Dunc
10th Jul 2009, 12:08
Having posted this elsewhere and it going down a storm I thought I would share it with the pprune community. This was written by a good friend who wrote it for our club newsletter (many here will know Mark). Mark has been a fixture at Elstree for decades loves flying for the basic pleasure of flight in fact we joke that he never leaves the ATZ, a lovely hands on pilot. Anyway see what you think:-
NORTHERN HOSPITALITY
Mark Gorlov
When I first visited Elstree Aero Club in the summer of 1979 there was a large old CAA poster on the wall. It included these familiar and memorable words. "IT'S BETTER TO BE DOWN HERE WISHING YOU WERE UP THERE - THAN TO BE UP THERE WISHING YOU WERE DOWN HERE".
In 36 years of private flying I have only been in that position on two occasions: The first time was many years ago as a very low hours, perhaps a little over confident, teenage pilot, scared witless and out of control in IMC The huge lesson learnt on that occasion, and the odd nightmare since, have probably kept me safe to this day. The second time, far more recently, was not in itself a scary moment but one that needed to be addressed with the comparative wisdom of the "older and not so bold pilot, that I am today.
It came close to the end of day two of a ferry flight in November 2006; there I was, halfway between Sellafield Nuclear Power Station and Dean Cross VOR at 1000ft agl sitting on the very base of the cloud, in rough air, carb heat on, rain approaching the beach to my left, steeply rising ground to my right rapidly enveloping itself in swirling cloud and mist, a deteriorating horizon ahead, and a big fat restricted area (2.2) behind.
I was in a very small single seat open cockpit biplane a chart tucked under my left arm, a Pooley's stuffed down the inside of my bright yellow jacket (the significance of the jacket will become apparent later; it is by no means a statement of fashion!), raindrops splattering on the tiny windscreen, the radio screeching static and I am sitting in a puddle, truly not of my own making! I had broken my own set of rules, I had closed the door behind me and now a decision had to be made, and with minimum delay.
Day one of this journey should have given adequate warning that events were conspiring to spoil what was going to be, my last great biplane adventure. All the responses to my advertisement for a half share in my EAA biplane had brought requests to buy her outright. Although I was reluctant to part with her, the offer of a good part exchange in my favour was worth further investigation, and to that end I heard myself excitedly offering to fly her "up North" with the objective to survey the Rand Kr2 on offer. Up North turned out to be Kirkbride in Cumbria!
With the benefit of hindsight, I had perhaps been a little over eager. A moments thought would have revealed three obvious points to consider: Cumbria, and in particular Kirkbride is a heck of a long way, MUCH nearer to the North Pole than sunny Hertfordshire. November, as a month, is not really conducive to open cockpit flight and even if I managed to avoid freezing to death en-route I would still have to make the return journey if there was no deal to be concluded. Its going to be an adventure I reasoned. My longest flight up to then had been between Elstree and Top Farm!
A window in the winter weather was forecast and so it was decided that the optimum and most convenient day for all concerned would be the 3rd of November. Looking at the charts, taking in to consideration the two fuel stops required and with advice from the prospective purchasers the route was to be Top Farm Netherthorpe - Blackpool - Kirkbride with an alternate, Carlisle. This had been suggested by the boys at Kirkbride for reasons of simplicity, a good alternate and perhaps with some local knowledge of the rapid weather changes in the lake district. And so it was that the fiasco began!
On the 2nd November I made a telephone call to Netherthorpe. " I am calling to request PPR for tomorrow, any problem?". The gentleman at the other end seemed rather officious and suggested that I would have to be put on hold while "the system" generated a dedicated visitors PPR number for my inbound arrival. The number would be required to be quoted on first contact with ATC. I waited and wondered if I had dialled the correct airfield. After some time he returned to the phone with the command" PPR number-ready to copy?" Affirm, I replied, trying to sound equally as professional but without a hint of sarcasm. "Your ppr is number one!" I couldn't wait to be there.
Departure from Top Farm was rather later than planned. I was wearing, thermals, a U.S.A.F. style nomex flying suit, A one-piece bright DayGlo orange "OZEE" microlight pilots suit on loan from Eric Schey and to top it off - the Primark special, a hideous yellow fleece-lined sailing anorak - imagine, Mr Blobby goes flying. This combo would provide warmth and insulation for the epic voyage ahead. I really needed a ground crew to “shoehorn” me into that cockpit, every zip pocket housed an important piece of equipment, mobile phone, toothbrush, Garmin GPS and the inevitable kit-kat. Stuffed down inside the jacket was a flight guide on one side, a Northern England half-mill on the other, together with a Tesco's plastic bag with a change of essentials. To finish I was sitting on the aircraft log books and history file, perched somewhat higher than normal and therefore more susceptible to the icy wind. The biplane afforded precious little room at the best of times but this was tight, the full and free check was interesting!
