One dismal winter day last year I let myself be persuaded by my old friend John to book a cottage in Brittany for a two-family seaside holiday… and regretted it as soon as the weather improved and I tried to find room in a crowded calendar for some real sailing. My temper was not improved by a French colleague who assured me that to be in Brittany without a boat would be “verr fruuustrating”!

Being somewhat slow-witted it took a while before I realized I could take my own boat with me. A look at the ferry brochure revealed that it wouldn’t be too expensive and a study of the map showed that lots of short but interesting trips should be possible. The main risk was, would it ruin the holiday, bearing in mind that John’s wife hates boats, or more likely, would I be even more frustrated by having a boat there but not being able to use it?

It would be nice to say we reached a democratic decision to give it a try, but more honest to say I didn’t tell the others until it was too late to object.

One benefit became clear immediately. Instead of the usual battle to decide what to take and what to leave behind, we simply took everything: all the beach things and the lilos and the tennis gear, the camping stove and the barbecue. It’s amazing what will fit into a Drascombe Longboat.

The new Truckline route from Poole was excellent, though it took nearly an hour to get off the boat and negotiate the Cherbourg traffic jam. The French customs were completely uninterested in either us or our boat, so my crisp new RYA/Small Ship’s Register certificates remained unopened (though I needed them later to hire a mooring). Towing proved a delight on the empty roads and the municipal campsite could not charge us for a ‘bateau’ as this category did not appear in their long list of official charges.

There was plenty of room to park the trailer at the cottage where it stayed for a couple of days while we explored the area, and I ran up some credit by spending a couple of days on the beach — no hardship really with rock pools, caves and cliffs to explore. We went to the local fishermen’s fete (shades of West Mersea Regatta) and found that our landlady was a friend of the Capitan du Port. Things seemed to be working out rather well.

On the Wednesday of the first week we rescued Kate from the indignity of being used as a goods van and launched at Merrien from a super, wide, new and deserted slip at the bottom of a narrow zigzag road. Some of us sailed round to meet the others on ‘our’ beach, but didn’t like the look of the surf so turned back to Doëlan. As soon as we had tied up, right under the sign saying ‘For professionals only’, an old fisherman hobbled up to ask if we had sailed all the way from England. We confessed we had only come 3 miles down the coast, but he insisted on lending us a dinghy and a mooring all the same. He remembered Southampton from visits “pendant la guerre”.

The following day we were up early for a trip to Port-Tudy on the Ile de Groix, a gentle reach both ways with some motoring when the wind died, and a walk up to the main town of Groix.

With three delightful new harbours explored and Kate safely moored fore and aft on massive fishing boat tackle, I could relax for a couple of days of beach, car trips and birthday parties.

Later we found the Port Captain, who only opened his office for one hour each day, and completed the formalities. After inspecting our papers he took down full particulars (mostly guessed on the spur of the moment) in triplicate and I signed to say I was fully conversant with the Law of the Sea and the local Police Regulations. Finally, three days after arriving we were officially allocated our mooring for £2 per day, first day free. The Captain also insisted that we fly an ensign all the time, whether anyone was in the boat or not. To show willing we bought both French and Breton courtesy flags and flew these too, by which time we had nearly as much flag area as sail area.

During the next few days we had a couple of trips to meet up with a shore party at different beaches. A fascinating exercise, selecting a sheltered looking cove from the map, agreeing hand signals, identifying the spot from the sea and, finally, the nerve-racking approach to an unmarked, rock-strewn shore. Arthur Ransome would have loved it!

Half way through the 2nd week the boat party sailed round to Port Bélon in the lovely Bélon river and then walked back, by a short cut specially selected by the skipper, straight through a dense thorn thicket!

The following day we went round to the even more beautiful Aven River and up to Pont‑Aven where we anchored in a previously selected patch of soft mud. Almost immediately the people from the nearest house appeared to lend us a dinghy (the 3rd time) and to offer to keep an eye on the boat for us.

One more beach day and it was time to pack the car and spring clean the cottage. John and family left for home and we moved with empty trailer to a campsite in Bénodet. The gods greeted our move from bricks and mortar to canvas with howling winds, torrential rain and spectacular thunder. This produced a feeling of hopeless indecision — we went to the boat but didn’t take any film or food and hardly any cash. By 2pm the weather was improving, the tide was falling, and if we were going to the Glénan Isles it was now or never. Pont‑Aven was en fête and we slipped down the river to the skirl of bagpipes and the sight of knights in armour riding along the quayside.

It turned into a gorgeous evening with a fine example of that ‘special quality of light’ Gaugin and other Pont‑Aven artists used to rave about. The wind died completely and we motored into Trévignon. It was here we decided it is possible for a place to be too unspoiled. There are four cafés facing the harbour but none of them serve food, there is no bank, and the shop does not stock films. But the sunset was spectacular — dozens of large black rocks scattered across a perfectly flat, pink sea.

Then, amazingly, they launched the life boat — a very sedate business, as it was lowered slowly down its slip and floated off its cradle. The entire population lined the cliff top to follow its progress through binoculars as it disappeared into the dusk in the general direction of a red flare, back the way we had just come.

This was the only night we slept on the boat, and it stayed flat calm all night. But there was one unforeseen hazard — off-duty lifeboatmen relieving themselves from the boathouse catwalk virtually over our heads.

Next day was bright and sparkling with a strong westerly breeze, and we covered 20 miles hard on the wind. Tough on the hands, and wet, but worth every minute of it. We were on starboard tack nearly all the way out, and port tack most of the way back, so the crew did not have much to do except act as a spray deflector and ask sensible questions like, “Daddy, what happens if the wind gets any stronger?” or, later, “Daddy, does it matter if the floorboards are floating out of the cabin?” At least it washed out all the accumulated dirt, sand and picnic crumbs.

The Glénan Islands lived up to their reputation: crystal clear water, pure white sand, a shallow lagoon ringed by small islands and rocks. Hardly any people, and nearly all of them get there by sailing boat. They must be bleak in bad weather, but while we were there the sun shone, it was hot despite the wind, and a happy hour was spent collecting beautiful small shells on the beach and snorkelling before clambering back into soggy clothes and waterproofs for the long beat to Bénodet.

After packing up the tents and reconnoitring by car, we sailed up the Odet, past woods tumbling down to the water’s edge, fine chateaux and beautiful gardens, through the narrows where the tide runs at 7 knots, producing ripples like a mountain stream, to a little stone quay and slip deep in the woods. Here we could take as long as we liked to get the boat unrigged and onto the trailer: we were the only people using it.

And the final verdict? Not quite a cruise, perhaps, but a very successful holiday. Taking the boat added greatly to the enjoyment of everyone, including the non-sailors. It was a constant source of interest. We met and talked to far more locals than we would have done without it. Nine people had at least one sail and, although the mileages were small, each trip was a real voyage, leaving harbour, crossing open sea and arriving at a new place. It added about £90 to the cost of the holiday in extra ferry fares, petrol and moorings, but we probably saved at least that by camping instead of using hotels on the journey (made possible by our capacious trailer). Why didn’t we do it before? Why doesn’t everyone do it?