I spent last week in England, hoping to get a chance to fly the Saratoga and get current with my take-off and landings.

The one day that the plane was not available was Tuesday.

That was, of course, the only sunny day of the week. The rest of my time in England was spent watching the low clouds drift past and the rain fall in a long slow I-can-keep-this-up-forever drizzle which, by the end of the week, had shifted to snow.

When I saw the sunshine, I thought perhaps it would last a while. As I couldn’t fly, I thought I’d take advantage of the weather and explore the countryside. I took my iPhone and a raincoat and made my way outside. I sent messages to Twitter about my adventures as I went. Here’s the transcript of my no-fly day which turned out both more and less interesting than I expected.

Walking along the somewhat sodden trail of the Essex Way, I wasn’t sure where I was going.

I meandered along through a small village, sending scenes from my phone, hoping that I wouldn’t get lost.

Then I found this sign and I knew I had a purpose. I turned left at the junction and walked on, expecting to see a secret bunker just around the corner. But it didn’t appear and I found a number of junctions without sign posts. I was pretty sure I was lost.

I sent a message to Twitter that I was giving up.

I decided to walk to the next village and see if I could find a taxi. I had walked 6.5 kilometres (3 miles) in total and I couldn’t face walking straight back. I was feeling footsore and depressed when finally I found another sign at the roadside.

I’d found it!

There was a paved road curving through the fields. It looked like it might be a bit of a trek but I felt renewed at having finally found the place. It would be silly for me to turn back now.

But almost immediately, there was a new obstacle.

I posted the photograph with a plea for the Internet:

Help me out. Am I going to get shot at if I continue?

The general consensus was that I should carry on – after all, the big sign definitely said open. I had walked so far, it really seemed a shame to turn back now with nothing to show for it. I carried on.

I walked for another kilometre, past a paintball complex and through the carpark with a high tower on it that didn’t look super-secret to me.

The carpark was muddy and empty but then I saw two cars parked at the side, so I felt a bit more confident. There was a trail with signs saying This Way and then another sign on an unlocked gate saying Open!

So I continued. Finally I found it – a little farmhouse in the countryside, innocent as could be.

From a distance, it was a simple small bungalow hidden amongst the trees. Well, except for the tanks parked in the garden shed and a notice on the front steps:

“Welcome to the ex Government Regional HQ, the home of the Central Government in time of nuclear war.”

There were signs saying to come on in, take a wand, take the tour. As I walked into the building, it was clearly an unmanned entrance but everything was set up to make the instructions very clear. Take a wand and take the tour! Once you pass through this door, you MUST have a wand. Adults should take a red wand and listen to it!

I took a wand and listened to the soundtrack and walked through the door. I saw a new set of signs warning me that I was now committing myself to £6.50 entrance fee, to be paid at the exit. No credit cards. No exceptions. You are on CCTV, we know what you look like! Don’t think you can get away with it (and do you have a wand? You need a wand!)

I nervously checked my wallet to make sure I had £6.50 in change and waved at the camera.

I stared down the long concrete tunnel taking me down while I listened to the information on the wand. The bunker was built in 1952 and was meant to ensure the government’s survival in the event of a nuclear war. There were iron bunk beds pushed again the wall and radiation readers and gas masks – it truly looked like something directly out of Fallout 3. The tunnel, 120m long, led to the ground floor which was actually 80 foot below the the ground. It was as I reached this part of the tour that I began to suspect something was wrong. The initial lights and displays were on and there was a radio broadcasting METARS from main cities all over Europe. But this next section was dark. I hovered a bit, listening to the wand and looking for sensors that might put the lights on, and then I lost my nerve and ran up the stairs. My plan was to go straight to the exit and find out if there actually was someone collecting the entrance fees and watching the camera, someone who could verify that I was allowed to be there.

I found a canteen, lights on, and a sign asking people to put their money into the honesty box and leave their wands in a box on the counter. As I looked around, a young man came into the room and stared at me.

“What are you doing here?”

“I, um, I was doing the tour. But then some of the lights were off.”

“The lights,” he repeated. Then he spoke very slowly, as if speaking to a mad woman. Or to an American, which many Brits believe to be the same thing. “The lights are off because we are closed. There was a sign at the road saying that we are closed on Tuesdays.”

“Right, well, there was also a sign that said open.”

“Next to the sign that made it clear that we are closed on Tuesdays.” He raised his eyebrows in a way that said, surely I wasn’t going to argue that this was false?

“Right.” I smiled in what I hoped was a conciliatory manner. “So I’ll just, um, leave the wand with you and be on my way.”

“Yes,” he said. And just in case I hadn’t understood. “Because we are closed. It’s Tuesday.”

“Tuesday. Closed. Right.” I handed him the wand and fled.

He followed me to the exit and I updated the people watching on Twitter.

Bunker was definitely interesting. Also definitely closed. I was escorted off the premises.

I followed the path back to the main road and walked on until I found a pub, where I collapsed quietly and drank an ale called “Bitter and Twisted” until my feet stopped aching. And then I phoned Cliff and begged him to pick me up.

I sent one last message to reassure the people who had followed my adventures that I wasn’t in trouble.

And then I fell asleep.

The little bit of the bunker that I explored was fascinating and I will definitely be going back. There were also signs about a £5.00 licence to take photographs indoors, so next time I will take my Nikon with me for decent shots.

You can read more about the Kelvedon Hatch Secret Nuclear Bunker on the RGHQ 5.1 Official Website and, as of March 1st, they’ll be open every day. I’m looking forward to taking Connor to explore it – but probably not on a Tuesday. Just to be safe.

And if you want to follow my next adventure in realtime, just add me on Twitter as akaSylvia.

