CONSIDERING the Englishman’s traditional love of the sea, it is rather surprising that more of them do not travel abroad under their own power.

I refer, chiefly, to the outboard dinghy owner. Will they never forget that cross channel race ? After all, it is not essential to use a flimsy hydroplane with an unreliable motor. Nor is there any real objection to a compass. In all seriousness, I suggest that you call upon Uncle George, or whoever is the particular member of your family who has ” been to sea and knows,” make a rude and pointed remark to him, and set off upon an adventure you will not forget in a hurry.

Imagine yourself arriving at Dover and informing the customs officials that you are bound for France and you don’t know when you will be back. You are now a master of craft, and command just as much respect as the captain of the Europa. A fast and smooth run across the Channel, and you drop into Calais to send a defiant telegram to Uncle George. Now where ? Boulogne, with its smell of fish ? Ostend ? Or right down the French coast to the beautiful little port of St. Valery ? Right. Round Cape Gris Nez, and past Wimereux into Boulogne for a drink. Out again, and

round the breakwater, passing numerous little French seaside villages. Past the first bay, and then more villages, followed by another bay. Now you must look out for a large green buoy. When you reach it, turn left and follow the buoyed channel to St. Valery. What ? Didn’t know that St. Valery is one of the finest duck shooting centres in the world ? Well, it is.

You are now restored to health, and have some energy to spare ? Very well. Down the buoyed channel again: keeping to the left this time.

Round the corner, keeping fairly near the green buoy, and on past more villages. Not many minutes, and there ahead is le Tripod. Life here ; plenty of it. Golf, tennis and various other amusements. Probably, plenty of English people too.

Still, all good things must end, so back you go to Boulogne. Possibly it doesn’t seem sensible to go to Calais, so off across the Channel again. That depression in the cliffs is Dover. You can’t see the town at first. Once again the customs people, who will this time give you a piece of paper ; then out to sea again, to wherever it is you wish to go. Waiting on the quay will be Uncle George. He will probably have remembered some hairraising stunt he did in his youth with a sailing boat.—R.

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