In many ways, it’s an idyllic scene: three children and au pair lying on their bunks, reading. My wife mutters that she didn’t realise we were all going to be in quite such close proximity. It’s true, as Amelie pointedly reminds us, that we are all in a space even smaller than the room she occupies at the top of our house, but there isn’t much room on a 37ft yacht.

“It’s so cosy,” Matilda, 10, enthuses, looking up from Arthur Ransome. (It’s all his fault.) We might be safely moored on the River Orwell, but the force-six whistling over the deck makes it sound like the polar wastes out there, and the boat rocks skittishly in the wash from a container ship. In deference to the younger members of the crew, we all crawl into our sleeping bags at nine and I put the lights out. But moments later we are all asleep.

None of the family has been on a yacht before, apart from me, and I have persuaded them it will be the most tremendous fun. Matilda and Bertie, 13, both Ransome devotees, are brimming with keenness. Freddie, 14, and my wife, Janet, are sceptical. Amelie arrived from Germany only a few days ago, so we don’t really know what she thinks, but we’ve dragged her along anyway.

We were meant to be coming out last year for a bit of gentle summer sailing, exploring the East Anglian waterways that inspired Ransome’s We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea and Secret Water, but everything got postponed, so here we are on a chilly wintry weekend. “It’ll be fine to go now, much more exciting,” I’d told everyone. “It’s much better with a bit of wind.”

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We met up with Jonathan Stickland, one of the two men behind Classic Sailing Club and our skipper for the trip, flung our gear into the launch and motored out to the river mooring where Caressa waited.

“The children are really keen to say that they’ve been out on the sea,” I tell him.

“Ah, right,” says Jonathan. He looks at the sky. “We’d better get a move on, then.”

So, after the safety briefing, we hoist up the sails, point the bow downriver and head out to the North Sea in our Buchanan-designed teak and mahogany thoroughbred yacht. Matilda and Bertie patter up and down the deck. Janet’s on the helm, getting a feel for the boat. The cranes of Felixstowe docks loom larger, then we’re running alongside huge container ships, with Harwich off to the south. The wind is biting, and as we leave the lee of the land, the boat plunges and water sprays everywhere.

The North Sea is choppy — short, raging waves, spume blowing off their tops, wind gusting from the southwest. Caressa heels handsomely, like an athlete leaning into her stride. The sea streams along the port-side deck. Matilda and Bertie lean out, laughing. It is, I think, totally exhilarating, except Freddie has taken himself off below, where he sits with his head in his hands, looking anguished.

“Come on deck, you’ll feel better,” I implore. He shakes his head. The boat lurches and bounces. Jonathan looks concerned. “I think we should turn back now,” he says. We bring the boat about and I take the helm as we skid and slither down the waves that chase us back into the calm of the river mouth. We tie up to a mooring on the Orwell and have some lunch. Freddie decides his problem was hunger and demolishes three bagels.

“Let’s stay on the river and practise tacking,” says Jonathan. Freddie and Amelie man the winches, I take the helm and we tack backwards and forwards across the river. While we may not be quite up to racing standard, at least under Jonathan’s encouraging tuition we make progress. (“Excellent pulling in. Just try to put it round the winch the right way next time and we’ll be there.”)

We sail back to the mooring opposite Pin Mill and Jonathan jumps into the launch to spend the night on shore, leaving us bobbing in midstream, marooned. We cook, read, listen to the wind and then the rain . . .

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