Netherthorpe came into view 1hr 45 mins later, having established radio contact, calling "downwind" for 06 R the controllers response was “nice landing Mark!“ Blimey, I don't usually do requests! Seems the guy ahead, my namesake, was on his first solo! As I flared over the numbers with a good three pointer coming up, the engine quit! I keyed my mike button "Uniform Alpha engine stoppage on runway 06 will restart and call clear" I completed a straight roll out restarted almost immediately and cleared the runway. Then heard the guy in a C150 at the 06 hold transmit the following: "Seems we have too many visiting pilots today who don't know what they're doing".
I was somewhat displeased with this and stormed into the flying club to let someone know. Apparently the aforementioned instructor was "having a bad day". An apology was immediately forthcoming from the manager. I brimmed Uniform Alpha's tank, emptied mine and departed for Blackpool - I couldn't wait to leave. As I turned north westerly and tracked around the Manchester T.M.A. towards Pole Hill VOR I could feel the air getting colder and an increasing wind reduced the groundspeed to 72kts. I lowered my body as far as I could into the cockpit and held a heading for Warton MATZ. The time was getting on, my reception committee would be gathering at Kirkbride,the further west I travelled the colder it became. My enthusiasm was beginning to wane but I was committed to Blackpool, I needed the fuel.
Warton came in (5's) gave me radar steers to overhead and passed me on to Blackpool approach. Nothing heard but squealing feedback and static, I called the tower and radar frequencies - same problem! I tried all three frequencies three times to no avail. I was getting close to the ATZ so I set course for the Poulton VRP N.E. of the town and called Warton again to explain my problem.
The controller at Warton was excellent he kept me on frequency while he liaised with Blackpool on the telephone. Unfortunately Blackpool had a Boeing 737 international departure and requested that I hold over the sea adjacent to the Town and the beach. In five minutes I could have landed and been on the fuel bay before the Boeing was on pushback, In 25 minutes I would be fuel critical. By my sixth 2 minute racetrack hold over the sea at 1500ft I was beginning to get very cold, I had been airborne now for close to two hours. I made another call to Warton as I saw the Boeing depart, I was instructed to position at circuit height over the runway and wait for a green aldis lamp signal from the tower I circled and waited after 5 minutes I saw a steady green. I thanked the controller at Warton turned final and landed in 300mtrs of Blackpool's 1870mtr runway 28 - and then the nonsense began!
I cleared to taxiway Charlie and positioned to await further lights from the tower, I waited shivering, engine running. Ten minutes later a ''follow-me van" arrived and leading me to an area remote from the fuel bay, signalled me to shut down and hastily drove away. I tried the radio again nothing! I shut down. climbed out of the aircraft, removed my bone dome. Turned on the mobile and telephoned ATC, explaining my predicament, the controller actually suggested that I should start the aircraft, and request taxy by mobile phone! This is where the one armed paperhanger bit comes in - it requires two hands to start this aircraft and the crook of the elbow to hold the stick back. This cannot be done with a bone dome on your lap and even if it were possible how could you hear with an un-silenced Iycoming a couple of feet away. The prop wash rushing around your ears and both hands required for throttle and stick to taxy across a deserted ramp to the fuel bay 50mtrs away!!
Further rather curt, but polite, telephone communication resulted in me obtaining exceptional permission to taxy non radio to the refuelling area. I filled the tank, flashed the card, but alas it is not that simple. Today apparently, was the first day of a new computerised invoicing system integrated with card payment facilities. The job of collection for G.A was entrusted to the ramp guys who could not, for love nor money, persuade the system to work. Time was now critical and after waiting 55mins for an invoice and the payment to process I had lost the will, and the daylight required to go on.
Adjacent to the fuel bay is a maintenance hangar operated by Air Navigation and Trading (ANT). I negotiated with the hangar foreman who kindly agreed to lock the aircraft away for the night. The following day being a Saturday it would be essential for someone to be in attendance for me to gain access to the aircraft early in the morning. "No problem the boss is in to do some paperwork." He then pointed over the fence to the airport Hotel so I set off on foot - Mr Blobby with a tesco bag, walking across the ramp past the fire station and out of the gate, as the night came falling from the sky. The hotel was full! How quickly can such a potentially good day become such a drag? I waited for the bus to town.
The Kirkbride boys had backed my decision to night stop and promised a great morning flight with lovely views of the lakes the mountains and Morecombe Bay to be anticipated, then things became even more bizarre. It is a fact, and certainly an education for me, to discover that most of the famous Blackpool Landladies will not entertain the rental of a hotel room to single "gentlemen". Make what you will of this, but frankly when you are tired and cold, your VHF radio has given you the mother of all headaches ,and all you have eaten in the last six hours is a stale kit kat, its time to try a little bribery! And so I found a bed for the night - pre paid of course.
