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Five go mad in Ireland
(All picture clickable for a larger version - then use 'Back' button to
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Teddyfield 2003 was a Fly-In event organised by Paul McMahon, of the Irish
Parachute Club, and hosted at Clonbullogue Airfield in Southern Ireland. This
story chronicles the trials and tribulations of 5 Flex-wing Microlight Pilots,
who decided attending the event would be a great way to spend the Easter
Bank-Holiday weekend. It is important to note that while not everything in this
story is true, the bits you think are lies, probably aren’t!
So who were the five? Me flying my Kiss 400 and Chris and Mike in their
Quasars, 582s all; Tim in his 912 powered Quantum, and last, but by no means
least, Orville in his Pegasus 462 Q. Orville’s not his real name of course, but
the poor sod had such an eventful trip that anonymity seemed like the best
approach. So why Orville? Does he dress up as a duck and pay out-of-work
ventriloquists to shove their hands up his arse? Well, possibly, although I’m
happy to say I have no certain knowledge of that either way. The name is, in
fact, of his own choosing, and reflects his modest view of his piloting skills,
embodied by the catch-phrase ‘I wish I could fly’.
During the pre-trip planning meetings, we had considered the direct routes
crossing from Wales to Ireland, both with and without a stop on the Isle of
Mann, but rejected the 65-mile water crossing as potentially suicidal. Life
expectancy after a ditching in the Irish Sea at this time of year is measured in
minutes, but Air-Sea Rescue response time could well be an hour or more. Now
consider our aircraft are powered by Rotax 2-stroke engines (which the
manufacturer thoughtfully placards as ‘not certified for use in aircraft’ –
truly!) and our decision to travel up to Scotland and take the shorter, 20-mile
water crossing was clearly correct. The fact that this meant far more flying
time was a bonus to us, as when we go to Fly-Ins, we view the flying itself as
just as much fun as the event. Also, a longer trip means more overnight stops.
When we stop flying for the day, we open the beer….’nuff said!
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On the ground at Arclid, with beer
already in evidence!
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So, the Thursday before Easter saw us all assemble at
Newnham “International Airport” ready for an afternoon lift-off for an easy,
113 mile leg to Arclid to start the trip. Not the clearest of days, but
firmly within the boundaries of VFR, and the initially turbulent conditions
smoothed out as we neared our destination. We had, of course, PPR’d and our
thanks to John Bradbury for not only letting us camp at his strip, but also
arranging a barbeque into the bargain. He also arranged fuel runs to the
local garage for us, and this kind of hospitality and helpfulness is typical
of people we meet when flying (well, having finished flying really, but you
knew what I meant!). |
It is interesting to note that a student flying solos at Arclid landed after
a quick circuit and was heard to comment that it was ‘far too lumpy up there’.
Now this is not to denigrate his skills in any way – instead, this highlights
the attitude instilled by UK training techniques, where students are not flown
in any but the calmest conditions. Once a new pilot has a few tens of hours of
serious cross-countries under the belt, the realisation comes that turbulent
conditions are still perfectly flyable provided a few simple changes to flying
style are adopted. In my case, the hardest-learned (and bloody expensive) lesson
was that wind gradients ALWAYS require powered approaches! Ironically, many
pilots never gain the experience to fly safely in the rougher conditions. Chris
summed this up nicely be describing those who fly from their home field tethered
by an imaginary, 2-mile piece of string. That circle becomes the comfort zone,
and over time, it just gets harder and harder to strike out and actually go
places. Come on guys, give it a go. You will have fun and you will not
die…probably!
| Now I just love flying my Kiss solo on cross-countries, as
the lack of passenger weight means I can carry more useful supplies. The
back seat holds a 20-litre jerry can of spare fuel, and on this occasion,
two 12-packs of beer! The others were similarly burdened so our usual little
post-flight ritual of handing the beers round almost became a farce of
English politeness: “No, no, have one of mine, I do insist old chap!”. We
passed a pleasant evening chatting to the club members and munching on the
Barbie fare. |
Your load swallowed with a Kiss! |
| The time passed, the beers dwindled and the club members
eventually went home. The bottle of Southern Comfort brought ‘for
emergencies’ was consumed – well, there was no beer left; I’d call that an
emergency, wouldn’t you? Perhaps I should take a moment to explain that we
are not alcoholics, just a bunch a fellas who like a drink when socialising.
