Last Thursday, I was sitting in a small bar in Ireland. The bar was quiet - only me inside. The staff were out back, and there were no customers. The bar is filled with polished wood tables and pleasant material-covered comfortable chairs and benches. There are large bay windows which overlook the small apron of Sligo airport, and further across onto the blue sea which stretches away thousands of miles, over to America. The clouds were few and the sun was pouring through the windows and bouncing off the nearby cliffs and hills.
I sat with a huge, smug grin from ear to ear, in total silence. Outside, on the tarmac was just one small aeroplane - mine (well, at least for the day)! I had flown it over from Aldergrove, through the valleys, missed the hilltops and dodged the showers. I had found Sligo airport sitting out on a small promontory, with a huge 1000ft hill looming over it from the south, and emptiness to the north. I had flown straight in on a long long final, then negotiated the tricky wind shear on short final, and set the aeroplane down with full wing down and full right rudder, and just a hint of a bump, taxied in, parked and gone for a coffee.
Just me, the sea the apron and an aeroplane I had flown there, and was about to fly back - it was fantastic!
Of such scenes are memories made
