A family all at sea in Greece

Richard Woods booked a week's watersports adventure on the Ionian Sea in a bid to break his family's riding habit

I hope she won't mind me telling you this, but my wife, Jan, recently lost the plot, emptied her bank account and joined a weird cult. She took to roaming the countryside in an old 4WD, meeting other deranged souls in fields, where they pursued masochistic rituals with whips, in worship of a deity named Horse. Sometimes I worry about my wife.

The cult didn't quite involve human sacrifice, though, at times, the sight of my daughters flying out of the saddle and through the air - not to mention the sight of the vet's bill - made self-immolation seem pretty close.

Yup, when it comes to dangerous obsession, the Scientologists have got nothing on the Pony Club. Never mind Tom Cruise; it's Pippa Funnell and the whole riding malarkey that sane parents should worry about.

So, one day, as I was shovelling another ton of nag-poo out of the stable, I decided to make a stand.

"This riding thing's a load of old fetlocks," I told Jan. "Why don't we do something sensible, safe and enjoyable - like sailing?"

"Because I can't sail," said Her Most Eminent Reasonableness. I could sense my dream of a yacht disappearing over the horizon. There was only one solution. I needed a holiday; they needed a holiday - one where they learnt to sail. To have any chance of success, I realised, the conditions would have to be tempting in the extreme.

It would require glorious weather, lovely surroundings, good food, suitable boats and an instructor who wasn't me.

A weekend course in Bognor was a nonstarter. What I needed was an activity holiday - and picking the right one requires planning. First, I needed the right location: safe and secure for beginners. Second, the right sort of wind: too much would scare them off, too little would teach them nothing. Third, suitable equipment and staff.

I found the answer in northern Greece, on the mainland coast, not far from Corfu. Just outside the village of Sivota lies The Retreat, a secluded hotel and activity centre run by Neilson.

At first sight, it might appear more suited to mountaineering than sailing: it is built on a hillside, plunges steeply into the bay, and has so many steps leading from one level to another that flip-flops with crampons seem advisable.

Yet there were families with young children, and even babies in pushchairs. The reason soon became apparent. The Retreat enjoys an exceptional setting for watersports novices, and enough other activities to wear out Sir Ranulph Fiennes. Immediately opposite the hotel is a small, uninhabited island, separated from the mainland by a channel that at its narrowest point is only about 160ft wide. Here you can wade through the glittering waters to the island's sandy beaches.

On either side of this tiny strait, two coves open out into excellent training grounds. One is dedicated to dinghy sailing, the other to windsurfing and water-skiing.

For beginners, the enclosed waters of the coves are safe havens for learning. There are no strong winds or currents to take the unwary out to sea, nothing to scare the nervous (and, I noted with satisfaction, not a horse in sight.) Yet at the same time it was also possible to escape round the headland into a much broader bay and friskier breezes. A skilled sailor would prefer a resort with stronger, more consistent winds, but, for beginners, Sivota had its advantages.

A number of companies offer shore-based watersports holidays and each has its own character. With Neilson, where the clientele seemed to be about 20% home-counties Boden, 40% Mancunian chic, 10% teenage cool and the rest a complete mixture, the first full day began with a briefing on all the activities.

They included sailing, water-skiing, windsurfing, kayaking, mountain-biking, tennis, yoga, fitness classes, volleyball and scuba-diving. Gulp. It all seemed dauntingly exhausting. The reality, though, was that people concentrated on one or two activities, while dipping into the others as time and energy allowed.

As Mimi, my younger daughter, later observed: "My favourite thing is windsurfing. And water-skiing. And lunch, that's very good." The buffet, extending far beyond hard tack and rum, was always a tempting diversion.

Though the hotel was full, booking for most activities was easy, and often not necessary.

In the entire week, I hardly had to wait for a sail; a catamaran or Laser was nearly always available. The exception was water-skiing, where the dedicated could pay a premium to ensure extra tows.

The children were down to be looked after by nannies in a number of "clubs" catering for different age groups. They had their own schedule of events and classes, but we found the adult lessons much more informative and effective.

So my elder daughter, Bryony, often abandoned the Sharksters club and joined Jan in the "dinghy beginner" sessions. Soon they moved on to the "improver" class. Before long, they were let loose in the cove alone, Jan in a small dinghy called a Pico, Bryony, 12, in a more stable Funboat.

The weather had been designed by a top London ad agency: brilliant blue skies, crystal sea and a light breeze.

"There," I called across to Jan as she sailed the Pico, "isn't that wonderful? Much safer and more fun than riding."

Moments later she gybed and the swinging boom caught her smack on the left temple. Ouch. I thought it best at that point to head off for a sail in the bay. This was unfortunate timing, since Bryony, unwittingly pushing her boat to the limit, promptly capsized. Luckily, a Royal Navy diver who happened to be on the beach did a passable impression of a human torpedo and went to her rescue, along with the safety boat that was always on patrol. Was all lost? Would the Horse Gang be deterred by these mishaps? Quite the opposite. Indeed, Mimi, 9, delighted in developing her own Keystone Kops style of windsurfing. This involved piling several children onto one board, trying to haul the sail up and then all falling off backwards.

They didn't travel far, but they laughed a lot.

On such holidays it's important to check what is included and what incurs an extra charge. With Neilson, virtually all the activities, except scuba-diving, were included. It made it easy to intersperse the sailing lessons with other fun.

"This is one of my favourite holidays," said Bryony after a few days. "There's no time to get bored." And off she went, canoeing round the island with a group on a "kayak safari". We all had a crack at water-skiing, and Jan even managed to wakeboard.

Mimi, who appears to be part-fish, part-human, was also desperate to try scuba-diving. She was too young to dive in the sea, but still had a rewarding session in the swimming pool, where she sat on the bottom playing noughts and crosses on a plastic board with the instructor.

It was Å“27 well spent, and I have yet to find a better way of keeping her quiet. If you want to stop kids moaning "Can I go on the computer?" or "When can we watch telly?", shoving a regulator in their mouth and dropping them into 10ft of water will definitely do the trick.

However, learning to sail remained the prime objective, and the key test came at the end of the week: regatta day. A board went up. We chose our weapons.

The various classes of boats set off at intervals. It was a long course: out of the cove, round the bay twice and back to the beach. Jan, in a Laser, and Bryony, in a Pico, sailed brilliantly and beat many others. They both achieved their Royal Yachting Association level-one certificate.

That evening, Bryony touched me lightly on the nose and said mischievously, "Dad, you know, boats are almost as good as horses."

"Hmm," said Jan, feeling the large lump on her temple, "but they're not much safer." One week later, back in England, after being knee-deep in nag-poo again, Jan went for a ride. Her horse bucked sharply and she flew through the air as if fired from a cannon, breaking her wrist on landing.

You know, I think one more sailing holiday might just bring her back on track.

Courtesy Internet