There is no doubt in my mind that the idea for my adventure was planted in 1949 when I picked up a copy of the life-changing book, Swallows and Amazons. Every little adventure is still firmly planted in my head some fifty-six years later, but back to my adventure, not that of John, Susan, Roger, and of course, "Titty".

I was close to tears, soaking wet and freezing cold, and what was worse, I was sinking. I was only hours into my expedition, code-named "Backwards through France", and it appeared that my attempt to row an 11ft. Embassy sailing dinghy some 350 miles from Castets near Bordeaux via Toulouse to Agde on the Mediterranean, was to end right there about 300 yards from my start position.

It was early May 2004 and the sun should have been shining but I had to deal with constant heavy rain, snow, hail and thunder since leaving my home Somerset town of Clevedon some three days before. My launch crew, namely my son Mark and Dave Redfern had caught their flight back to the UK. I was well and truly on my own.

The rain eased a little and I was aware that with constant bailing the water level was going down. I had not experienced a major leak, it was just the sheer volume of water pouring down into my open boat which was almost my downfall. So I alternated my bailing with rowing and set off, mindful of the fact that not only did I want to complete the challenge I had set myself but I was also using the opportunity to raise funds for the "Babe Appeal" a local BBC Radio Bristol charity, all funds going towards the building of a new children's hospice. I must express my appreciation to DCA Librarian Mike Williams whose help whilst trying to identify the Embassy was greatly appreciated. It appears that following the success of the Mirror Dinghy, The Wills Tobacco Co. decided to design their very own dinghy, which is similar, though heavier than the Mirror, and has a pointed bow. My example had been lying peacefully in the bottom of a Wiltshire garden for some twelve years.

Following a winter's total restoration project, which included the fitting of rowlocks and a boom tent based on information in Margaret Dye's excellent paperback Dinghy Cruising, the good ship Lucky Mallard emerged resplendent in her new deep red livery.

The first week was cold, wet and miserable, then southern France showed its true colours and the sun finally appeared and was not to desert me for the following four weeks. Bedding, clothing, passport and money was spread out on the bank to dry. Things were improving rapidly. I was making reasonable progress at around 15kms a day despite the fact that I had not rowed a boat for many years, had not partaken in any fitness programme, and was shortly to celebrate my 65th birthday. True, my hands and rear end were showing signs of wear and tear, especially the latter, to the point that I felt treatment was advisable.

Agen was a major town on my route. I felt it best to take a day off and hunt down some soothing cream. I consulted my dictionary and found the words for rowing boat, cream and sore behind (which was quite a challenge). I entered a rather grand chemists, hoping to find a male assistant to confide in. I was confronted by five very young, very attractive female sales assistants. They sold me a preparation which worked wonders and off I went again, having replenished the galley with those vital essentials: cider to ward off dehydration, and chocolate for energy.

My chart confirmed that I had made good progress and things were warming up. Time to change out of the winter woollies and into something more comfortable. I pulled into the bank and looked around. Nobody in sight; in fact I was miles from anywhere. Time to put on the shorts, might as well change underwear as well whilst I was at it. I double-checked, still nobody in sight, so the disrobing began and was at the point of no return when out of the bushes appeared a high speed express train which was not living up to its name and was proceeding very slowly in the direction of Toulouse. I panicked! Confronted by all those noses pressed up against the windows I jammed both legs into one leg of my Y-fronts and promptly fell over into a patch of nettles.

Several mornings later I had a magical experience. The whole of the canal surface was covered in blossom, from whence it came I know not. I glanced down to find that I was sporting two passengers. Perched, one on each oar, clinging on for dear life, were two dragonflies. The sun, the blossom, these beautiful insects, not forgetting the breakfast of cider and chocolate – things looked pretty good.

I became aware of a young, blonde-haired apparition in a white trouser suit beckoning me from the bank. She invited me to her 28th birthday party. She, together with her fellow companions, was from the French-speaking Island of Mauritius. After copious amounts of champagne, I was on my way again, but not before receiving a round of applause and a sizeable donation for the Hospice appeal. People can be so nice.

Upon pulling in to the rather attractive town of Moissac, I was given the key to the shower, and having refreshed myself proceeded to explore the sights. Upon my return I was rather surprised to find quite a crowd gathered by Lucky Mallard.

"We thought you were dead," the lady harbourmaster said. It appeared that I was seen entering the shower, but nobody had seen me leave. I had, as instructed, locked the door behind me. The fire brigade had been summoned. I had been declared "missing". The Police had started looking for me. With everything sorted I retired to my bunk, well 'plank' actually, and was soon sound asleep.

At around 2 am I awoke and wondered why. Peering through the end of the boom cover, I could not see the other bank, only to find that I was being squeezed against the harbour wall by a very large floating restaurant. I felt a little miffed by this and climbed out to voice my complaints to the owner only to find that there was nobody on board and there were no lines ashore. I had to disturb the lady harbour master, and inform her of the situation. She freaked out and rang the Police who arrived, blue lights flashing, armed to the teeth. All a bit of an over-reaction, I thought. Possibly not a lot happens in Moissac.

The locks were fun, being designed for vessels somewhat larger than Lucky Mallard. On more than one occasion we almost came to grief. In one such instance I literally shot up the side of a very heavy steel lock gate which was closing rapidly and threatening to turn my frail craft into matchwood. An overzealous hire boat skipper had hit the automatic sequence button too soon.

The French locks are semi automatic and often depend on electronic sensors to confirm that you are actually waiting in the lock. Of course we were so low in the water we passed under these invisible beams and I had to locate the sensor and place my hat over it in order to get things moving.

Our progress was being monitored by local Radio. I reported in "live" via my mobile phone every Monday lunchtime and related my latest adventures.

I am pleased to add that I did achieve my goal. A little over 350 miles in five weeks plus will not appear in the record books, but there again it was not a race. Everywhere I went, I was treated with the utmost kindness, although the Canal Lateral and the Canal du Midi are spellbinding places to be in a small boat, the people I met made the trip more than worthwhile. I am indebted to those of all nationalities who bestowed so much hospitality and for the many donations to the children's Hospice fund and for confirming once again those words of Ratty's I first heard as a small child: "There is nothing, absolutely nothing half as much worth doing as simply messing about in boats, simply messing!"