Stern test of belief in sailing bliss

Things did not - let us be frank - get off to a perfect start. In my mind, I had convinced myself that a sailing holiday in Greece would be an unblemished idyll.

In the past, as I watched pristine white yachts glide gently into port, I was consumed with envy. A holiday on a yacht in the Mediterranean would, I felt sure, make it possible at last to get a taste of the easygoing elegance portrayed in the movie The Talented Mr Ripley, Chet Baker soundtrack and all (though preferably without the dead bodies).

The itinerary for our holiday follows the coasts of Cephalonia and Ithaca, the islands of Captain Corelli and Odysseus respectively, which reinforces the mythic expectations.

The reality is more mundane. Our first day on the water begins with a tangled anchor, and we find ourselves humiliatingly marooned in the middle of the harbour for what feels like an eternity. Then, before we jettison our sailors' L-plates, we are reminded of the admittedly unsurprising fact that if you go sailing it is possible that you may encounter real wind, perhaps even a brisk wind.

Our first onboard picnic consists of what would became our daily diet: tomato, feta, and olives, sprinkled with oregano, drenched in olive oil and accompanied by a glass of chilled retsina. In short, pure bliss. But it is abandoned in a chaotic hurry when the sea becomes alarmingly rough, at a time when we are far from confident that Lady Pisiou (our boat's name is interestingly chosen) is under our control.

Then come the navigation problems, when we find that the number of specks of rock that we can see from the boat is greater than the number marked on the navigation chart, which leaves us confused as to where we might be. Winding down a window to ask the way does not seem a practical option.

Finally, and most crucially, there is the small matter of how to haul up the mainsail properly. Despite our best efforts, the sail remains gathered in crumpled confusion some way from the top of the mast, and refuses to move a millimetre further. It looks wrong, and flaps wronger.

Apart from acknowledging our joint ignorance, accompanied by an energetic dialogue between the two co-skippers as to who had done what wrong, we both realise that we have no idea what to do, as we limp towards the port where we are due to meet up for a taverna evening meal with the rest of the flotilla.

All told, it is an exhausting experience. A few more days like this, and phone calls to divorce lawyers will probably figure high on the agenda. Only an early visit to our boat by Nick, the unfazable flotilla skipper, helps to restore a semblance of calm below and above decks.

After inspecting shackles and halyards, Nick, an ex-army officer with a piratically tangled red beard, pronounces that the boat has been handed over to us wrongly rigged. Gloriously, therefore, it is not our fault. After the requisite changes, the sail glides without resistance to the top of the mast. Our other crises are soon forgotten, too.

Navigation becomes easier when I make a more concentrated effort not to confuse landmark A with landmark B. A generous wind and a sharply tilting boat seem a source of pleasure not alarm. By the end of the second day, it is clear that a flotilla holiday can indeed be a way to relax, even for almost-beginners.

I sailed dinghies as a teenager; my partner has sailed on a yacht in the Baltic Sea; more recently, we crewed on a yacht in Poland's Mazurian lake district. But neither of us have taken responsibility for a boat before.

Even after a two-day skippering course during the first week of the holiday in a Club Med-style holiday village on the island of Levkas, north of Cephalonia, we feel less than confident. And I'm still not sure if the man-overboard practice was intended to instil confidence or fear.

In the circumstances, there is, on the one hand, the comforting omniscience of Nick and his team, and, on the other hand, the all-important radio. In the event, Lady Pisiou's radio is only used for boat-to-boat teenage chat, and for arranging the unmissable lunch-and-swim rendezvous with friends. Most of those in the flotilla are in the same boat (as it were). Indeed, the only yacht crew who eagerly boast of their extensive experience are also the ones who managed (a) to drop anchor into their rubber dinghy instead of the water while mooring, the definitive idiot's action, which we had repeatedly been warned against, and (b) to foul other people's anchors because, unlike the rest of us morons, they did not need to follow anybody's instructions when mooring. For some reason, can't think why, the word Schadenfreude comes to mind.

The destinations vary. Sometimes, we are moored in an empty bay - moon, stars, barbecue, and us. Sometimes we spend the night in busy little ports like Fiskardo, the picture-postcard charming little fishing town on the northern tip of Cephalonia. The Venetian lighthouse at the harbour entrance is a reminder of the different rulers, from Normans and Turks through to the English, who passed through Cephalonia until the union with Greece in 1864. There is a reminder of more recent occupations, too, in the massed copies of Captain Corelli's Mandolin, which, in a clutch of different languages, weigh down every bookstand.

In Fiskardo, the brightly painted fishing boats jostle alongside expensive yachts; and the magnificence of the grilled fish served in the quayside tavernas is matched only by the magnificence of the distinctly un-Greek prices. Stories about Steven Spielberg and friends dining here may be apocryphal, but in Fiskardo they seem believable.

The high prices are a reminder of the extent to which Cephalonia - "a half-forgotten island which rises improvidently and inadvisedly from the Ionian Sea", in the words of Iannis, Captain Corelli's doctor-cum-historian - has recovered from the devastating earthquake of 1953. The earthquake destroyed 90 per cent of Cephalonia's buildings, and triggered huge emigration.

Now, the success of Louis de Bernieres' novel has helped to turn the trickle of visitors into a flood. The film will no doubt encourage yet more crowds to visit Cephalonia, where "the light is like mother-of-pearl" and where "the island smells of pines, warm earth, and the dark sea".

Even now, some corners of this part of the Ionian Sea remain undisturbed.

For our one night off the comforting but restrictive flotilla leash, we stop off the coast of little Ithaca, to the east of big-brother Cephalonia, in glorious solitude. Despite the island's rugged charm and Odyssean fame, mass tourism is non-existent here. A long breakfast under the trees in the dreamily quiet, gleaming-white port of Kioni becomes the perfect antidote to the frenetic buzz of Fiskardo. After endlessly prolonged coffees, we sail across to the tiny island of Atokos, where just a single fisherman's house overlooks the sheltered bay, for yet another swim. (As Byron is reported to have said, on a visit from Cephalonia to Ithaca: "Let's have a swim. I detest antiquarian twaddle.")

We then speed with the freshening winds north towards Levkas in the afternoon. In the words of Ionian, the guidebook bible which contains everything you could want to know about cruising in this part of the world, and a little bit more: "The wind gets up at midday, blows through the afternoon, and dies at night. A perfect gentleman's wind." And so it proves.

Holidays are about creating a perfect illusion: fenced-off tranquillity, untouched by the dimly remembered chaos of the life that has been left behind at home.

If the holiday can hint at borrowed luxury, so to speak, then so much the better. In that respect, a holiday on a yacht is perfect: the ultimate great escape. And, if you succeed in getting the mainsail up, it can even be quite restful, too.

- INDEPENDENT

Casenotes:


Travel agents can find yacht charters and packages. On the internet, one of the most useful sources is The First Resort.

The best source of information on water transport around Greece, plus connections to Cyprus, Turkey and other destinations in the Eastern Mediterranean, is Greek Island Hopping 2001 by Frewin Poffley.

Steve Crawshaw travelled with Sunsail Holidays (023 9222 2222). A one-week flotilla holiday in the Ionian Sea costs from £400 ($1290 - based on six sharing in May) to £1400 ($4520 - based on two sharing in August); two-week holidays, with the first week spent at a beach club and the second week in a flotilla, vary from £500 ($1620 - six sharing in May) to £1600 ($5170 - two sharing in August).

Links:


The First Resort

Sunsail