If, in the morning, we are heavy-headed, we wait until it has passed until
we fly. Eight-hours from bottle to throttle, as the old adage goes, is very
easy to achieve. Simply decant the spirits into jugs as the 8-hour mark
arrives! |
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The "Duck-mobile" |
Friday morning then, and time to travel once more.
The first hurdle was the Manchester-Liverpool low-level corridor, which has
a ceiling at 1250 feet. Now everything travelling North or South in this
area is concentrated in this tiny gap, so the big-sky theory goes out the
window and an extra set of neck-bearings must be installed to keep an
adequate lookout. We had decided to group just South of the corridor and fly
in close proximity (hundreds of feet – not wingtip stuff!), which helps us
all keep a lookout for each other. We were about to turn North and penetrate
the corridor when the first “Orville Event” occurred, signalled by a radio
call: “My engine has stopped and I am going down”.
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| Although we were concerned for Orville’s safety, we were at
the same time relieved to hear that gravity was operating in the usual way!
He made a text-book engine-out landing, and even picked a field big enough
for us all to land with him. There followed a twenty-minute exercise of
inspecting float bowls, poking wires in a hopeful manner and much scratching
of heads, before a restart was attempted. Of course, the engine started
straight away (as they always do), and we decided the plug cap that was
dancing gaily atop a spark plug couldn’t possibly have caused the engine to
stop. Nevertheless, we clipped it on properly and took to the skies once
more. |
Emergency landing....but in the biggest
field in the world!
 |
Our GPS’ clearly show the East and West boundaries of the corridor, and we
were flying at about 800 feet on the assumption that most people will fly at the
published limit! Of course, the GPS is not the primary navaid (is it guys? Nope,
I thought not!) so for my part, there was much studying of the chart to ensure I
knew exactly where I was at all times. I actually felt I was flying through a
tunnel, even though I could see no black lines on the countryside to match those
on my chart! I intend to complain to the cartographers about this.
We had just exited the corridor to the North, when a very aerobatic looking
spam-can pulled level with Tim, then suddenly turned Knife-Edge. You could see
his tail drop as he used rudder to maintain altitude, and Tim later said he was
unconcerned by the proximity because the pilot waved at him. So long as they
know we are there, and vice-versa! The plane then pulled a nice loop ahead of
and over Tim and disappeared. Our mouths water at kit capable of that kind of
flying, but we are none of us wealthy enough to support the running costs. I
hear the fully aerobatic Russian Yak can be bought for 35000 pounds, which is
less then a top-of-the-range Microlight hot-ship, but they burn a litre of fuel
a minute, which is more then 4 times our burn-rate. Come to that, it’s more then
6 times Tim’s burn rate in his frugal 4-stroke, but then again, by the time his
oil has warmed up enough for takeoff, we are all miles away!
As an aside, I’ve often wondered at the origin of the phrase ‘Spam-can’, used to
describe Group-A, 3-axis aircraft. Well, someone at Arclid told me ‘spam’ is an
acronym dating back to the 2nd world-war, and stands for Spastic Plastic
American Motherfucker – Wouldn’t you just love to believe that one?
