wild raspberries on our way, which slowed us down, but they were delicious. Söderköping has two fine churches, but the main interest for us was a Norwegian yawl called Guri. She was built in 1936 as an exact copy of Stormy Weather, but she somehow came out 2 feet longer and 6 tons heavier. She has doubled 5” frames, spaced at 4” intervals, 2” planking, diagonal metal strapping and a keelson of 3½” oak, 1’ wide from stern to counter. She had custom made fastenings of bronze and stainless with her name cast on each of them. Her new owners said she was as good as new and they were to sail her to the West Indies which is the only thing you can do with a boat like that.

Eel seemed an eggshell after Guri, but we nevertheless towed her down the last stretch of the canal to the Baltic. This stretch looked very like the Pangbourne reach on the Thames, though the view down to the Baltic was definitely not. After going through our last lock we had to beat yet again, and only covered 6 miles before we got bored. We anchored below the Stegeborg ruin, a castle tower standing alone on its strategic island, complete with flocks of wheeling birds. When I looked out late that night the scene was transformed. The castle was silhouetted against the sky absolutely clearly but close to the water’s surface the mist, tinged red and purple by the setting sun, softened the outlines of the wooded points, making them less and less distinct as you looked down the fjord.

The red sky produced another perfect day with light headwinds, so we covered only 8 miles. But we saw our first British ship of the trip, the gaff cutter Undine, looking very fine. We woke early next day determined to make the most of any wind there was, because Robert’s time was running out. With a light tail wind we ran outside Arko and out past Oxelosund. After a night there we had another early start, running through the lovely islands north of Oxelosund at a good 3 knots.

We were overtaken by Diana, a canal steamer. But she headed off to Sodertalje while we headed out towards Asenskaller and inside Landsort Lighthouses. Here the wind was a fresh south-easterly, and we smashed through the swell logging 5.8 miles in one hour before we got into the shelter of the Herrhamraleden, the passage inside Landsort. From there we ran up towards Nyneshamn at a good 4 or 5 knots, where we decided (Robert quoting Claude Worth again) that the fair wind was too good to waste. So we let ourselves in for 14 miles more before finally leaving the restricted defence area and anchoring at the first available opportunity. After 11½ hours we had covered 49 miles, which is a very respectable average for a 17 ft. boat. After supper, in keeping with our absurd culinary traditions, we cooked pancakes because we’d run out of bread and felt hungry. We finished at midnight.

After a slow sail in the rain and a two mile row we reached Saltsjöbaden, which our 1939 guide described as the foremost sea-bathing resort in Europe. The baths are now very run down, and the hotel deserted, though still in business. The boats were older than usual; Swedes now have little time for wooden boats, but here there were plenty, including a pre-war 10 metre in absolutely perfect condition. The best way to enter Stockholm is from Saltsjöbaden through the Bagenstaket, a narrow channel with three one-way stretches. These have complicated Morse signals marked on the chart, which we were going to ignore until we saw a tripper steamer emerging at ½ knot, so close to the sides that there wasn’t really room for Eel. After emerging from the Bagenstaket we had to beat most of the way to Stockholm, as the wind blew round the islands and stayed head however many corners we rounded. As we got closer in, our beating was complicated by high speed tourist waterbuses, and large Aland ferries. When we reached Stockholm there seemed to be moorings for large yachts but none for smaller ones. They also looked very uncomfortable, so we explored under a bridge (we squeezed under by about 6” according to the harbourmaster) and found a motorboat marina where they were very friendly and gave us three nights for the price of one. We spent three days there doing the sights, including the Wasa, which was very crowded and badly labelled. The guided tour gave you very little more information and we came away disappointed. Much better was the large Maritime Museum whose prize exhibit was a lovely light clinker sailing canoe, the only boat I saw in Sweden which would be more uncomfortable than Eel for cruising. I eventually dropped Robert at the station to go to Bergen and help my uncle sail his Rival home.

