When I was a young boy I remember my parents, uncles, aunties and cousins all being keen on the great outdoors. That meant camper vans, tents, hostels and eventually, for my mum and dad, boats. I hated them all. Even from an early age, while friends and family were all waxing lyrical about being at one with nature, I felt like a fish out of water. The comforts of a warm, dry bed were something I never tired of; home-cooked meals and four walls made of brick were essentials to my make-up.
I tried camping and went boating with my father many times, and I always came to the same conclusion. I relished the company and sense of adventure but I wanted to enjoy them while staying warm, dry and surrounded by the type of creature comforts that a spoilt, rich kid would take for granted. Except I wasn’t spoilt and we were far from rich.
GROWING PAINS
Growing up didn’t seem to make any difference to my deep-seated hatred of discomfort, especially when it came to small boats. I recall one particularly miserable trip as a teenager, when two friends and I spent a night anchored off the Isle of Wight in their tiny fishing