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Bugger - where the hell am I - hang on,
there's a lake.....ah, it's the Lake District
 |
Next stop: Carlisle, near the Scottish border, 135 miles away across the
Lake District. This leg was a whole new experience to me, as my flying so
far has been limited to the very flat South of England, and the heavily
forested but equally flat countryside of France. At first I was concerned,
as we passed over mountainous regions, that an engine-out would leave me in
a world of hurt, but closer inspection reveals no end of suitable landing
places….always assuming the ubiquitous sheep get out of the way! We had a
line of hills to our East, almost paralleling our track, and they were
setting up a wave in the stiff Easterly which we could feel as we gently
traversed it’s peaks and troughs. After a while, I stopped trying to hold
altitude, and just went with the thousand-foot-per-minute descent, followed
by the thousand-foot-per-minute ascent – all at constant engine revs. Good
lookouts above and below, and lots of separation, and this is actually quite
an exhilarating ride, and far cheaper then a funfair roller-coaster! |
| Runway 07 at Carlisle had a bit of a cross-wind, but it’s 30
metres wide and over 1800 metres long, so it was not what I’d call a
challenging landing. Well actually, it was; the challenge being to judge the
touchdown to a point where the landing roll with no brakes applied leaves
you at the right speed to vacate at the intersection! My skills were,
needless to say, inadequate for this task, so it was bar full in and a very
fast taxi to clear the runway for the pilot behind me! Carlisle Approach had
been so helpful that I even made a “07-vacated” call as I turned off, which
was perhaps a bit pointless as I was in full view of the tower and all the
other flex wings! |
Man at C&A
Carlisle Airport, that is |
We were met on the apron by the CFI of the Carlisle Flying School, who made
us feel very welcome as he helped us put the aircraft in the hanger, made us all
coffee, then ferried us into town for a night in a B&B. As we approached his
car, it became apparent that 5 passengers was going to be a bit of a squeeze. I
was right by the front door, but decided to be as fair as possible and offered
the front seat to Chris, who I assessed to be marginally larger then I. Never
doing that again, I ended up on Mike’s lap with my head jammed into the roof! I
was told to duck out of sight if we saw a police car, but as that would have put
my head in Tim’s lap, I’m glad it wasn’t necessary.
After settling into a very comfortable B&B, we went to the pub, drank beer (quelle
surprise), chatted to some very friendly locals, and politely declined the
offers of working girls on the street (Quelle domage). This last was not a
difficult decision, as the ladies looked a little, erm, shall we say haggard?
“Lick yer luv pump luvvie?” – “Erm, thanks, but no”. Eventually, after randomly
bouncing off various walls, we found our respective bedrooms and collapsed into
the arms of Morpheous (Nice bloke – have you met him?). On arriving downstairs
for breakfast, the landlady asked me if I’d like to sit at a separate table with
my ‘friend’ (Tim, with whom I’d shared a room). Her emphasis seemed a little
strange, but I ignored it and sat with everyone else. 5 minutes later, she
appeared again and asked if my ‘partner’ would be having breakfast. By now, I
was smelling rat instead of kipper, but glossed over it and continued to eat.
Tim later told me that on leaving the room, he met the landlady who asked if we
had had a tiff, as we had obviously slept in separate beds! Yes folks, this was
a Chris windup – he had a quiet word with the landlady on our arrival and had
given her quite the wrong impression about us. By the way, that’s a nice Quasar
Chris flies. Wouldn’t it be a shame if it caught fire in the hanger one night?
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A very pretty bit of Scottish coastline
- if only I knew which bit.
 |
Time to move on again, so Saturday morning saw us on the
apron at Carlisle once more, planning the sea crossing to Newtonards in
Northern Ireland, a 118 mile leg with 20 miles over the Irish Sea. We had a
20 mph tail-wind, so made the crossing with 80 mph groundspeed. 15 minutes
over water is not scary at all! This was the first leg which required
paperwork, as we were crossing country boundaries, and entering NI to boot.
Weeks before, we had all applied to the Irish Aviation Authority for
permission to fly, and had the requisite paperwork in our possession. We had
also contacted Special Branch to inform them of the trip, and had filed a
flight plan. No-one (words twice: No, No, One, One) asked to see any of our
paperwork, nor did we even see a police or customs official. This is exactly
what happened when we went to France last year – the paper chase is
essential, but officialdom only care if you don’t do it and they find out!
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| We had muscled in on Les Cottle’s flight-plan (much to his
disgust, I suspect, as he had to come and drag us out of the canteen,
pointing out our takeoff time had passed), and we saw him ahead of us as we
began the over water crossing. Someone called on the radio “You’re ahead of
us Les”, to which came the laconic reply “Get used to it!”. Ah the arrogance
of Mainair Blade Pilots, eh? Little did he know I had the cross-hairs in my
heads up display centred on his engine at that time, the reassuring
target-acquired growl in my headset, and was mere seconds from a FOX-1 & 2
call! (Erm – we DO all pretend we’re fighter pilots sometimes, don’t we?