Shobdon Airfield started as Pembridge Landing Ground, a long strip in an isolated area used to support Army manoeuvres. In 1942 it was upgraded to “a proper airfield” by the military.

Shaun McGuire has made a website dedicated to the Hereford Parachute Club at Shobdon and has reprinted an article found in Action Stations 3, The Airfields which tells the history of the airfield:

The first visitor after the new airfield opened on May 28, 1942 was a Grumman Martlet which forced-landed whilst on a flight from Yeovilton to Donibristle on June 20. A few days later two Canadian Spitfires landed after getting lost on a cross-country flight. On July 14 the first aircraft to be based – a Lysander – was delivered by an ATA pilot, followed by two dismantled Hotspur gliders brought by road.

I was flying to Shobdon on a whim. Its location on the border of England and Wales meant I was likely to get some lovely views and the attached café had a good reputation. At the time, I didn’t think to look at the history of the airfield, or else I might have seen this:

Shobdon’s grass surfaces on which the gliders usually landed were muddy and unserviceable and half the runway width was unusable because of re-surfacing work.

I was blissfully unaware that the airfield had a reputation for mud when I planned a day trip to Shobdon and back, I was just pleased I could conveniently get my three take-offs and landings in a single afternoon.

Shobdon has a hard runway, over 2,700 feet of asphalt, so I wasn’t particularly interested in the state of their grass. I felt much more prepared than I usually was, as I’d met someone at my local flying club who knew the airfield well.

“Keep a good look out,” he told me. “You get the fighter jets over-flying the place without bothering to talk to anyone. Check the noise abatement procedure, it’s a wide circuit there. And always, always watch the other planes: they have two overhead join procedures: one for locals and one for people who know what an overhead join is.”

He also told me that air-to-ground was “intermittent” so I wasn’t concerned at the radio silence when I approached the airfield later that afternoon. It was quiet, no other planes in the air and no sign of military activity. I landed without any excitement and head over to the clubhouse to get some lunch.

It seemed a nice enough place – the café was tidy and the people were friendly. I got lost looking for the restrooms and ended up in room at the back which seemed the epitome of a Victorian gentlemen’s lounge: wood panelled walls, dark green furniture, varnished tables with crystal ashtrays large enough to hold a cigar or two. I felt quite guilty being in there, an intruder in a masculine world that I’d only ever read about. I backed out nervously before anyone caught me touching the velvet curtains.

A friendly woman in a small wooden cubicle accepted my landing fee and commented what a lovely day it had been and how lucky I was. The week before had been miserable, she told me, non-stop rain. I chatted to her for a bit and then made my way back to the plane.

It was lunchtime and the café had just begun to fill. I’d seen a table full of old airmen, no doubt telling tall tales of the type I love to hear – but I needed to get back home. I settled for a quick cup of coffee at the table next to them. One day I will learn to appreciate tea – after all these years in the UK, you’d think I’d have acquired a taste for it.

I rushed back onto the apron and started up the plane. There was still no one on the radio so I did my calls blind. I was meandering along the taxi-way when I belatedly noticed the sign: “No power checks beyond this point!” I looked around. No other planes were moving. I turned the plane hard to the right so that it was somewhat vaguely into wind and started my checks on the spot.

When I went to turn back onto the taxiway I realised I hadn’t left myself any room to make the turn, I was going to have to enter the grass runway which ran alongside the taxiway. But in that case, I thought, why not just cross the grass and head directly to the asphalt. The radio was silent, no one was coming in, it wasn’t like I was going to be causing any inconvenience.

I made the call and pulled onto the grass. The plane bumped forward and then slowed to a crawl over the uneven ground, losing momentum. I pushed in the throttle but it seemed I was too slow, the plane stopped moving. I increased the power again and then once more. It took a moment before it sank in: I was at full throttle and the plane wasn’t moving. I bit my lip, shut down the engine and clambered out of the plane.

There was no denying it, I was stuck. There was a 3-foot long furrow in the mud. I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the swearing of the future gliders landing on that runway.

At the end of the rut was my nose wheel, covered in mud and dug into the grass. The propeller had bright green streaks all around the edges. If I’d managed to go any deeper, I would have probably taken out the prop but luckily, no damage was done. Except that I needed to get the plane off of the grass somehow.

Help appeared rather rapidly, a plane shutting down perpendicular to the taxiway and runways has that effect. A friendly, sturdy looking guy came out from wherever he had been working to see what had happened.

“The grass runway isn’t usable after the weather we’ve had,” one said, looking at the plane. “It’s a bit muddy out there.” Yeah, I’d noticed. I showed him the nose wheel and he grimaced. Others arrived and a moment later there were four of them in a circle around the Saratoga, shaking their heads at the mess I’d gotten myself into. I stayed on the periphery, they looked like they’d spent their life around planes and were probably taking them to pieces while I was still hoping I’d grow tall enough to be a stewardess. I didn’t think they’d appreciate my input and I didn’t have a chance of getting the plane out without them.

“She’s stuck, all right.”
“If she used full power, couldn’t she…”
“No way, look how close her prop is to the ground already.”

I couldn’t help nodding furiously in agreement every time someone vetoed the “full power and press on” theory.

“Can we push her?” They circled around the plane. I was pretty sure that the female pronoun referred to the plane, not me. I checked to make sure no one was shoving a part of the plane that shouldn’t be shoved, then positioned myself at the nose to heave on the count of three.

The Saratoga rocked backwards and then hit the side of the ridge and lurched forwards again, comfortable in its rut. We could push it out, if we could follow the muddy crevasse I’d created exactly. As it was, we weren’t creating the momentum to push the nose wheel out and over the rut. Even with six of us, it was not enough.

One of the men looked as if he might mention the full power theory again but my new friend who had taken charge spoke first. “We’re going to have to tow her out.”