Feeling cautious now I was on my own again, I began sailing out with two reefs in. I soon found these unnecessary and even dangerous, because I didn’t have enough way on to keep clear of all the ferries. I sailed on to Vaxholm, where I met a crowd of yachts which I thought were racing. It turned out to be all the people of Stockholm who finish work at 3.00 on Friday and drive straight to their marinas. So the archipelago near Stockholm fills up suddenly, as they all begin their weekend cruises. I weaved my way through them, and passed through Vaxholm, with its castle dominating the northern approach to Stockholm from a strategic island. I had a good tail wind thereafter which took me as far as Vallersvik. Next day it was raining hard and blowing from the NE, which was the only direction I could go. Given this situation I quite enjoyed myself beating for 9 hours and covering 16 miles. With enough wind, and in sheltered water, Eel is fun to sail even to windward.

My main worry was the steamers which go through the islands in the widest and not necessarily the obvious channels. Twice I saw a steamer heading well away and looked up to find it heading straight for me. I got out of the main channel and beat up through the inner islands finding a perfect natural harbour in a horseshoe cove, its entrance protected by islands. I’d better not reveal its position as I hit an unmarked rock as I came out. I was very glad Eel’s dagger board case is strongly built. I followed the special Batsportled (route for pleasure boats under 2.5 metres deep) which is marked with compass courses and a minimum of buoys. I was often becalmed among the islands, which are heavily wooded. But they are pretty and I sat in the rain watching the grebes and ducks. One duck family was surprised by me and the mother ran away as her young tried desperately to climb on her back. As one succeeded in getting on, the others would hold on to him and pull him off, and they’d all have to rush to catch up their mother. It was only after four attempts that they all got on, and by then the mother considered herself out of danger and threw them all off again.

Soon after a gust carried me out into the open water where it was blowing. On a broadish reach I was sitting her out, and we went faster than I’ve ever been in Eel, though I had no time for measuring time and distance. I tucked in a reef as I pointed up slightly, before realising that she needed a second. So I reefed the jib as well, and under this severely reduced rig tried to beat. I wouldn’t like to estimate wind strength, but it was blowing harder than my first sail in Eel, a force 6. My thirteen stone sitting her out was not enough to keep her upright, and when heeled she picked up alarming quantities of the short sea. I pumped her out and tried rowing, which didn’t work. So I put up sail again and pinched her through the gusts, trying to get just enough power to push her through the seas without filling her up. It took me four hours to cover the last mile and a half into Graddo. By the time I arrived, I was exhausted and everything was sopping after 3 days rain and a very wet sail. After something to eat I collapsed into the only dry thing on the ship, my sleeping bag. But I wasn’t even allowed to sleep. At midnight there was the most almighty crash and a large bluff-bowed day-fishing boat pushed into my berth. They began shouting and I appeared out of my tent repeating in a voice I’ve never heard myself use before, “I’m English; I don’t understand.” He got the point after a couple of minutes and said, “This my berth; bugger off!” Then he disappeared into his wheelhouse and pushed his boat in, bending my main horse and putting a hole in my topstrake. His crew jumped ashore, cast off my warps and left Eel, with her tent up, to blow fast downwind. I caught a buoy and tied up to it, surveyed the damage and went to bed. I didn’t get to sleep, but lay shocked, shivering and miserable until 3.00 in the morning. So much for Swedish hospitality.

I left Graddo as soon as possible, and ran up to Norrtälje to get charts of the Alands. The wind was kind and turned tail to carry me back down the fjord to a nice anchorage where I gorged myself on Norrtälje’s best sticky cakes, and cooked myself an enormous supper. Life took on a rosier hue.

The wind now turned north-easterly and put paid to my plans for a visit to the Alands (it was a little far for me anyway). Instead I turned south, passing through a major naval exercise.