Lads? Don’t we? OK – I’ll just get my coat!) |
The Mull of Galloway - about to cross
the Irish Sea
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Feet dry in NI |
The coastal scenery of Scotland and Northern Ireland took my
breath away, but sadly the viz was very poor, so the pictures do not do it
justice, even after digital-tweaking. All too soon, this wonderful flight
came to an end, as we all greased in on the lovely Newtonards tarmac, to a
hearty welcome from the local club fliers, and yet another round of
post-aviation imbibement. We gratefully accepted the offer of the clubhouse
to kip in, but didn’t tell Orville until after he had pitched his tent. The
reason? Ask Les and Sheila! He was pitched next to the caravan they slept in
– or perhaps more accurately didn’t sleep in, due to the headache inducing
volume of nocturnal duck-calls issuing from his tent. That boy could snore
for England! |
| One jolly fine Chinese Meal later (restaurant actually on
the airfield – it would have been rude not to), and after another alcohol
induced deep sleep, I dug the percolator out of my pod and brewed up some
industrial strength coffee to help prepare us all to face the day. That
night, you see, we were due at Clonbullogue (we’re still not sure how to
pronounce it, so we’ve taken to calling in Kronenburg), and we knew there
was an outside chance that more drinking might occur! |
On the ground at Newtownards
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|
Some people like to use a small bottle
for in-flight relief
 
One man in rubber, and another in latex - hmmm - I make
that Pimms O'Clock! |
Getting ready to go, I saw Rob Hughes filming us as we
taxied across the apron. Now at this stage, I had done CHIPS, but was yet to
CHIFTA (if you don’t know what that means, you’re probably not a pilot!) and
was blissfully unaware that my lap belt was dangling untidily outside the
pod. When I did my checks at the hold point, I discovered and rectified the
error – I’ve actually got airborne once in the past with lapbelt undone, and
when I realised my mistake, I felt very vulnerable indeed! Since then, I’ve
become religious about my checklists. Huge crowds witness your mistakes, but
on days when your every act is perfection and you and your machine are sheer
poetry in motion is any bugger looking? Of course not! There’s probably a
sub-clause to Sod’s Law that covers this.
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| The wind was still from the East as we took off, in company
with dozens of locals in a mix of flex-wing and 3-axis Microlights. As we
were crossing from NI to SI, another flight plan was necessary. We had filed
it by fax, but opened and closed it in the air, by radio, as we approached
and then crossed the border. |
There is another Microlight in this
picture, honest!
 |
|
 Proof of export restrictions - A
Guinness-lake!
|
It was another fun flight, and we were all surprised by how
different the countryside looked to our usual environs. Approaching
Kronenburg, we switched to their frequency and heard a reassuring stream of
joining instructions. It is astonishing how busy a piece of airspace can be,
yet you can see so few other aircraft. It is at times like this that the old
neck-bearings get another good workout! |
| We are fast approaching another Orville Event: We joined the
circuit and I was a few planes back from Orville as he extended his downwind
leg…..and extended….and extended some more! Now this is with a 20-25 mph
Easterly blowing straight down the strip, and I was groaning inwardly (well,
actually I was shouting ‘turn, you wanker’ – although being careful not to
key up the mike) as I envisaged the hard slog on extra-long finals. The
reason for the extended downwind leg is that Orville had punctured one of
the mains on take-off from Newtonards, so was ‘getting his mind right’ for
what would be an abrupt stop on landing. I found this up when he keyed up to
make memorable call number 2: “I have a puncture in my main gear and my wing
is yellow and black”. In hindsight, this makes perfect sense, as it enabled
the people on the ground to identify which aircraft had the problem, but at
the time, it sounded like a spy-recognition signal. I wanted to reply; “The
wind is from the East, yet the sparrow chirps for no-man” just to stay in
the spirit of the thing! |
Dunno where it is, but it's in NI and
it's pretty!
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|
Fixing a flat - I was doing the tricky
bit....taking pictures!
