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The rum punch in De Reef beach bar was a mistake. I thought I was in Keegan’s beach bar – but then there is a beach bar of some kind every few yards along the mile and a half of Bequia’s coastal path. Keegan’s had seemed rather special because it had a wonderful signpost with … Read more

 This caused quite a bit of interest when I posted it on a writers’ Facebook group, so I thought people might like to see it here as well. I used to think that finding a proper agent and a proper publisher was the be-all and end-all for a writer. Now I’m not so sure. … Read more

I’m going to try and put a positive spin on this: After all I’ve said about not consulting doctors and carrying no pharmaceutical products aboard Samsara, I arrived in Grenada and went straight off to find the health centre. For most of the 23-day crossing from the Cape Verde Islands, my major preoccupation was whether … Read more

The three Frenchmen came roaring up in their RIB and cut the motor alongside so that they lay rocking on their own wake – the harbour suddenly silent, 9.9hp on tickover. “Do you want a lift?” said the helmsman. “Do you want a lift?” said the bowman, not realising I had turned down the offer … Read more

It seems ages since I did this: I’m sitting on the lee berth, laptop on my knees, feet braced against the windward – the hatch is just managing to keep the sun off the screen. Dyna-mite by Mud is playing on Spotify and the beer in the little electric cooler I picked up second hand … Read more

Old Man Sailing, the book, included accounts of some extraordinarily vivid dreams which I started having once I had been on my own for a while. Whether these were a direct consequence of the enforced solitude, I have no idea – but they went down rather well. Since this blog is an exercise in pure … Read more

Tell me if I’m being patronising. The other day, I wrote about the desperate situation for people in The Gambia – the economy on the floor, everyone scrabbling for just the basics of life – and how I felt obliged to take on all manner of guides and interpreters and pay over the odds. Here’s … Read more

  His name was Ibrahim. He was a Baghdad taxi driver, and he drove an ancient orange Toyota the size of a tank. He drove it like a tank too. However, as far as I remember, Saddam Hussein’s Russian-built T54s did not boast detachable dashboards. It was behind the dashboard that Ibrahim kept his international … Read more

I was going to be a Spitfire pilot. We all were – backs to the wall, fighting to the death against a merciless invader… This was 1959, an English prep school; War Picture Library with a torch after lights out. For the price of a Mars Bar, you could borrow Boddington’s flying helmet. It had … Read more