I didn’t have a clue what this would entail and how this would work. In the end, I simply admitted my helplessness. “I guess I’m not much help.” I got a tolerant smile as a response. I took a chance. “Would it be OK if I took a few photographs of you pulling the plane out?

Luckily they were a friendly bunch; they grinned at me, happy to be captured on film as they rescued this damsel in distress. A battered Landrover was quickly sourced to tug the plane out backwards. They affixed the rope to what we all thought was a tow point on the back of the plane. I later discovered the handy loop was actually for tying the plane down – to my dismay I discovered that the handbook specifically warns against using it to tow. It’s probably a good thing that I didn’t know this while the men positioned themselves: one at the nose of the plane, one at each wing, one in the Landrover and one to stand with the rope. On the count of three, the men shoved, the driver revved carefully and the Saratoga shuddered gently before majestically lifting up and over the rut and then rolling smoothly back to the taxiway. The Landrover towed her back to the sign: “No power checks beyond this point!”

From there it was easy. I thanked them all profusely and did a quick walk-around. Everything looked fine, even the tie-down point. I got into my plane and flew back home, impressed at how friendly everyone had been. I made a mental note to come back to Shobdon … in the summer, after it’s had a chance to dry out.

It’s been a while since the day I missed the runway at Oxford Airport. I’ve done a lot more flying and I’m a lot more competent. But my first near-miss (no damage was done except the loss of a runway light) is not an incident I’m likely to forget in a hurry.

The Saratoga is fast in the circuit and if it’s busy, I spend half my time trying not to sneak up on the 152s pottering along downwind like a Sunday driver in a tweed cap.

On that fateful day, I was thrilled to see that Oxford circuit was nice and quiet: there was a touch of a crosswind which meant that most of the students were grounded for the day.

I spoke to a friendly instructor at PFT who confirmed that it was fine for circuits, just not optimal for new flyers who were still trying to get their confidence up. I’d done crosswind landings in much worse weather so I wasn’t very concerned.

It was a beautiful day, brilliant blue skies and clear views of the Cotswolds below me. I hummed to myself as I zipped around the circuit a few times. I knew there was a crosswind and I was taking it into account but I wasn’t particularly worried.

Except then I missed the runway.

I’m still not quite sure what happened. I called final as I bore down towards the threshold. The approach was a little bit messy but tolerable; I decided to carry on. I pulled up as I reached the transition point and noticed a slight float.

I considered full power and going round as I knew the plane would lose speed fast and she could be a pig to land. Then I felt her begin to sink back to the ground and I thought, “No, this is fine, I’ll land it.”

Nose up, wheels about to touch, everything seemed OK. Then I blinked. Where did the runway go?

I was lined up perfectly but 10 feet to the left of the numbers. There was no time left: I touched down with the left wheel on the grass and the right on the runway, the nose wheel bumping along the edge.

There must have been a slight gust of wind that shifted me sideways as the plane was low and slow. I steered back onto the runway and vacated at the first opportunity.

Once parked, I crawled under the plane to see if the tyres and connecting bits looked normal. It slowly began to dawn on me that, although I looked at the underside of this plane every flight, I didn’t actually feel that confident about how it all hung together and whether it still looked right.

Ben, an instructor who I’d flown with previously, happened to be in Oxford that day and walked out to the plane. “ATC just phoned. You took out a runway light. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine, I just don’t know about the plane.”

“Go to Operations and apologise. I don’t know if they will charge you or if it’s covered on their insurance or what. They want to talk to you. Take responsibility. Afterwards I can help you find someone to check it out.”

Luck was with me: while I was waiting to cower before a random air traffic controller, I saw Mark, the engineer who services the plane.

“Hey, good to see you flying, no time to chat, I’m on my way to Brittany,” he said as he rushed past me.

“I broke the Saratoga,” I said. He froze mid-step. I knew he would.

“Come on, show me.”

He looked it over, shook his head at a nick in the nose wheel, then pronounced the plane airworthy. “But watch that tyre, we need to get that fixed soon. Look at it after every landing, if you see any spreading or fraying, stay on the ground and call me.”

I was amazed he has that sort of faith in me; deep-down I felt that I had proven that I was still a student, not to be trusted with responsibility. I nodded seriously and he smiled at me. “It happens. You must have come down soft, those lights crack easy, they don’t want there to be any resistance. The nick happened after the light cracked and you rolled over it.”

A couple of pilots were standing around me now, I re-iterated what happened, no one seemed to think I deserved my licence ripped out of my hands. “It happens.”

“Plane’s in one piece, you’re in one piece, well done,” a man with a Scottish accent said with a pat on my shoulder.

I almost smiled.

I still had my apologies to do, though. I went to the man in Operations to tell him what happened.

“Where?”

“Just past the numbers. Left side.” It seemed important to me that he knew I was landing on the numbers, even if I was, well, off-set a bit.

“Just a second. ” He called ATC, nodded a few times and hung up.

“It’s OK,” he told me. “They’ve already cleared it up.”

I blinked at him. I wasn’t actually offering to dash out to the runway to clean it up with a bucket and a broom. “Oh. Good.” I wasn’t sure where to go from there.

“There might be a bill. Never had this happen before.” I winced as he tutted at me. “Anyway, we’ll let you know. Taking her up again for more circuits?”

I shook my head. I’d had enough for one day. What I really needed was a stiff drink. It wasn’t that I always landed perfectly but, if it looked questionable, I’d always gone around. This was my first truly bad landing.

“Plane’s in one piece, you’re in one piece.” I recited the words to myself as I walked away. At the end of the day, I knew I was lucky.

I shouldn’t have hopped the fence.

It was shut with a big padlock and surrounded by barbed wire so I can’t exactly claim that I hadn’t noticed it.