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By this time, we’d all heard the warning from Kronenburg
Radio that we should land long, as the trees at side of the strip at the
downwind end were generating some bad air. Orville had no problems and
pulled off the runway more or less the instant he touched down. Listening to
those who know, I made my approach at 70 and stayed above the tree-line
until I was clear of them. 09 is 775 metres, so with a 25 mph headwind, I
had plenty of runway left. However, down near the ground the air got plain
nasty. I can truly say it was the most difficult landing I have ever carried
out and I was being thrown from one side of the runway to the other, and
even partly over the parked aircraft at one moment! I kept the speed on and
just concentrated on getting her over the centre line. Eventually, the wild
bucking smoothed out for a second, and I grabbed the chance for a nice,
positive touch-down – none of that fly it to the stall nonsense today! A
wing-man grabbed my tip for me as I taxied in, which saved my shoulders
trying to hold the wing level. This was my introduction to Enda – a man who
is building the first ever Kiss to fly in Ireland! Needless to say, he
inspected my machine minutely, and was kind enough to point out a few faults
for me too over the course of the weekend – and regardless of how that
sounds, I actually am grateful!
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| We were amongst the last of the flex-wings to arrive, which
was a shame, as watching flex wing landings in dodgy conditions is a great
spectator sport! Les got in safely with Sheila in the back, but not entirely
without incident. Sheila has spent many hours in the back seat of Les’
machine, but the washing machine conditions on finals induced a technicolour
yawn – that must have been really pleasant with the helmet visor down! The
other landings were not entirely without problems, as one poor chap lost it
at touchdown and put his Mainair Rapier sideways across the field. The
machine was very badly damaged, but thankfully the pilot was unhurt. For
the sake of a worry-free afternoon, we took the wings off, laid them flat
and pegged them down, then helped Orville to repair his puncture. It was
about this time that we were introduced to Liam, a typical friendly local
who volunteered to do fuel runs for us, so we’d be juiced up and ready for
action the next day. As an aside, I heard a great story about Liam, which I
hope will not upset him if I repeat it here: He has an artifical leg, and
one day when parachuting, the buckles parted as his chute opened. Onlookers
on the ground saw his leg detach and violently precede him to Earth. When he
landed, no one could help him as they were all rolling on the ground in
laughter!
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Thankfully, the pilot of this Rapier was
unharmed - although the Trike unit has had better days!
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|
Kev Taylor's CT
(the bastard can sing too) |
It was great to see Paul McMahon again, who is possibly the
most ebullient person I have ever met. His grin just kept getting wider
through the day as planes arrived, because he had convinced himself that no
one would turn up due to the conditions. He seemed to be everywhere that
afternoon, and he also knew everyone else who was there. The pile of Teddies
grew and grew, as every pilot who had flown in deposited his special load
for charity, which is nice work if you can get it! Later in the day, and
much to our surprise, the drop-ship started engines. Those parachuters are a
mad bunch – parachuting on a day when the wind speed matches the forward
speed of their canopies – no room for error there! Drop activities continued
to the end of VFR, at 2105, at which point the hanger was cleared for the
party. The band set up, the bar opened, and after half-an-hour of fiddling
the big blower room heater in the corner of the hanger fired up, although
from 10 feet away it was putting out no heat whatsoever due to the press of
bodies around it!
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| A word about Guinness at this point. A mandatory drink when
in Ireland, and one I wasn’t keen to have, as I’ve never liked it. It turns
out this is because I’ve never had it in Ireland; it was lovely, and not a
bit like the bitter brew I’ve had in the UK. Why this should be, I’ve no
idea – unless they keep the good stuff back for the locals. Anyway, after a
few pints, the hanger didn’t seem cold anymore as the effects started to
kick in. Sadly, my reasoning ability was also affected, so when a madman
called Tommy appeared holding bottles of green stuff and asking if anyone
wanted some Absinthe, “Yes please, I’ll have a cupful” seemed like a good
reply! Soon after, he reappeared, offering sweet vodka, which again seemed
like a good idea. After that, it was back on the Guinness. I remarked the
next day that a strange effect of the Absinthe was that I could still taste
it later in the beer. My companions pointed out that this is what happens
when you pour a cup of Absinthe into a pint of Guinness. Thanks boys. |
A mounting pile of Teddies - the whole
reason for going!
