I made it the whole way to Pontoise that day, but not before nightfall. My legs were absolutely paralyzed by the time I got there, and my bladder was bursting so that I couldn’t get out of the kayak without a disaster. There was a barge moored to the river bank just ahead of the bridge that was to be my refuge for the night. But to get out of the kayak and onto the towpath under the bridge looked just about impossible. The barge had a dinghy tied to its stern, so I decided to ease myself out of the kayak and into the dinghy. From this vantage I would be able to stand up and finally relieve myself.

Halfway through my relief, the barge skipper’s wife, having heard me clunking around, came to the stern of her vessel and caught me with a flashlight. She screamed her anger at me – in German, if you please – and I fell into the river. Using my kayak as a raft, I struggled to the bank and crept under the sheltering bridge. There I lay down, blocked everything out of my mind, and simply fell asleep.

But not for long. There was a flashlight in my face, waking and blinding me. There’s going to be a fight, I thought, as I heard a man’s voice behind the flashlight. It was in German again. Swinging my legs around, with my back now pressing the wall, I got ready. But no, the voice was trying to communicate rather than intimidate. I responded in French. The man did not speak it, but he lowered his flashlight and beckoned me to follow him. So I did, after rummaging around to gather some food and clothing.

He led me along the towpath onto his barge. Through a hatch in the fo’c’sle, we descended into a tiny cabin for crew, where he showed me the bunk and a stove with pots and pans for cooking. He indicated I should take off my wet clothes and left me there, soon to return with hot water, towels and coffee. Then he took my filthy trousers and shirt away from me and said, “Gute Nacht.”

"I told him I was stoney broke, and that The Daily Express had guaranteed me 50 pounds if I made it to Paris by kayak."

At five-thirty the next morning, the wife brought me hot water, coffee, and my clothes, clean and dry. By six o’clock, the barge had been cast off from the bank, and I was ready to continue my odyssey. I paddled on through another day, then another. Where l’Oise met the Seine, I turned left and made my way to the outskirts of Paris. By now I was down to telephone money. When I reached Pont de Neuilly, late in the afternoon, I placed a call to the Paris Office of The Daily Express.

My phone call was taken by a young reporter named Nicholas Tomalin who said he’d come out at once to meet me. We agreed to rendezvous on the pavement where the bridge meets the right bank. The kayak was under the bridge by one of the midstream foundations supports where no one could see it from either bank. I had landed with difficulty on this narrow concrete slab because there was a maintenance stairway from it up to the bridge. A group of Algerians were holding a meeting in this secret place. Frightened by my sudden appearance, they were much relieved when I greeted them with words from the Koran.

I remember Nicholas well. He was about 25, my age, with cheerful good looks. He arrived in a taxi and we walked a couple of blocks to a bar where he ordered two beers and a huge loaf sandwich for me. I told him I was stoney broke, and that The Daily Express had guaranteed me 50 pounds if I made it to Paris by kayak. He said he’s look into it for me, but meanwhile he definitely wanted my story, and was happy to take care of my immediate needs, a razor and subsistence for a couple of days.

He offered to telephone my friend Nicholas in London to let him know that I’d arrived safely. He also asked me lots of questions about Camilla, and since I didn’t have a phone number for her, I asked him to get this from Nicholas. And then we made a plan for the next day, for my arrival in the heart of Paris, because, being a keen reporter, he wanted to create a photo opportunity.

We agreed to meet at mid-day at Pont Alexandre Trois, an ornate old bridge with the boat hostel of the Touring Club de France right by it. And the reporter said he would book me into this hostel for the next night. But he asked me, emphatically, not to talk to any other newspaper reporters because it could ruin his story. Knowing full well where my bread and butter was coming from, I agreed.