and a Bosnian Border Dash. If our life were a song, the last few months would be a frantic jazz improvisation with me playing on a kazoo and a set of overheating bagpipes. Any melody we'd managed to scrape together on our problem-plagued trip north had been well and truly drowned out by the percussion of passport stamps...

You have to understand, this period was, by any sane metric, absolutely bonkers. Pookie, my wonderful wife, who possesses a congenital inability to process two-letter words like “No”, was being pulled across Europe like a celebrity tug-of-war rope. It was only April, and already our carbon footprint resembled that of a small nation. The scoreboard read: Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, back to Thailand (for good measure), Montenegro, Malta, back to Montenegro (we forgot something, probably our wits), Croatia, and now Italy. This travel-binge culminated in a final, breathless two-day dash to back to Malta again (because what’s a month without a Maltese interlude? ) to essentially to collect our precious Nomad Visas. The things we do for paperwork.

But looming over this whirlwind was a dark, expensive cloud. A cloud shaped like two 20-year-old Saildrives.

Now, anyone who has ever owned a boat will nod along wearily to this next part. There exists a universal law of marine economics: the moment an item is designated ‘for a boat’, its price multiplies by a factor of ‘because we can’. I am convinced there is a secret cabal (A word I only recently learned from watching The Black List – A fabulous program if you have Netflix), Yes, a cabal of chandlery owners who hear the word ‘yacht’ and see a walking, talking money bag with a foolishly optimistic expression. A quote for 8 curtains, each less than 1m square in material? "That will be 4,000 euros please Sir!" Not because they are lined in gold, but because it was, and I quote, “Marine Grade”. I assume this means it can withstand a direct torpedo hit, whilst also keeping out a bit of sun. The demise of our SD20 Saildrives (for the land-lubbers, that’s the mechanical wizardry that takes the engine's power, sends it through the hull, executes a nifty 90-degree turn, and spins the propellers) was a financial thunderclap of epic proportions.

And so, with this fiscal sword of Damocles dangling over our beloved Sawasdeekat, we did what any normal, red-blooded couple would do. We embraced denial with the fervour of Olympic athletes. Pookie buried herself in a storm of chili and coriander, creating aromas so divine they almost masked the scent of burning money.

I, trying unsuccessfully to hide an ever-increasing waistline, also tried to find anything, I mean anything to do, other than contemplate the soul-crushing reality of sitting on dry land for two months. Sitting watching our savings evaporate into a cloud of anti-fouling paint and engine grease was not something I wanted to do.

Enter Fate, with a delightful plot twist. Before this nautical nightmare began, my sister Hazel and her partner Mike had booked flights to Croatia, dreaming of joining us for sun-drenched sails around the Dalmatian islands. The vision of them climbing a rickety ladder 15 feet in the air to join us for a warm beer in a dusty boatyard wasn't exactly the brochure image we’d promised. So, we pivoted. We organised a proper holiday. Mike, a man of impeccable taste, found a stunning Air B&B right on the water in Zadar, and Pookie and I pointed our hire car south, leaving the sorry sight of Sawasdeekat on stilts in Monfalcone.

Fun Fact: Zadar, Croatia. This ancient city boasts something truly unique: a Sea Organ. Designed by architect Nikola Bašić, it’s a series of marble steps leading into the sea, under which are hidden tubes and whistles. The movement of the waves and tides pushes air through them, creating a random, hauntingly beautiful melody composed entirely by the sea itself. We sat and listened to it and I feel it’s a place where architecture and nature melodically duet.

The journey through Slovenia was a scenic blur and I’ll admit to a flutter of trepidation on that drive to Zadar. I hadn’t been on a holiday with Hazel since we were spotty teenagers. Also my interactions with Mike had so far been a mere flutter of brief family gatherings, so Mike was still, in many ways, an unknown quantity. I needn’t have worried. Within an hour of hugs and hellos, it was as if we’d been holidaying together for years. The conversation flowed as freely as the local wine (which was very nice by the way).

Our parents, in their motorhome-toting heyday, had dragged us around what was then called Yugoslavia. Hazel and I shared the same fuzzy, sun-bleached memories of children who knew they were part of something special. While most of our friends' summers were spent in places like Paignton, we were on annual expeditions across Europe in our old blue Commer Wanderer. It felt like a secret, fabulous escape, and of all those adventures, one place that had truly stolen our breath was Plitvice Lakes. So, with a sense of pilgrimage, we decided to retrace those steps.

Memory Lane, it turns out, is not a lane at all. It’s a breathtaking valley of sixteen terraced lakes, joined by a series of waterfalls that cascade like liquid lace. The water is a colour that doesn’t seem real. A hypnotic, crystalline turquoise so clear you can see trout hanging motionless in the currents, as if painted onto the landscape. Wooden walkways snake across the surface of the water, taking you so close to the roaring falls that the spray kisses your face. It is a place that defies photography and vocabulary. You simply have to stand there, breathe in the damp, green air, and feel very, very small.