But I’d walked such a long way – 5 miles! – just to take some photographs for my blog, it seemed such a shame to give up at the last hurdle. There was no one else there so it wasn’t like I was getting in anyone’s way. And it wasn’t like there was anyone to tell me off – just me and some cows off in the distance.

I didn’t know that they were guard cattle.

But let me start at the beginning…

Brookmans Park is a small village in Hertfordshire, population 3,475. There isn’t much exciting to say about the place: the locals are friendly, the Indian restaurant is divine, the village green is pleasant in nice weather.

However, pilots who fly around southeast England will recognise the name as home to the Brookmans Park VOR (BPK) which is used by aircraft flying in and out of the London area.

When I found out that I was going to be trapped visiting family staying locally for a few days, I immediately thought of BPK and wondered if I could actually visit a VOR and find out what they look like.

A VOR (VHF Omni-directional Radio) beacon is a navigational aid which broadcasts on a specific radio frequency in such a way that a pilot can get a bearing from the VOR to her aircraft.

Patrick Flannigan has a better explanation of this on Aviation Chatter: How VORs Really Work and you can even test it out yourself on his VOR / ADF Navigation Simulator.

If you want to know the detail, the Wikipedia article on VORs is probably the best single reference:VHF omnidirectional range

You can also read about how pilots use VOR’s on Plastic Pilot’s guide: Flying VORs For Dummies

It turned out that the Brookman’s Park VOR is not actually located in the village but a few miles east near Epping Green. The weather was glorious and I needed an excuse to get out of the house thought a walk would do me good, so I made my way there, walking along the country roads and enjoying the mild weather.

I used a hand-held GPS and reached the location after about 2 hours gentle strolling.

That’s when I discovered that the VOR was in a field, surrounded by a fence with two padlocked gates.

It seemed so sad. I could see the field and the VOR and a herd of cattle grazing in the distance. I considered my situation for a few moments and then convinced myself that the fence was merely to keep the cattle in, surely not to keep me out. Besides, I wasn’t going to do any harm. I just wanted a closer look at the VOR.

So I clambered over the fence with my camera in hand.

The ground was firm beneath my feet and the sun warmed my shoulders. A light breeze carried the scent of freshly-cut grass to me. The bird song was only interrupted by the roar of the engines overhead. If I had any chance of forgetting my purpose in coming to this lovely location, the air traffic would make sure I was reminded.

I was taught to avoid routing directly overhead popular VORs and VRPs when flying VFR as it is simply concentrating the traffic into a single place but I haven’t thought about in a long time. This was the first time I had a visual.

There was never any question of danger, the separation was more than enough but it did feel a bit like Grand Central Station above my head as various low planes from all directions flew straight towards the VOR.

I admit it: I regularly plug a route into the GPS, jumping from VOR to VOR in a dot-to-dot pattern to ensure I don’t get lost. Max Trescott recently wrote about flight safety and indentifying local hotspots and standing at the VOR, I could see exactly what he meant.

This was one.

Despite the traffic, it was a pastoral scene, the golden colours of September all around me, the cattle lowing and a blackbird singing in the distance. I walked closer to the VOR.

It was much bigger than I expected. I stepped around the cow pats and peered up at the phased array antenna. BPK looked both old-fashioned and futuristic, like something I might see in a 1950s sci-fi film.

I walked up to the fencing surrounding the structure and began talking close-up photographs when I realised that the cows were getting louder.

The two clumps of cattle I’d seen off in the distance had joined forces and come to deal with the intruder.

Of course, I didn’t realise this immediately. I simply thought that they happened to be wandering my way. I took a few more photographs, thinking the juxaposition of the cattle and the VOR would make for an interesting contrast.

The cows kept on coming. Now in my defence, I’m very much a city girl. I grew up in Los Angeles where there is not a lot of wildlife to be found, unless you count pigeons.

So I still did not realise that there was an issue. I thought the cows were interesting and I was pleased for the great opportunity for some nature shots. I looked for a clean bit of grass and knelt down, taking a few more photographs before I realised …

…that they were coming after me.

I smiled nervously and gave the cows a little wave. This had no effect at all. I decided that perhaps I had outstayed my welcome. I assured them that I was on my way and that I hoped they had a pleasant afternoon.

I turned my back. Mistake. Never turn your back on a herd of guard cows.

I heard the trotting of running cattle behind me.

I spun around and they screeched to a halt, a few yards behind me, chewing in a melancholy way, pretending that they weren’t after me.

I turned to continue walking to the gate. I heard the hooves thud against the grass. I whirled towards them and they stopped again, blinking innocently.

I began walking backwards, keeping an eye on what I now knew were killer attack cattle, ready to defend the VOR against all intruders.

They stumbled forward, slowly closing the gap between us. When I felt the cool touch of shade of the trees, I knew I was close to the gate. I turned around and made a run for it.

I had no idea I was capable of hopping a fence in a single bound but I’m glad for it.

The cows clustered at the fence and stared at me. They didn’t make a sound but the message was clear:

“AND STAY OUT.”

I assured the guard cattle that I had every intention of respecting fences in the future. Then I edged my way backwards until I was safe on the main road and I made my way back to civilisation.

And people tell me General Aviation is dangerous!

The 13th of September was a Fly-In and Community Day at North Weald in Essex and I had the good fortune to be in the area.

The airshow featured F16 Fighters of 132 Wing Royal Norwegian Air Force, who flew in from their base at Bodø, north of the Arctic Circle. They returned to the Wing’s Second World War home, to commemorate the 65th Anniversary of the “birth of today’s Norwegian Air Force” and celebrate their close bond with the local community since 1942.