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|
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder
 |
At this point, Orville was doing the Duck Shuffle in the
middle of the dance floor, and Chris Finnegan had already crooned a little
number over the microphone, so when Kev Taylor took the mike to give us a
little old fashioned rock and roll, my feet over-ruled my head (not
difficult at this stage) and I leapt on the dance floor for some manic
gyrations. Not long, mind, as at 42 years of age and being a desk jockey in
my day job, I’m disastrously unfit, but it most definitely manic. Imagine my
joy on discovering Rob ‘Paparazzo’ Hughes has captured my spastic prancing
on video – nabbed twice in one day? – gimme a break Rob! |
|
Kev "Crooner" Taylor and assistant
 |
The party rocked, and a huge thank-you to Paul for putting
it together. We gave it up at about 4 a.m., just at the point when it
started becoming a bit of a Karaoke, and collapsed into our tents – well for
about an hour, until bladder-demands forced us out into the cold light of
dawn – all except Mike, who is legendary for having a Tardis-like bladder.
He’s the only human I know who can go through the whole night without
leaving his tent. Personally, I suspect there is a catheter and extension
tube in the equation somewhere, but I have no proof. |
"Oops upside my head" - The Hangar Mix
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|
I don't know what was being sold, but
the general consensus was to order 2.
 |
On Sunday morning, we emerged into the grey light, blinking owlishly and
seeking breakfast. An hour later and duly fortified, we filed a flight plan
for our return to Newtonards. The wind had shifted a bit, and there would be
a headwind component for our trip, and the other flyers urged a wait until
later in the day. We cancelled the plan and went into hang-around and stare
at the sky mode. Was this boring? Not at all – you see, we were approaching
Orville Event 3!
|
The wings laid flat, to avoid being
blown away!
 |
Orville’s 462 is a bit of a bugger to start, and this is not helped by the
fact that the starter pulley has seen better days. Chris gave him a
demonstration of hand cranking (No, it means turning the engine, Madam!), and
this prompted a stream of onlookers to start the old “You don’t want to do it
like that, you want to do it like this” routine. Chris uses a one-handed,
side-on stance, which sweeps his hand clear of the prop arc, which is generally
viewed as a good thing. Paul Mac advocated a two-handed, grip near the hub
technique, on the basis that the blades will travel most slowly there, which is
useful if you fail to get your hands out of the way. Jerry, the instructor from
Newtonards, pointed out that using both hands doubles the chances of losing a
hand, and demonstrated a face-on, sweep the hand down then backwards technique.
Orville had followed all this with his best duckish concentration, and after
ensuring 3 times that the ignition was off, stepped up to have a go. Try this:
hold both arms straight out in front of you, then sweep then down and back as
hard as you can. Did you nod forward? So did Orville. His head ended up exactly
where the propellor arc would be. After trying 3 times, we convinced him it
would be better if he never hand cranked his machine!
|
Newtownards again, and bloody cold it
was too! The Famous Five in a rare, sober moment.
 |
Eventually, at about 1730, everyone decided the wind was not
going to drop and that it was time to go. I happened to be first to taxi
out, and called up to request backtrack on 09. Much to my amusement, every
single other Microlight (there must have been at least 20) then made the
same call! This is, of course, correct – but it was funny nonetheless. The
gentlemen of the press were in attendance, and had been patiently waiting
all afternoon to get some photographs of the takeoffs. I achieved flying
speed about 100 feet before the photographers, so held the bar in and stayed
almost touching the ground until I drew level, then did a max rate climb. I
later discovered that every single pilot did the same thing, which must have
been a sight to see. |
The flight to Newtonards saw groundspeeds as low as 23 mph, so after we had done
an outlanding to top off the tanks, we ended up arriving with about 30 seconds
of VFR remaining. That’s the last time we cancel a flight plan to wait for
better weather! The second visit to the Chinese Restaurant was inevitable, but
the effects of the weekend were catching up with us a bit, so we ended up a-bed
quite early.
| Overnight, the wind shifted back round to the East again, so
we had a strong headwind for the over water crossing. Remember 15 minutes on
the way out? Yeah, so did we, but this time it took faaaar longer! We had
nearly made it back to dry land when I felt a hard thump, and the pedals
jumped under my feet. I looked down, and saw the front wheel spinning like a
jet turbine. I can only assume a kamikaze Seagull had a go at me. Whatever
it was, 3 feet higher and I would have taken it in the face! (As the Actress
said to the Bishop). Five minutes later, and there was another thump, but
this time it was different, the pedals hadn’t moved, but the whole trike had
kind of shuddered underneath me. I called the boys and described what had
happened, and was told I’d just experienced carb-icing. “Don’t touch the
throttle, and you’ll be OK”. Gulp. Over the next half and hour, it did it
again and again. Guess what I bought at Popham? Correct – a carb heater! |
Brian Milton's Evil Twin, seen here
accosting total strangers.