Fun Fact: Plitvice Lakes National Park. The stunning travertine barriers that form the lakes and waterfalls are a living, growing geological phenomenon. They are created by the deposition of minerals from the water by moss, algae, and bacteria. Essentially, the waterfalls are built by a collaboration between geology and biology (the park is quite literally growing before your eyes (at a rate of about 1cm per year).

So in Croatia, we ate, we drank, we walked until our feet ached with happiness. And yes, Pookie got recognised. In a small street in Zadar, a woman did a double-take, pointed, and erupted into a smile. “It’s you! From the telly! The one with the amazing spices! Oh can I have my photo!?” It’s a joy to watch; Pookie is always so genuinely gracious, her face lighting up as she chats. It was a wonderful, heart-warming few days that knitted us all a little closer together.

All too soon, it was time for the fond farewells and the drive back to reality. Now, you know us. We see a border and we get a twitch. Bosnia & Herzegovina was right there, on the doorstep. It seemed impolite not to pop in for a cup of coffee. We were merrily reminiscing, miles deep in conversation, when we virtually bumped into the border post. A quick check revealed our hire car agreement had more exclusions than a politician's manifesto and Bosnia was a definite no-no. Undeterred, and desperate for a fridge magnet and a story, we did the only sensible thing. We abandoned the car in a layby and walked across the border.

We ambled into the nearest town, had a perfectly pleasant lunch, bought our magnet, and walked back, smugly ticking another country off our list. It wasn’t the most profound cultural immersion, but it was a delightful, spontaneous adventure. Besides, we had a plane to catch.

The UK was calling. Eddie, the wonderfully talented winner from Pookie’s MasterChef year, had recently opened his restaurant and was launching his first cookbook. He had invited Pookie to be there for support. It was a no-brainer.

A quick flight later, and we were driving to Hull. The trip was a blast, catching up with Eddie and his lovely wife Nami, and celebrating in his success. For me, the UK trip was a big success, as I had the immense privilege of being able to see my daughter, Alicia, for her birthday. Two weeks in the UK have a peculiar talent for evaporating, and before we could say “I’ll just have one more meal out,” we were back.

Back on the boat and back staring at fuel filters and water pumps. Because, of course, the sail drives were merely the headline act in a festival of failures. A whole heap of minor repairs and improvements queued up; each one demanding attention and cash in readiness for our big Atlantic crossing. Pookie, saint that she is, continued her campaign to keep my BMI in the ‘jolly mariner’ range with a relentless parade of incredible dishes. This delicious distraction kept us sane as we awaited the delivery of our new mechanical heart.

Now, my mother always taught me that if you don’t have anything nice to say, say nothing at all. A fine philosophy for a child. But as an adult, and a blogger, I feel a duty to report the facts, even when they are dipped in frustration.

The installation of the new sail drives was… an education. The marina in Monfalcone subcontracted the work to a local “expert” company. I am the first to admit my mechanical knowledge is sketchy at best. I operate on a system of hopeful poking and fervent swearing. However, even I know that when Yanmar provides a specific, one-foot-wide rubber seal, designed with the express purpose of keeping the Adriatic Sea from joining you in your bed, you fit the bloody thing. On one side of our dual hulled marine experiment, the team did.

On the other, they looked at this crucial piece of engineering, shrugged with a Gallic flair that would impress an Italian football player, and used what I can only describe as a high-quality bathroom sealant. When I queried this, via the marina, the response was a masterpiece of nonchalance: “È ok, non è veramente necessaria.” Meaning It’s okay, it’s not really necessary.

What. The. Actual.

Then why did Yanmar include it?

For fun?

As a decorative pastry?

I was incandescent. I wrote to Yanmar themselves, hoping for a cavalry charge of common sense. Their response was that of a coward in a custard fight: “Ultimate responsibility lies with the fitter.” I was not about to demand (and no doubt pay) they de-install a €20,000 piece of kit to fit a €50 seal. I surrendered, clinging to the thin, veiled comfort of a guarantee, praying we wouldn't need to invoke it.

By June, we were finally, finally, ready to leave. And it was in our final days that we met Siegfried. A charismatic retired advertising producer, he spotted Pookie on the stern of Sawasdeekat, holding aloft a plate of something glorious for her Instagram. He was a fascinating man, full of stories about flying and sailing, and utterly captivated by Pookie’s culinary artistry. So much so, that he invited us aboard his own vessel, the rather more luxurious Lady Jane 2, a Sanlorenzo SD92 motor yacht, for dinner. Pookie, of course, offered to cook.

It was a glorious evening, and a reminder of the community and serendipity that makes this life so magical. It almost made us forget the sealant-related sins of the past weeks.

Almost.

Because next week, we finally cast off the lines from Monfalcone. Our hearts are full of anticipation for the glories of Croatia, Montenegro, and Greece. But trouble, it seems, is a stowaway on Sawasdeekat. Our departure was… eventful. We barely made it out of the bay alive.

But that, dear readers, is a story for next time so until then we will be living the tide and error way!

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