The tides also meant that I couldn't leave St Vaast to head east until the afternoon. The strong winds of the last several days died finally, and I began to motor. Then I saw haze around the nav lights - the fog was coming down! I motored in almost flat calm and thick, damp fog for about 10 hours before I finally reached Fecamp. This was a time when the AIS was invaluable - even fishing boats have it these days.

A day in a very hot Fecamp to recover, and then on to Dieppe - somewhere I'd never been before. Straightforward entrance and new marina - although to my surprise and annoyance I had to go back to the boat for my SSR card before I could pay. Why they needed it, I have no idea. Pleasant town; good facilities.

Wednesday was off to Boulogne - a journey of about 60 miles. The wind was brisk and I was only just able to lay the course, although it backed later as forecast, and the sun came out to make it a pleasant day.

Boulogne itself was another matter. My first acquaintance came in the form of abuse from the crew of a French fishing boat [I didn't give them enough room to roar past] - at least, I think it was abuse, judging from their manner. The old ferry terminal has been partly converted into a marina, and there was even a young girl to wave me into a berth and take my lines.

Unfortunately, I discovered Tom Cunliffe in the Shell Pilot was right - it was smelly and noisy. The immediate area wasn't much to speak about either. I was quite happy to leave the next morning.

And so to Dunkerque. A pleasant harbour, although I think both yacht clubs would be uncomfortable in a strong northerly wind. The town is pleasant enough, but like all these northern French harbours, was rebuilt after being flattened during the war.

And tomorrow - off to Zeebrugge.

I'd left Nordeney at seven in the morning (according to my neighbour, I should have left earlier – I only just got to Cuxhaven before the tide really turned against me). It had been raining incessantly for the past week, and there was still a brisk southwest wind. I was heading for the mouth of the Elbe, which meant sailing on a broad reach. The autohelm copes reasonably well in these conditions, but the boat does tend to yaw from side to side on the waves.

I was used to seeing the Küstenwache boats slowly patrolling up and down, and didn't take much notice of this one – until it stopped half a mile behind me and started to launch a RIB. Oh, oh. I was the only boat in the area, so I was probably going to be their target. Indeed I was, as the RIB zipped alongside. 'Can we come on board?'

I disconnected the autohelm to steer the boat by hand, as three people climbed over the guardwire. One, I was surprised to see, was a young woman who looked not much more than a teenager. I was asked for papers, and produced passport and SSR card (the SSR is the Small Ship's Register). This is a small piece of laminated card, and the chap in charge wrote down the details. He looked at it again, turned it over, gave it another look, and said in a tone of slight incredulity, 'Das ist alles?'

'Ja, das ist alles.' (I had produced a few sentences of German early on, which had impressed them. Apparently this is very rare.)

He shook his head then passed it back. Had I a VHF radio? Yes? What was my international call sign?

I had no idea. I had it written down somewhere in a log book which I keep those sorts of details, but I couldn't find the book anywhere. He became most disapproving. I kept on looking, and eventually found it and was able to tell him my callsign. He solemnly wrote it down, and told me off for not having it to hand.

We were almost done. Then the third bod spoke up. How much cash did I have on board? Um – maybe 100 euro. Less than 150,000? Oh, yes – my wallet wasn't big enough for that. Would I sign a declaration to say that effect? So I did. Then they left.

It's about a dozen or more miles from Cuxhaven to the locks, and the tide runs hard in the Elbe. I set off an hour or so too early, and found a three knot current against me. It took nearly three hours to get to the entrance, and as I approached, I could see everyone else making their way in. Advice is to have your fenders as low as possible, and you can see why in the photo in the right. I was also at the very end of the lock: the pontoons were wet and covered with weed. I jumped off with a line, and could feel my feet slipping from under me. I was lucky not to end up in the water, particularly as there was still some wash rolling in, making the pontoons even more unsteady. Equally annoyingly, there are only rings to tie on to, and you waste time fiddling around feeding the lines through the ring.

Having tied on, things became easier. The lock was straightforward, and I motored out and put the autohelm back on. Indeed, I motored on the autohelm all the way, reading a book in the quieter moments. The canal is quite wide and the curves are quite gentle. I used the AIS and the charts on the laptop to warn me of approaching ships, which proved very useful. It is a little disconcerting at first, but you get used to seeing them bearing down on you:

There are markers every half kilometre, but the trouble is that it makes it even more tedious - 'Oh, good, I've done 17.5 km now.' Every 10 kilometres there are (free!) stopping points for yachts (you're not allowed to navigate after sunset). Most people stop off at Rendsburg, but I went up the channel to the Gieselau canal. There are no facilities, but it's a very quiet and pleasant spot:

Even though the moorings are a mile from the canal proper, there is still some surge from the bigger ships as they go past.

I arrived at Kiel at midday. You tie up then climb out of the lock to go up and pay. I spoke to the chap in the office, and I thought he was asking me the name of the my boat. 'Nay,' he said impatiently, and with emphasis, said, 'Wie lange?', or, 'How long?' 'Neun metres'. 'Zwolf euro,' he grunted.