13th September 2009 – Spirit of North Weald Community Day Fly-in | North Weald Airfield History

There was no landing fee for the day so the place was packed, aircraft parking went right the way down the field. Many of North Weald’s regular visitors, including aircraft from the RAF’s 72 (Reserve) Squadron flew in so there was a wealth of interesting planes to coo at. Unfortunately, N666EX was in the hanger for maintenance.

As we arrived there were four planes on the runway, taking off one after the other. We watched the some impressive formation flying by this group of Bulldogs and a Pup. G-IPUP, G-JWCM, XX630, and a fourth plane (whose registration I missed) circled North Weald offering for plenty of photo opportunities.

According to my flyer, the Norwegians were represented by: Norwegian Air Force Chief of Air Staff, Major General Stein Erik Nodeland, Brigadier Per-egi Rygg the Commander of 132 Wing and 5 Norwegian veterans who flew from here in WWII, along with the Mayor and community representatives from the City of Bodø.

The real guests of honour were a group of Norwegian veterans who were stationed in North Weald during the second World War. They boarded the Falcon to be escorted by the two F16s for a circle of the airfield and then back home to Bodø. One of them made the comment that it was sad to think it would be the last time he would be flying from North Weald as he had many fond memories of the place.

The Norwegian Airforce attended with two F16s, a Falcon and a de Havilland Vampire. I fell a little bit in love with the Vampire. The pilots were pretty cute, too.

The F-16 is a single-engined, supersonic, dog-fighting aircraft designed to be flown VFR. I like to think that I could fly one if I was given a chance to sit in the front seat. To be honest, I’d probably just sit there staring in awe if they did let me climb in. It took them quite some time to prepare the F-16s for flight. Meanwhile, we had a fly-over, Battle of Britain style.

“The distinctive silhouette imparted by the wing planform helped the Spitfire to achieve legendary status during the Battle of Britain. Despite a public perception that it was the RAF fighter of the battle, the more numerous Hurricane actually shouldered a greater proportion of the burden against the Luftwaffe.”

Lucky us, we had both a Hurricane and a Spitfire. Now I have to admit, I can’t tell the difference between the two. Luckily, they flew so low that I could easily see the registration and identify the planes that way.

The lower plane on the left is LF 363, Hurricane (Mk IIc) which was believed to be the last Hurricane to enter service in the RAF. LF 363 currently wears the colours of Hurricane Mk1 P3878 ‘YB-W’, the aircraft of Flying Officer Harold Bird-Wilson of No 17 Squadron during the Battle of Britain.

The grey plane is P5915, a Supermarine Spitfire. They were so close and so fast, it was difficult to train the camera on them, let alone get an in-focus shot. I have a few more misses than clear shots but I was very pleased with this one of the Spitfire as he passed straight by me before they flew off into the distance.

Meanwhile, the engines had started on the F16s and they started rolling away.

I heard later that there was some damage to the runway. Apparently, the first F16 to take off heated up the tarmac to melting point and then the second one lifted the surface.

The original briefing was was to do two fly-by’s of the airfield, flying out to Brookman’s Park VOR and back before escorting the Fan Jet Falcon back to Norway. Unfortunately, there seemed to be some issues with getting clearance from Stansted.

The F16s had to stay under 1,500 feet which is a lot lower than it sounds when 17,000 kilos of machinery are flying past!

Can you imagine being an Easyjet pilot flying into Stansted as these planes thundered below you?

It’s hard to portray the speed with which the F16s hurtled past us. F-16 pilots must go through special training to deal with the high-G effects.

The US Air Force has lost 12 pilots and 16 aircraft to gravity-induced loss of consciousness (GLOC).

F-16 Fighting Falcon:

Sharp turns can induce loss of consciousness when gravity pulls blood toward the lower extremities, carrying oxygen away from the brain. After about 5 seconds of pressure, vision is progressively lost from peripheral vision to central vision. When blood flow is allowed to resume, vision is smoothly and rapidly recovered. Cerebral failure and recovery is much less graceful and predictable . After about 5 seconds of blood flow stoppage to the brain, GLOC occurs suddenly and lasts from 10 to 30 seconds (average about 13 seconds). When consciousness is regained, it is usually accompanied by brief seizure-like activity and a period of confusion,which lasts about 12 seconds. During this 12 seconds, the aviator is unable to function effectively.

The Norwegian Airforce de Havilland Vampire took off with the F16s and the Falcon but after the initial fly-by it broke away. The Falcon, escorted by the F16s, continued to the Brookman’s Park VOR and on to Norway. The Vampire circled the airfield giving us great views of one of the most beautiful planes I’ve ever seen. It was soon joined by a second Vampire which is based in North Weald. There are very few Vampires still flying so it was a great treat to see them flying past in formation.

I got to see the Norwegian Vampire on the ground after the display – it had a Mickey Mouse sticker on the side and a Norwegian flag lying on the dash. I wasn’t sure which of these was the pilot but the way the man in green leaned on it like he owned it, I suspected he was the one that flew it.

Flying has taken place on North Weald’s still very active airfield since 1916; with more than 50 units from seven nations (UK, USA, Norway, New Zealand, Canada, Czechoslovakia and Poland) operating from RAF North Weald prior to the station’s closure in 1964. They hope to arrange a series of fly-ins at the airfields leading up to the 2012 Olympic, each featuring a nation who had squadrons based at North Weald.

There was plenty to do on the ground. Part of the field was set up as a “village green” with a bouncy castle and rides and military displays. It was very much a family event, with kids of all ages having a good time with barely a glance to the sky. I also got to take a closer look at some very details model aircraft from the North Weald model flying club. I have only ever seen them in the distance, usually thinking “is that a plane?” before watching an impossible spiral climb and realising that it’s unlikely.

All in all, it was a wonderfully pleasant day out.

