Posted on another forum this week it but reflects my impression on Leicester.
Saturday is club day, to be spent with friends, flying and talking about flying. Last Saturday was no different, except that the sky was British grey instead of Italian blue, and the after flight drink was beer instead of grappa.
I like Leicester.
The multiple grass and hard runways disposed so crosswinds are never a problem.
The big black enormous hangar, filled with Pitts, microlights, modern plastic fantastics, family Cessnas and vintage delights with tail wheels.
The white clubhouse with tower atop, filled with a functional school, a well stocked bar, and with a special feeling of warmth and friendliness.
A Ryan PT22 is bouncing the circuit. A beautiful aeroplane, I admire the courage of the crew in facing the cold brisk wind in an open cockpit.
I still have to get into the clubhouse when Rob walks up to me. “You and me are going flying. Now.” Refusal is not an option, nor a desire.
We had flown together in the Blue Cream Talyorcraft the last time I was in England, a lovely experience. This time we fly the sparkling red and white
G-BREY.
A quick launch of the prop, taxi to runway and line up, Rob says “she’s yours”. Just as well the 11kt wind is straight down the runway. The rudder is sharp, sensitive and precise. My feet less so. More or less straight, tail up, after a while I realize I have to pull to get airborne. I am behind in getting climb speed, sort of level off at a 1000ft, but exact altitude is optional and we bimble up and down against the headwind. 100mph IAS on 65hp is, for me, an unexpected achievement on so little power. Below, the vast flat countryside is a nice change to my usual Italian view of cluttered fields, hills and shoreline.
The overcast clouds un-patch, bright rays of sunlight streak through to illuminate the sparse villages and green pastures. Little is said as we fly along, words not needed to share the moment.
We turn back, countryside now racing by. Downwind, final, a bit of power to make it to the runway. Rob silently pulls the carb heat, normally an option to Italian climate pilots.
“Follow Cub speeds” is pronounced over the headphones. The Taylorcraft is not destroyed upon landing, Rob calmly not moving while I wrestle touch down, zigzagging, wing lifting and other acrobatics while banging the wheels hard on the ground.
Second T&G, Rob shows me what a proper landing is meant to be like. Third and fourth times, I try to emulate. This is a hotship compared to the worn workhorse Cubs I fly.
The wind increases on every approach. On last final tower calls 18kts. I envy the Pitt pilot preceding us, slipping precisely down to a soft touch down.
Rob does the last landing lined up with the taxiway, touching down softly on the grass just in front. It is always great to witness a pilot in perfect harmony with his aeroplane.
Back at the clubhouse my Italian friends, in full view of our flying antics, brutally comment my easily identified approaches and touchdowns. I shrug it off as envy.
Different skies, different clubs, but always the same true happy atmosphere when true flyers get together.