 |
Orville Event 4: He bloody vanished in the lowering Viz, and radio calls
failed to elicit a response. This is a horrible feeling, when you think a fellow
pilot may be in trouble. We circled a few times, and discussed going back or
making a Mayday call on his behalf, but decided there was no point as we would
never see him in the poor viz, and he was within gliding distance of land the
last time we saw him. A little while later, we decided to land at Wigtown to
refuel, and who should we find entering the circuit with us? Duck-time boys! It
turns out he had a bad battery - we have advised wiring the radio to the Trike
power for future use!
|
Wigtown, standing on what we laughingly
called "The Runway"
 |
Landing at Wigtown was interesting, to say the least, as it
was blowing a howling hoolie, the runway was massively overgrown, and there
were what turned out to be a bunch of beehives halfway down! I followed
Orville in, and watched him taxi to a halt, then turned away just in time to
miss Orville Event 5: He went to drop the upwind wing, and saw a barbed wire
fence under it at the last moment. Lifted it again a fraction too high, and
over went the wing, taking the Trike with it. When I looked back and saw
what had happened, I rushed over, the find him dangling sideways in his
harness, apparently unconcerned and totally unhurt. We were all so busy
being worried, that none of us thought to take a photo – a great shame! We
managed to right the plane without too much difficulty, and the only damage
was mild abrasion of a leading edge, and a totally abused nose-cone. This is
ironic as he had lashed out 35 quid not the week before on a new one. |
| After a couple of hours in the air, most pilots need a pee
and this is not usually a problem. Enter the duck, stage left! Down came the
flying suit; off came layers of fleece and jumpers, to finally reveal the
pervvie rubber undersuit (he “says” it was a wet-suit, but I have my
doubts!). Having pulled this down to reveal a fine set of thermals, poor
Orville was gasping with relief when he was assaulted from behind by a local
sex-criminal! Apparently, it’s been years since he saw such an attractive,
rubber-clad duck. I actually think Orville was quite flattered by the
attention, so no lasting harm done. |
The Mad Duck-Molester of old Wigtown
strikes again!
 |
After a hot drink (always carry a stove chaps!) and a few cigarettes, we pressed
on to Carlisle. It stayed very damp indeed, with a lowering overcast and
intermittent showers (God, I sound like a bloody weather-forecaster), and as we
approached Carlisle, they turned on the runway lights for us. Not necessary, but
comforting somehow!
Are you ready? You know you want it. Orville Event 6:
Having landed safely and taxied to the apron, the CFI gestured to Orville to
run straight into the hanger. 20 feet away he reached for the switches to shut
down, then made frantic switching motions with his hand. It was fairly obvious
he couldn’t shut down, so we caught his machine by the front strut just at the
hanger doors, then Mike calmly reached around and applied full choke, which
stopped the engine handily! One broken wire will do that, you see, as you have
to ground the ignition to stop the engine.
By now it was Monday, which was when we had hoped to be home. It clearly
wasn’t going to happen, so we all phoned our various head-offices and arranged
an extra day off. The following day, we headed off for Arclid again and arrived
3 hours later, to refuel, etc. Cue Orville Event 7 (is there no bloody end to
them?): Someone opened a 20 litre fuel container that had been standing in the
sun, without tipping it back first. Result? At least 2 litres of fuel sprayed up
both poor Orville’s legs. It would have been handy had he been trapped in an oil
spill, and with dirty plumage to be cleaned, but as it was, just a plain
nuisance. “Why do these things always happen to me”, was the plaintive Duck-call
– why indeed, Orville, why indeed!
Well, that’s about it for the trip, as the final leg home was uneventful.
Over 22 hours in the air in 5 days, with about 260 litres of fuel burned for a
total journey of 1007 miles, which works out to about 18 miles per gallon. Not
the best fuel economy in the world, but worth every penny.
Until next year - because we will be doing it again - I leave you with these
words from our very own Orville: “Quack, quack, feckit, quack, bugger”
Steve Elsbury
April 2003
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