I took hundreds of photographs but I managed to narrow it down to my favourites on Flickr. So if you have a moment, take a peep at the full set of photographs so that I don’t feel quite so guilty for spending all week sorting through them: Spirit of North Weald – a set on Flickr

Summer is officially over: it’s time for Connor to go back to school. I hate September even more now than I did when I was a kid!

We’ll be heading off in the Saratoga on Sunday morning, taking off from Málaga (IFR as it’s the weekend) and flying 3.5 hours to in France. Just a quick break there for fuel and what my son calls “personal business” and then straight through from there to Shoreham.

View Malaga to Shoreham in a larger map

I wrote about Shoreham before but it could do with an update and maybe some photographs.

Destination: Shoreham

I’ll try to collect some interesting stories and photos for you while I’m away (but not TOO interesting, I hope!).

I’m surprised to find out that I haven’t written a destination piece on Oban, one of my favourite airfields. In fact, I’ve only mentioned it once.

Update from Abroad, March 2008

We used Oban airfield instead which has recently undergone renovations and has a new 1,264m runway. It is a great airfield, easy to spot from miles away and as soon as we’d taxied off the runway, there were people coming out to help us unload the plane and organise a taxi. Very helpful and friendly. It was a quick trip from the airfield to the ferry where we sat in the bar and watched the mainland recede and the island come into view. A very comfortable trip, despite nasty 30 knot headwinds all the way in.

The location is stunning, the runway is a comfortable 1,264 metres long and the people are unfailingly polite and helpful. The airport (with fuel available seven days a week) is optimally placed for exploring the Hebrides and there is a B&B directly across the bridge which you can use as a base if you want to make an early start.

If you don’t want to make it a flying holiday, you are still well-placed in Oban with ferries to the local islands and well-connected by train.

But don’t take my word for it. Here’s a recent description of the airfield on PPRune:

What’s happening at Oban?

You cant beat the view from the airport at Oban on a nice sunny day! Either summer or winter the view is breath taking no matter which direction you look! Fantastic place to use as a base to explore further up the West coast and indeed to Inverness and the East travelling up the Great Glen. Fuel is available there which is in short supply once you leave the Central belt of Scotland!
The guys there are fantastic with nothing being too much trouble and if passing and fancy a quick stop I have called on the radio and never been refused a landing! There maybe a PPR rule but as with most things in aviation circumstances change and Oban Information seem to be very accommodating! One of the best airports I have visited!

My first flight into Oban was nerve-wracking due to the thousand-foot hill a mile to the north of the runway, that’s when I learned what a dog-leg was. Since then, I’ve been lucky enough to fly into 01, which makes for a simple straight-in approach, with a fairly gentle left turnout on a go-around.

Although we only stopped for a cup of tea (I’ve since been told that they offer Jammy Dodgers as standard, we missed out!), I am reliably informed that the nearby Lochnell Arms offer a good meal if you are looking for something more satisfying.

Note: Do not rely on other people to gather information for you – and for the love of safety don’t rely on my notes being correct for your flight! Always verify all details yourself.

Oban

Airfield: EGEO
Phone Number: 01631 710910 (Strictly PPR)
Hours: 09:00-18:00 GMT
Frequency: Oban Information 118.050 Mhz
Runway: 01/19 1264×30 Asphalt
Website: http://www.argyll-bute.gov.uk/content/roadsandtransport/planebranch/obanairport
Divert: Glasgow

Oban officially want a 3 hour PPR but we’ve never been turned down even when phoning a scant hour ahead. The landing fee of £15 is a wee bit steep so in future I intend to insist on a Jammy Dodger to defray my costs.

And if that hasn’t whetted your appetite, then take a look at this awesome collection of aerial shots from the South-West Highlands, one of the most beautiful places on earth.

Kidlington Airfield, now known as Oxford Airport, has been in use since the 1930s. Their training history began in World War II when it was used as a training centre for Royal Air Force pilots. Today, even with a downturn in new pilots, 73% of their traffic is training flights. Their circuit can get very full. I once ended up in the circuit with half a dozen planes of different speeds, desperately trying to stay ahead of the jet and not overtake the Cessnas. Regardless of the stresses, I’ve found that Oxford ATC remains consistently pleasant, helpful and actively on the look-out for problems so that they can help the pilots avoid them.

I know the airfield well because Oxford is where I did my conversion to complex, soon after completing my PPL. At the time, every circuit was a struggle as I tried to comprehend the speed and weight of the Saratoga after learning in Cessna 172s. But it was back on the ground where I had the most trouble.

After a few hours in the air, my instructor said he was happy for me to take the Saratoga up on my own after a break. Circuits still felt a rush, much like when I started flying, but I was starting to feel like it might be just about under control.

We stopped at the pumps to fill her up. The instructor had another student waiting, so was in a rush. “You can taxi it back OK, right?”

Having just agreed to take the beast out solo I could hardly claim that I needed help moving it from the fuel tanks to my parking spot. I gave him a brave grin. “I’ll be fine, you go!”

He bounded away while I glared at the plane, daring it to embarrass me in public. I went through the complete start-up checks, as if I were about to take it to Japan. Then I took a deep breath and started the engine. So far, so good. My transit across the airfield was approved and I drove at a slow speed, feeling in control for the first time that day.

Except that someone had parked next to my parking space. Not in it but next to it, in such a way that I had to navigate behind it, between the other plane’s tail and a large fence, to get to my spot.

I looked around hopefully: maybe that somebody was about to leave. No such luck, no pilot near. I had just about decided to swing around and park over by the flying school planes, when I noticed three young guys looking at my plane. Watching me, as I vacillated and blocked up the taxi way trying to work out what to do, no doubt wondering what such a little girl was doing in so much Saratoga.

