...A short motor around the corner to Port D’Arcachon and I am guaranteed a warmer welcome. I duly radioed my imminent arrival and was told to raft up on the end of ‘E’ pontoon. Being single-handed, it was with much relief that I spotted a scruffy chap sanding the hull of his steel yacht Old Drifter and fearing that my French would let me down, I indicated my intention to come alongside with much pointing and hopeful raising of eyebrows.

“Non, non, c’est ne pas possible…” came the now familiar response.

Then, upon spotting the red ensign flying from Canasta’s stern, the chap, who I now know to be called ‘John’, with an exaggerated Oxford English accent – not unlike, say, Tom Baker or Brian Blessed but with an almost Monty Python-esque hint of French, said something like…

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry but that just isn’t going to be possible…”

“Ah, you’re English” I asked

“No, I’m not but I really must apologise… there seems to have been a mistake. I regret that you must find another place to tie up” he replied with an obviously anxious tone.

Slightly embarrassed by his concern that I had been inconvenienced, I urged him not to worry. Simple - I would just ask the Harbour Master to find another spot.

“Yes of course, but it really isn’t the way I would want to greet our overseas guests… Perhaps you will allow me to share a little whisky with you?”

I don’t drink but so far on my great adventure, I had only set foot very briefly on French soil and already, I had been invited to “share a little whisky”! As luck would have it, the next available space was next door on ‘D’ pontoon and without hesitation, my new best friend was running to take a line from me. That done, I discovered that John had worked as an English Lecturer at Bristol University between ’63 and ’65 and was brought up to believe that to succeed in life, it is essential to speak English. He made it his life’s work. I lived in Bristol for nine years and never met anyone that aristocratic but I couldn’t help listening analytically, longing to hear west-country Bristolian influences for total comedy effect!

There’s a John – Jean-Marie Bordes, to be found in every marina. You know the stereotype well – pipe smoking, long unkempt greying hair, his trusty Renault held together with packing tape while his beloved boat, a Petit Prince steel ketch enjoys his tenacious attention. In my experience, these types are normally eccentrics, loners and more often than not, cynically disillusioned. John though turned out to be an encyclopaedia of local knowledge with friends all over the town and an unyielding generosity. He insisted on proudly driving me through the town on a guided tour stopping often to take care of a few provisions and chandlery. If you’re interested, Arcachon was developed as a seaside resort during the reign of Napoleon III in the late 18^th century. If you’re not, well, sorry! All that remains of Arcachon’s original splendour is the Casino, originally the Palace, on the seafront and the odd glimpse of typically French Colonial architecture that has, without exception, been turned into modern apartments. Turn your back on the seafront though, head towards Ville d'Hiver (Winter Town) and you could be in another era, a magnificent neo-baroque showcase of Moorish grandeur, intricate brickwork, ornate balconies and unmistakably French Mansard roofs. It’s peaceful, refreshingly untidy and disordered with a ‘lived-in and enjoyed’ sort of feel. There’s no pretentious wealth here. Wealth – yes, but modest cars adorn the overgrown drives and the lack of road markings suggests a civilized, courteous neighbourhood - A living museum. Continuing on our guided tour, at every turn learning more about John’s surprising love of English apple pie, warm English beer, steak and kidney pie, I am surprise to discover that the sand dune I passed on my approach to La Vigne, La Dune du Pilat, is in fact the largest in Europe at over 100m high and 3km long!

Oh, the dice can be cruel! I was planning to leave the Bassin d’Arcachon the following day in a concerted effort to keep the momentum going. So it was time to create a list of six onward landfalls. Together, we studied the electronic charts, the Reeds Nautical Almanac and plucked from John’s infinite geographical knowledge a list of six anchorages, navigable rivers and marinas. I had made the decision that many of the options would direct me to the mouth of a bay or a river where I could then consult the dice again to choose from the various options within. Some would be anchorages and some would be marinas but, to simplify the selection process, I’d let the dice make that decision once I was underway and much nearer. So, the formula was working well. One option, number six, will always be the most challenging. In this case, Ilha Terceira in The Azores would be over 1000 miles of sailing. Contrary to that, Bayonne in the Basque-French region would be just a short day’s sail down the coast and thus became option number one. The four remaining choices of various distances were Ribadeo, Ria de Vigo, Ria de Ares and Castro Urdiales all dotted liberally along the north Spanish coast, around the corner at Cape Finisterre and down to the northern tip of Portugal. With mixed emotions, I rather hoped the dice would oblige with a six. I was becoming restless again, frustrated by the prospect of an entire world to explore and anxious to make an expedited voyage towards India, Asia – the unknown and unpredictable. Europe has so much to offer and under normal cruising circumstances, I really couldn’t have complained but this was about having an adventure and broadening my own horizons. Not just in geographical terms but in experience, culture, tolerance, belief and preconceptions of race and religion. This was about discovering my own limits and putting my own existence into perspective. I needed the dice to force my hand and push me harder, further. John obligingly threw the dice and… a one! Bayonne!