There is more to owning a dinghy than handling it on the water. It can even involve the family pet. Writing these notes at Xmas time, I would like to tell you about Clement, a superb and much admired, white-with-teak, short-haired cat.

He came to us in a strange way as in a fairy story and he always had a slightly unreal air, as if the fairies had sent him and might, at any moment, take him away. One lovely morning in early May, on stepping out into the back garden before breakfast to enjoy the cool air, I found Clement sitting in the hollow chestnut tree, the sticky buds of which were just opening into green leaf. “Who are you?” I asked and he jumped down and came to me. Finding my response friendly, he decided to stay with us.

I put up a couple of notices to say we had found him. After a week, when I was beginning to be afraid that someone would claim him, I set off for the Otter Association rally at Hickling. When I phoned from the boatyard to say I had arrived safely, Kate said that a lady was coming to collect the cat. That seemed to settle the matter. But through the week following the rally, as I explored the north Broads rivers, the feeling grew in me that the cat was intended for us. And so it was. On arriving home, I found him still there. The lady who had come for him saw he was not the cat she had lost and had gone away in tears.

To judge by mortal feline standards, Clement — as we named him — was about five years old. He showed overwhelming interest in the dinghy. As soon as I removed the cover, he would jump into the boat and sit there while any work or preparations were going on, getting out only at the last moment before the cover was replaced or the boat moved off down the road. On fine days, he would cradle himself on the boat cover to bask in the sun. It was as if, in a previous existence, he had been associated with boats or the sea, perhaps in the company of mermaids. I was tempted to take him sailing with me, but desisted for fear of losing him that way. Once, when I had rigged the boat in the drive and had erected the tent cover over the gaff, which serves as the ridge pole, to effect some modifications, Clem sat on the tent ridge throughout the operation.

Clem was an enigma we never solved. He was most companionable and slightly dog-like in that he would walk with me to the letter box in the next street, but there was always that hint of reserve and other-worldliness. Had he chosen us for our sakes, or had he come to be with the boat, accepting us only as part of the deal? He knew the difference between the departure of the boat for an afternoon jaunt on the river and that for a distant cruise of several days. In the latter case, as the car and dinghy drew away, he would sit in the flowerbed looking at me, his rather owl-like face quite impassive, his eyes registering more sorrow than displeasure. Seeing him sitting there always made me feel a bit guilty as I set off. But, on returning, even before the car stopped, Clem would come leaping over the side gate to welcome the dinghy and me back home.

We loved Clem, and did our best to please him. So he was allowed to stay with us for many years until, still a mystery, he passed into a deep sleep.