I looked at my parking space again. It was totally accessible if I slipped in between the plane and the fence and then did a hard right; I couldn’t fault the pilot’s parking. I looked at the young guys again and felt an irrational surge of pride. I’ll swing it right in, park it perfectly, that’ll show them!

That’ll show them, indeed. I pulled around, keeping extra far from the other plane, worried about my low wing clipping his tail. Then I realised that I had overcompensated: the left wing was dangerously close to the corner of the fence. I pondered for a moment, should I just go for it and hope? Even I wasn’t that fool-hardy: I cut the engine and got out to look.

I couldn’t carry on: my left wing was clearly going to clip the fence. I needed to push back but I knew there was no chance I could budge it on my own: I’d taken the engine to over 2000 RPM just to get it to roll forward on the grass.

I glanced at the guys but they were now deep in conversation. Did they really not notice my problem? Or were they sniggering quietly? I looked around again in desperation. At that moment, a good looking, dark-haired man came towards me.

He called out. “Need me to move my plane?”

I waited until he reached me to shake my head, no. “That’s not going to help at this stage.”

He grinned. “No, it won’t. What are you going to do?”

Various pitiful answers went through my head but I simply said, “I’m going to have to push it back,” like this were within the realms of possibility.

He nodded; I felt like I’d passed some sort of test.

“I’ll help you,” he told me. We positioned ourselves either side of the propeller and I was about to push for all I was worth when he shouted at the young guys still standing in the car park.

“Hey, give us a hand here.”

They dashed over. “Anything for a damsel in distress,” said my new friend with a wink. With a single heave the plane rolled back. I was clear for another go.

“I’ll marshal you in,” he said as I climbed into the cockpit. The three guys smiled and waved and retreated back to the parking lot. I started up and he guided me straight through the gap and into my spot.

“Nice parking,” said my instructor as I walked into the school. He’d watched it all through the picture window.

“One word about women drivers and I’ll kill you,” I snapped, making a bee-line for the coffee machine. “I said I could do circuits solo, I never said a word about taxiing.”

An hour later, the guys were still in the car park, chatting away. Not a snigger in sight.

I climbed into the plane and wondered why I was so quick to sabotage myself. If I’d asked one of them to guide me in when I saw them glancing at the plane, it would have looked professional and competent – as opposed to having to push the plane by brute force.

I considered that maybe I was my own worst enemy and taxied away.

Of course these days, I don’t have that problem. I simply make a point of hanging out at airfields with bigger parking spaces:

Shoreham Airport is one of my favourite airfields with a convenient location and easily spotted from the air, whichever direction you come in from. They have a decently long (1,036 metres) asphalt runway with PAPI but their commercial traffic isn’t very high, so they are still General Aviation friendly and ATC has always been helpful.

One evening, we were coming in late. We’d left Málaga on time that morning but we were held up refuelling in France and then we had fierce headwinds all the way across France and the channel. I asked London Information to speak to Shoreham on our behalf: we had a passenger that needed dropping there and the taxi was already parked and waiting. Shoreham confirmed that they closed at 2000 which was approximately our ETA but that they would wait for us to get in. When I explained that we weren’t staying but wanted to taxi to the terminal and then go out again, the controller barely flinched. Everyone was watching the clock – we got in before closing but was a minute past closing time before I could get the plane in the rolling. The controller was patient and never pushy – he took his time without rushing me to switch to Farnborough so that he could shut down. Shoreham could have justified charging us through the nose for the extra five minutes of ATC but the controller was very friendly about the whole fiasco.

The end of last year the word was out that the Shoreham was in financial trouble – proposed expansion to the airfield was put on hold. Then on April 14th it seemed it was over: Shoreham Airport went bust with debts of over a quarter of a billion pounds. Stupidly I stopped paying attention at that point – and so did everyone on Wikipedia, which ends the story of Shoreham Airfield with all flights being blocked.

I know better than to use Wikipedia for research, dammit! In reality, the closure only lasted a single day and the airfield was immediately purchased and re-opened for business.

Certainly their their website makes it clear that it is business as usual, so my worrying was pointless. That’ll teach me!

So, my cheat sheet for the flight:

EGKA Shoreham
Date: 23 May 2008
Sunset: 19:55 GMT
Phone Number: General Enquiries: 01273 467373
Hours: Mon – Sat 0800 – 2000 (or sunset) Sun 0830-2000
Frequencies: APP/TWR 123.15, ATIS 125.30
Runway: 02/20 1036 x 18 Asphalt
Website: Shoreham Airport
Useful: Circuit Map
Divert: Biggin Hill

This’ll be a quick stop to pick up my son and then fly straight to Germany, where my presence has been requested at a family-get-together. So we’ll be flying to Mannheim City the same day and spending the weekend there. Wow, the Saratoga is seeing more action this month than it has all year!

North Weald airfield was established in 1916 to protect London during the First World War and prides itself for being a frontline airfield in the Battle of Britain in 1940. The military abandoned the airfield in 1964 but the Essex Gliding Club has kept the now unlicensed airfield active since the 1970’s.

My quick reference notes:

EGSX North Weald
Arriving 12 May 2008
PPR: 01992 524510
Hours: 09:00-19:00 or sunset
Sunset: 19:45
Website: North Weald Airfield
Useful: Airfield layout
Runway: 02/20 1920×45 asphalt (unlicensed)
and 13/31 – 916 × 45m asphalt (unlicensed)
Circuit height: 800′ QFE / 1200′ QNH
Divert: Stapleford
Location:Google Maps

Note: Do not rely on other people to gather information for you – and for the love of safety don’t rely on my notes being correct for your flight! Always verify all details yourself.