I couldn't complain about the price, even if his manner left something to be desired. 12€. Not bad - particularly as it included a night's free mooring.

Lurking just beyond the shipping lanes was the Bredstedt. As I got closer I realised she was not a commercial vessel. Guess what? A Küstenwache ship.

Having got through the shipping lanes, I thought I could relax. But no - as I sat there, the autohelm steering the boat, a RIB zoomed up from behind. 'Can we come on board?'

One young woman and an older man. She did most of the talking, in reasonable English. Where was I going? Where had I come from? Passport? Vessel call sign?

Less thorough than Nordeney, although again I think it was mainly a matter of routine. I thought no more of it as I tied up in Schaprode.

In the morning, I went along to the hafenmeister's office to pay, and saw a smaller police boat tying up. They'll be along in ten minutes, I thought, asking for my passport. They were.

The canal outside was a mass of ferries, tripper boats, private motor boats (exceeding the speed limit!) and me. There was one space left right on the very corner of the canal, which would prove to be very uncomfortable in the wash of the passing mobos.

There isn't a lot of room in the Nyhavn - it runs about a hundred metres or so before being blocked by a bridge (the canal tour boats are designed to just fit underneath). You can only use one side as the other is taken up by tour ships. Rafting isn't really feasible either, given the limited space. This was me on Sunday morning:

Quite a few people left on the Sunday, and I was able to move further up. Here there is less wash, even though the canal tour boats pass only a few feet away.

Facilities are sparse: the mooring rings on the wall aren't that good, and electricity is extra. Indeed, the mooring was quite expensive (not helped by the exchange rate) - about £25 a day with electricity. No showers; toilet in the nearby Seaman's Centre. On the other hand, you are in the heart of the city, and I much prefer this to a marina ten miles out, and trying to get a bus into town.

Verdict: fi you're going to visit Copenhagen, give the Nyhavn a try - but not at weekends! If it's full, try down the canal opposite.

Here you can see the approach to Barth (left), and looking back out and down the entrance channel (right). Put your mouse over the image to see a larger version.

Yes, starting from Barhöft, you are at buoy number 96 by the time you reach Barth. Given Prospero draws 1.8m, there's not a lot of room to spare, and all the dark blue bits are out of bounds for me. Moreover, most of the passage in from Stralsund is down some very narrow channels, perhaps only 20 metres wide in places. I came up with both the wind and the curent against me, which made it a slow passage. You need to be alert all the way, making sure you don't drift out of the channel.

There are patches of deeper water here and there, but 'deeper' is relative. Certainly I found my shallow depth alarm, which goes off with less than 60cm under the keel, would start beeping if I strayed too far.

Barth seems to be very popular judging by the number of boats I see which come from there, but I am slightly baffled as to why, given the lack of navigable water.

The pontoons in the main harbour, and Barth high street. Put your mouse over the image to see a larger version.

The lack of water was also evident at the pontoons - although I tied on at the very end, I ploughed through the mud to get there. When I decided to go ashore, I discovered that the gate to the pontoon was locked - and, of course, I had no key. There was a very helpful chap (he of the coffee coloured boat you can see on the pontoon) who let me out and took me to the office - which we found was closed for the day. 'Have my key until morning,' he said, 'I live just round the corner.' You can't get more helpful than that!

When I went along at ten o'clock the next morning, the lady was not at all sympathetic. 'I waited for you to come to the office.' Maybe, but four o'clock was a little early to close up shop.

The town? Pleasant enough. Nice church and high street. Small enough to walk round quite easily. I spent another night there, then handed the key back when the office opened at ten in the morning. The journey back to Stralsund was nearly as tedious, although the wind was no longer against me.

The weather wasn't brilliant when I left, either. Fortunately the Sound is well sheltered, but the wind came up as I got more out into the open, and I had time to spare, so I dropped the main and decided to do the last ten miles or so under jib alone.

The wind seemed to be easing, and as I approached, a large German boat came past. Blast! I thought. He'll pinch the best spot. When I got inside I saw the best bit of staging was aleady occupied, and I was about to go on a rather exposed section, when the German yacht hailed me. There was a space behind him which I backed into. It turned out that they had chartered the boat for the week and were on their way back.

Below is a chart of the harbour (source nv-pedia.)

The harbour entrance later that day, when the wind and waves had got up some more. Put your mouse over the image to see a larger version.

My mooring spot behind the large German visitor. This is just inside the harbour as you turn hard left. Put your mouse over the image to see a larger version.

I had no Swedish money, but that didn't matter: behind the harbourmaster's office was a device into which you enter the length of your boat and your credit card. It would then print out a sticky label for your boat as proof of payment!

The town is about half a mile away, but there is not a lot once you get there, apart from what apparently is Sweden's old windmill. Apart from that ...

The moorings on the breakwater wall. The staging here would probably make a good sheltered spot. As you can see, the weather was not brilliant.
Put your mouse over the image to see a larger version.

The verdict? Good for an overnight stop, but not much else. Probably gets very crowded in season.