On a good broad reach I had a lovely day in the sun and managed to cover 30 miles very painlessly through the treeless rocky islands of the outer archipelago. I went through the passage between Lokao and Bocko which is a nature reserve and very beautiful indeed. I stayed a night there, and made my way to Sandhamn in bad visibility next day. I arrived just before a full scale fog closed in, and found myself at the Half-Ton Cup. The Edwards family were also there in their Carter 33 and after telling me where to find a berth (it was very crowded) gave me lunch. David Edwards gratified me by revealing that he’d done much the same thing as me in Greece in a double-ender called Crab. I’d been told by so many Swedes that I was mad, that I’d almost begun to believe it. I took their crew Tom Hill for a sail in the windless fog, which didn’t show off Eel to best advantage. The Edwards were entertaining that night, so Tom and I slipped off for a drink which turned into an ice cream when we were charged £1.50 for half a pint of beer. I followed them to Saltsjöbaden, and plagued them while they were trying to clean up and get off home. I’m afraid that they reminded me of the luxuries of cruising, and especially of the luxury of company and conversation.

My next two days were the loneliest of the trip as I sat becalmed trying to make my way back to Stockholm. However, I received the same friendly reception at the KMK motor boat marina, where they put me into the King of Sweden’s berth. His boat’s so big I could lie alongside among posh large motor boats moored stern-to. I stayed a night there and bought a chart of Mälaren, the large lake full of islands inside Stockholm. As sailing country, it doesn’t compare with the archipelago, because the islands play havoc with the wind. However, the weather was beginning to deteriorate, and for my parents’ peace of mind I moved into the totally sheltered Lake Mälaren.

Mälaren is the centre of Swedish civilisation, with three ex-capitals on its shores. I visited the Viking sites at Birka and Gamla Uppsala, the old towns of Sigtuna, Uppsala, Mariefred and Strangnas. I visited castles at Skokloster, Tido, Gripsholmn and Drottningholm. Drottningholm I visited first, and waited for 4 hours in the rain (I was used to it by now) to get a ticket for a baroque opera, performed in the original 18th century court theatre there. The theatre has all original sets and stage machinery (including rolling waves and sailing ships), but candles are now replaced by fake electric ones which flicker unconvincingly. After the performance I went for a walk and found, of all things, the Thames barge Verona, still fully rigged and afloat but very dilapidated.

My memories of Mälaren are punctuated by memories of sticky cakes. All the old towns have excellent bakers, and I indulged my passion for sticky cakes, the stickier the better. I’m afraid that I shall remember the cakes better than the towns. One particular creation, with jellied raspberries surrounded by superb sponge and cream, will be remembered longer than the rather drab town of Strangnas which produced it.

I ended my trip at Kungsör, a small industrial town at the mouth of the Arboga river. I hired a car in Gothenburg, picked up my trailer (whose light board was still working, luckily) and towed it to Kungsör, picked up the boat and towed it back again. The speed limit for unbraked trailers in Sweden in 40 km/h (25 mph), so I did 16 very boring hours of driving over two days. I then stayed three days in the Tor-Line car park, which is in the middle of 24 hour-day container terminal; so I didn’t get much sleep.

Then on Wednesday 10th September I pulled Eel onto the ferry, rather scruffier now than when she came off it. She had covered 837 miles at an average of 11 2/3 miles per day.

Sweden is a lovely country and has some of the loveliest sailing waters in the world. But it is also very expensive. I was spending £25 a week on food alone, and still managed to lose 2 stone. I would have no further reservations about recommending it for a trailer cruise. The west coast I enjoyed the most, and it’s the most convenient for ferries. But the Dalslands Canal and the Stockholm archipelago both make excellent cruising grounds. And if you are prepared to sacrifice some sailing for culture, Lake Mälaren is very interesting too. If I were doing it again, I would try much harder to get a crew, and do the round trip from Gothenburg south to Copenhagen, back to Stockholm and through the Gota Canal.

The man who took Eel to the Dalslands Canal told us he’d only moved one boat smaller than Eel. A recently retired couple were doing the round trip in her. I suppose I could do it when I retire.