Arriving by car, you are advised to give way to aircraft at all times, a frightening thought. The airfield is a confusing mishmash of unlicensed asphalt runways and roads. Runway 13 is closed on Saturdays so as to host the local market but 31 remains in use. My copy of the plate has “do not go here on a market day” scrawled upon it, the idea of flying into a runway have covered with cars and market stalls is frightening.

However, North Weald also has some great advantages. The main runway (02/20) is 1,920 metres long and easily spotted – especially as you have to remain under 1,500 feet to keep out of of London Stansted’s Class D airspace. It is one of the friendliest airfields I’ve been to, with pilots, mechanics and students all smiling hello and often stopping to get a better look in the plane. And the Squadron has one of the best fried breakfasts in Essex.

The Saratoga is currently parked there, having undergone minor maintenance, leaving us to fly commercial in the meantime. I’m sure it’s lonely and dying to get off the ground and I want some practice before attempting the downsloping runway at Lausanne! I’ll be meeting up with Lee, one of my original instructors. Lee flies jets these days but fancies a bit of a spin in the Saratoga and wants to see how I’m flying these days. Masochist.

Barely home again before it’s time to go. Assuming the weather plays along, we’ll be taking the Saratoga out for an extended trip. We were initially planning an initial stop (well, if you don’t count refuelling) in Dublin, where my mother is at a conference. But having been away last weekend, things have backed up a bit so we’re going to miss Dublin this time around unfortunately. After all this time in the British Isles, I’ve never been to Ireland! I definitely need to get that sorted.

Instead, we’ll fly into North Weald and then meet my mother at Gatwick. We’re going to pick up my son and then all of us are going to spend the weekend at Birling Gap in East Sussex.

Birling Gap is a hamlet on the Seven Sisters cliffs on the South Downs. It consists of a single road ending in a parking lot, where you’ll find half a dozen fishing cottages, a hotel and a lifeguard station.

The Birling Gap Hotel describes itself as "a Victorian colonial style villa with its interior furnished in a 1930’s style". The walls are covered with a textured rose and cream wallpaper scattered with black and white photographs of beach goers, covered from their necks to their knees, frolicking on the beach. Dried flowers adorn the corners adding to the feeling of genteel decline.

We stayed there a few months ago on a whim, simply following the road from Beachy Head. A middle-aged woman sat at the front desk as we walked into the building. I imagined that when no one was looking she would stare gloomily at the doorway, muttering about outsiders causing havoc in their small inn. Her bright smile as she greeted us belied my fantasies but still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of DuMaurier’s Cornish inn, the men meeting late at night to drive the ships onto the rocks and keep the bounty.

We stayed in the room on the right in this photograph, overlooking the cliff, winter winds driving spray against our windows all night long. It was great. The next morning I went down the rickety stairs to the beach and walked for an hour.

The cliffs are eroding, a noticeable amount every year. The initial row of fishing cottages has already been removed to stop them slipping into the sea. From Birling Gap you are just in view of the Belle Tout lighthouse (now a private residence) whichwas moved back in 1999 to keep it from falling into the sea. A large information plaque informs visitors that the lighthouse will need moving again within the next hundred years, a rather unfortunate circumstance considering this information is right next to the For Sale sign.

I loved everything about the place. If ever I had to meet a stranger with only a moment to judge his character, I would arrange that meeting at the Thatched Bar to watch his reaction to Birling Gap.

Ben, who was going to be flying with me, contacted me on Sunday to say that he was stuck in Copenhagen with a jet whose wheels would not retract.

A nice young man named Alistair agreed to adopt me for a few days, so we flew out to Shobdon yesterday where we got stuck on in the mud of the grass runway and needed 4 strong blokes and a Landrover to tow us back out. The propellor has frightening green streaks on the edges of the blades but luckily only tickled the grass and didn’t run into the ground.
Today has been better, to be fair, I’ve done some decent flying and been given a grand tour of Enstone which has a great club although the runway is somewhat bizarre.

No idea what the plan for the rest of the week is although I am trying to find some brave young pilot who will join me on some cross-country flights for practice (read: keep me from getting lost). At least the weather is good.

I can’t complain really, at least there are plenty of stories to tell.

I spoke to Ben yesterday and so my trip to the “British Mainland” is now confirmed.

I’ll start in Oxford and do circuits there until I’m dizzy (circuit: take off, fly in a circle, “touch” the run way and “go” again, ad infinitum) and then head off to local airfields and do the same there.
Ben will make me go to Enstone, his home airport, and no flight training from Oxford is complete without Hinton in the Hedges, a small airfield now full of gliders and parachuters, just to keep things interesting.

One reason (as I understand it, I better go research this) that there are so many airfields in Southern England is that the military requisitioned a lot of farm land during World War 2 to make landing strips for the RAF. These airfields were in heavy use for four or five years and then abandoned. Some of these got picked up by the local council or even privately and remain in use: Hinton in the Hedges with its original Control Tower in ruins is one of these.
With the exception of Oxford, I know nothing of any of these places except their runways. When possible, you book over the phone to avoid having to stop your training and land to pay fees etc. This time, though, I will try to convince Ben to do a photograph and coffee tour, stopping at each one to test out their cafes (where possible) and get a look around.

We’ll also be doing some navigation to a destination which will no doubt be sprung on me the night before, leaving me sleepless in a small hotel poring over maps wondering if I can find my way without the aid of the GPS. If Ben is feeling confident, we’ll carry on to do shortfield landings. Last time we went to Stapleford, where I smiled as I landed with runway to spare and Ben shivered as he told me he’d never been that close to the hedges before.
I’m not sure if he’ll take me there again.

Then there’s the standard refreshers: recovering from a stall, practice forced landings, steep turns. We can’t do spins in the Saratoga, thank goodness.

I’m nervous now.