Lord of The Isles - Gigha

Submitted by mike on Sat, 2008-05-17 21:04.

The plan was to fly somewhere. The democratic choices were France, Ireland or Orkney. The weather was the dictator. We were heading to none of them, possibly.

All trips start with checks

Remedial landings done - check;
New plane but low hours - check;
Untried GPS - check;
Untried wiring - check;
First time Kim and I have flown together over distance - check;
Unknown destinations and suspect runways - check;
Busiest time at work all year to leave - check;
This was all set to be the mother of all disasters - check

And it wasn't. It was brilliant. unchecked;

It did not start well though.

We were set to fly off on Monday - but the weather was appalling so we all gave up (sensibly of course). So we all assembled on Tuesday. Where we all spent ages working out where to go and fixing bits that didn't work. We were then ready to set off. That was when our plane didn't start. After all that time at the airfield I hadn't figured that checking the plane started was a low prioirity... doh! It was a loose wire so ok so far. Graeme's ipod needed rebooting so I spent less time standing around as others with more ability to squeeze into microspaces looking or broken wires spotted the problem. Fixed. We set off in a single squadron.

We took off which was a bit of an experiment - we were fully loaded with Kim and I , full tank and most of the Tiso camping department bulging from the luggage space and the lightweight duvets in the wings. Acually most of the weight on take off was the boxes of wine, soay sheep sausages and my countless gadgets.

We took off. And stayed in the air - things were going well.

We then found out that there was a domino effect that neither of us found flying alone. Kim in the back pushed me forward. Mike and his stomach pushed the map forward. There was no space between this and the radio. Thus the map did three actions randomly - each of which confuse a pilot but together really confuse a pilot. In any case they really confused me.

The map hit the 'squelch' which rendered a high pitched squeak into our headphones, at the same time it changed the radio channel to something random like Edinburgh Airport Approach but fortunately also changed the radio from transmit mode to 'lets find a VFR beacon mode'). Either one of these was a bit of a puzzle if it had ever happened before - all three happening together was a bit like solving a rubik's cube if you are colour blind - whilst you are trying to follow more experienced pilots on a track through the edge of controlled airspace where we could be colliding with any number of larger planes.

This was a good start. I was the pilot and although I could have relied on the expensive GPS I had strapped on for comfort - I was really concerned about radio. It would be nice to speak to the others before landing. Just for separation reasons.

Kim had come across some problems and I had come across others before. Together we were back on track and speaking to everyone else. This was the first 10 minutes and we had a couple of hours to go. I had a stomach to lose or the map and although the map would be easier to lose it was a bit reassuring to know where you were.

The trip was beginning finally as we swiftly advanced into the squadron finally all on radio, all swiftly looking forward and swiftly missing the cessna aircraft powering down on us. 'What type of airspace are we flying in' did Colonel Blimp (transferred to the air force) blustered at Air Traffic Control. Encountering 4 microlights must have come as a bit of a shock when you imagine you are in some form of protected space (very few horizontal and vertical acres of the UK air space).

West Linton VRP (Visual Reference Point aka obvious thing to spot) rushed past with the GPS completely shouting TERRAIN TERRAIN TERRAIN and clearing the map as if we were plunging into the bloody hill. From there are three cities and New Lanark (which isn't new at all but an industrial experiment and that seems to have some ghastly Charlie Dimmock garden stuck inappopriately on the roof. Apart from distracting passing pilots this must be a demented idea of an espresso fuelled public agency.

Over nuclear power stations and the outflow, long lines of pylons, the track where Gordon learned to fly, over Bute and over the sea, not to Skye, but to Gigha.

Over the water down to the airfield and then it was an encouraging landing - too high, too fast, too high, too fast, too left, too right. Remember not to land. Smooth landing. Long runway.

Taxi plane to camping ground, unload planes. Smile.

The weather is glorious so we all decide to fly over the Jura runway to check it for landing tomorrow - ready for takeoff. Graeme signals a problem and a carburretor rubber decides that it wants to split. Gordon would fly back and pick up a spare but we also try calling the club to see if anyone there could fly over - and a rescue party is assembled.

Richard builds tent, being an architect I expected something grander, while cattle look on adoringly. Kim builds tent and hobbles plane. We walk to pub. We eat/drink and walk back. Whisky party in graeme's tent then stagger back and fall over titanium tent pegs and into our cocoon.

Snores echo around - it is just as well we are all miles from anywhere. Bliss.

Bookmark/Search this post with: