“This is where we’re going for our holiday,” my wife announced, holding up a glossy brochure. I looked across the room and focused on it. ‘Historic Greece,’ I read.

It was her turn to choose, but I really felt this was too far to drive and said so.

“We’re not going by car. It’s a package holiday and we fly,” she replied.

“Fly!” I exclaimed. “But what about our old Mirror? They don’t have roof racks on 747’s you know!”

“According to the brochure,” she replied, “there are plenty of sailing boats for hire.”

My face must have taken on what my wife calls ‘one of my martyred looks’. But I felt it was justified. After all, I reckon that being on holiday without my boat is like bacon without eggs or apple pie without cream.

There was a time when she would have understood. I thought back to when we’d met, all those years ago. She’d crewed a heavy old one design in a race, and from that moment on, I wouldn’t have minded if she didn’t know one end of a dinghy from another. We married 12 months later and started talking about raising our own crew. Those were the days, I reflected... but in latter years she’d all but lost her taste for sailing.

I tried another tack and protested, “It will be too hot — you know I can’t stand the heat.” But I had the feeling I’d lost the battle before it had begun.

“According to the brochure,” my wife replied, “it’ll be sunny but not too warm in May, so that’s when we’re going.” She had read so many of these brochures, and from then on it seemed every other sentence began with the same words, ‘According to the brochure...’ as she did her best to convince me we’d have a good time.

“And you never know,” she added one evening, “I might come out sailing with you when we get there.” I nursed that thought over the months ahead.

But there was a disappointment when we arrived. All we could find were sail boards and pedaloes. Not a real dinghy in sight. And I mooned around for the first two days until, quite by chance, we met Sam in a bar. He ran one of the windsurfing schools.

“Your kind of sailing doesn’t really turn me on,” I explained, as we talked over an Ouzo. Sam looked at me as if I was a creature from another planet. He didn’t seem to understand that some people might actually prefer to do it sitting down. He scratched his head in wonderment.

“There doesn’t seem to be a dinghy in the whole place for hire,” I complained.

“I’ve got one you could have,” he replied quite casually. “We didn’t have much call for her last year and we haven’t done her up, but she’s watertight and you can have her out if you like. She’s only an old Mirror. . .” His voice was almost apologetic, but I was elated. “An old Mirror!” I cried. “Where?”

Next morning we met at Sam’s office, and followed him through a dark passage to a yard at the rear, and there she was! Bottom up, and with flaky paint, but a Mirror none the less. “Don’t get too enthusiastic,” Sam warned. “She’s a bit of a wreck.” And I could see what he meant as we turned her over. There was more fibreglass than wood on the bottom, I judged.

“What on earth is that?” I asked, pointing incredulously. Behind the thwart was a rod connecting the port and starboard buoyancy tanks. On it hung a block.

“Oh that. We changed her over to centre main sheeting a few years back,” Sam explained. “It’s supposed to let you do away with the kicking strap and give the crew more room,” he went on.

“And does it?” I asked, wondering why I had never thought of it before. But Sam only shrugged. Together we brought out the wooden mast. I squinted along its length and gave a soft whistle. “She’s a bit wonky,” Sam apologised again.

“Well,” I said, “if ever you lose a corkscrew!” and we all laughed.

We found the sails. They were thin stretched and patched, but I knew they’d do. The rigging was tatty but I judged it safe.

We turned the boat on its side and carried her through the narrow passageway. I loaded up the gear and pulled her over the sand to the water’s edge, where I rigged her.

“Where will I put this?” my wife asked, holding up the swimming togs and our picnic. I indicated the stowage lockers. “Personal to port, ship’s gear to starboard,” I replied. It was one of my invariable rules. She watched me carefully place a couple of bottles of beer in the starboard locker. “Ship’s medicine chest,” I explained with a grin.

Half an hour later we were off. The morning breeze was set fair for a reach down the coast, and we ran out of the bay until we found the steadier wind. Here we hauled our sheets and shaped our course. I have never felt so cack-handed in all my life as I grappled with that centre main. One hand couldn’t help the other. In all my years of dinghy sailing, this was the first time I’d ever tried. I finished up using my teeth to grip the sheet whilst I took a fresh handhold lower down.

“Thank heavens you don’t wear dentures!” my wife quipped. “One gust and they’d be over the side!” I laughed, and the water chuckled under the old Mirror’s bows as she started to move.

We reached on down the coast for more than an hour, passing rocky headlands where the offshore breezes became fickle, and past bays whose beaches had fewer and fewer people on them the further from the resort we went.

“Shall we go in here?” I asked at one point. On her first sail for many years I was anxious not to subject her to a marathon. But she wanted to push on round the next headland and I was glad she did, for it turned out to be a small estuary. A ruined fort clung to one side of the cliffs and a deserted beach faced us on the other. We hauled our sheets to beat in and after two or three boards we could make out a village further along the river. “Let’s go and investigate,” my crew said excitedly. After a few more tacks we could make out a taverna with a cool awning over the veranda. It seemed to beckon us and we nosed the old Mirror between the fishing boats and alongside the quay.

We felt like explorers as we stepped ashore. “Where is this?” I asked a fisherman, speaking slowly in the hope that he’d understand. “Here,” he said, pointing towards the ground beneath his feet. “Iss Vavari,” came the answer.

We forgot about our picnic and enquired about a meal. We didn’t so much as order one as have it suggested to us by the chap running the taverna. He sensed our newness to things Greek and took us under his wing. “You like fiss?” he enquired. I noticed they have difficulty with the ‘sh” sound in our language. So fiss it was, beautifully grilled and served garnished with lemon and olives, accompanied by a salad and retzina. The wine went straight to our heads of course, and we dreamed away the heat of the afternoon under the awning, taking in the beautiful loneliness of the place.

“She’s got no name,” my wife suddenly announced, breaking my reverie. She was pointing glass in hand and slightly glazed of eye to where the old Mirror bobbed. “What’ll we call her?” I thought for a long moment. There was a time when I thought Mirrors were ugly boats. Then I bought one and rapidly changed my mind. “Easy,” I said. “We’ll call her ‘Aphrodite’.”

“’Aphrodite’?” she repeated with raised eyebrows, “The Goddess of Love?” “She’s got the same kind of timeless beauty,” I explained. “Oh! That’s nice, I like that,” she said. “Shall we have another bottle of wine to celebrate the christening?” I fancied she was having trouble mixing her ‘s’ and ‘sh’ sounds now.

We left Vavari later and ran back down the river, beached ‘Aphrodite’ on the sand we had passed and swum our muzzy heads away. And even later we set off home, a close fetch this time with some spray to keep us cool. The old Mirror bobbed and curtsied in the little waves.

I was busy thinking how nice it was to have her company in a boat again when she spoke. “You know,” she said, “I have enjoyed today so much. We must come again.”

I put my foot on the mainsheet, freeing my hand for a moment. With it I found one of hers and gave it a squeeze.

“According to the brochure,” I said in a not unkindly mimic, “according to the brochure, Greece can be magic.” We grinned at each other.

There were many other sails in ‘Aphrodite’ of course, as well as visits to places of antiquity. We must have seen most of the treasures of Greece. If you fancy going, any travel agent will tell you where they are and how to find them: but there’s one that isn’t listed — an ancient Mirror, with a wonky mast and a curious centre mainsheet. Only I know where she is — unless that is, Sam’s finally decided to pension her off.