A phone call to the boys suggested "an evening walk up the golden mile and a traditional fish "n" chip supper not forgetting t’illuminations". What an eye opener this turned out to be, early November and half the country is having a holiday. Out at 9pm walking around in short sleeve tee shirts and flip flops,mini skirts for the "ladies", the kids are either munching chips or ramming their faces full of candy floss whilst their trainers, ears and wristbands are glowing with flashing lights. Getting nearer to the famous tower the "penny arcades" became dearer - £1 a go seemed to be the norm. The "ladies" at this location were far classier - some of their tattoos were even spelt correctly!
Interestingly, it was not easy to find any kind of restaurant that offered seating whilst dining but eventually a suitable establishment was found. I walked in and sat down. Ten minutes past before I clued up to the fact that one must approach the counter and order. I was really hungry and enquired as to the types of fish on offer. I always deliberate carefully, either plaice or haddock, sometimes rock if its really fresh. The proprietor cum head chef, cum table clearer, come washer up, fixed me with an icy resigned stare "its fish "n" chips or pies - we close in fifteen mate" " Fish please - no contest" I said quickly. I thought about doing a Kensington and Chelsea on him and to enquire whether the pies were organic with a vegetarian option? Just to wind him up, but it seemed too dangerous.
At 6.25am the wind was rattling the windows as I peered out at an ominous and overcast sky. I showered, put on the U.S.A.F flight suit and hit the breakfast room. As I ordered the lightest of breakfasts (the fish "n" chips were still hanging around!) the elderly lady serving put a hand on my shoulder stating that the "girls" in the kitchen were getting a little flustered re: my appearance! I glanced towards the kitchen doors, you know the type, double swing doors with porthole windows, and there I saw Hinge and Bracket but partly devoid of any teeth, thumbs up and grinning like two Cheshire cats. If only I had brought a couple of pairs of nylons with me we could have all revisited 1945 together!
The airport gate was locked, so dressed as Mr. Blobby I made my way into the terminal. It was deserted except for a young woman at the enquiries desk. "Can you let me out on to the ramp, please" I politely asked. "I'm sorry" she replied "you will have to go and see the immigration officer in the customs hall." I related my situation to him and showed him the fuel and landing fee invoice. He asked to see the contents of my tesco bag and requested that I walk through the x-ray scanner. Well of course the alarm activated. I counted 11 metal zips on my three layers plus an assortment of coins, cards, my watch, my GPS etc. Having convinced him that really all was well and the only person that I posed any risk to was myself I asked him to be let me out to the ramp - without a hint of irony he declared ''you’re not wearing a Hi-Viz waistcoat, it's more than my jobs worth".
So it seems that a vast DAYGLO baby grow, plus a hideous bright yellow sailing anorak (same colour as the average life vest) is not enough to satisfy the "Health and Safety" contingent that I will not get mown down walking across an EMPTY ramp in broad daylight. Go figure as the Americans say. And then things got even worse ... I did walk across that ramp to find 'the hangar chained closed! Eventually and after some considerable delay that included stepping outside the secure fencing (achieved by ramming a brick under the gate - not my idea) I was able to safely remove "Uniform Alpha" from her place of rest.
My pre-flight was thorough, my flight log complete, the weather acceptable, a bit more wind than optimum, sky obscured base 2500ft (of course I had also telephoned ahead to check conditions at Kirkbride). We had a go situation, all that remained was to book out, request light signals for a non-radio departure, if necessary, and enjoy the ride.
I went to the ramp controller’s office, picked up the telephone and began to pass my details. He interrupted me with words that left me speechless "The runway is CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE"! 1870mtrs of tarmac and two guys with shovels at the far end, I pleaded to be let out. I could have been airborne in 300mtrs and at 1200ft.agl way before the end, or even have departed in their tea break for their safety and my sanity but it wasn't to be negotiated - the only way out: a runway 31 departure accepting a 15kt gusty crosswind with climb out to the north over the sea.
GREEN LIGHT - takeoff, layoff 40 degrees of drift, maintain centre line, glance over my right shoulder, and with great relief set course for the shortest crossing of Morecombe bay heading for Cark (Grange over sands). I dialled in the frequency and transmitted to Cark - nothing but static although I could hear another aircraft positioning downwind, I noted his callsign and tried to get two-way comms with him but to no avail. At this point I became a little uncomfortable - this weather was not as forecast: rain showers were evident over the beaches and the high ground to starboard. Ahead the horizon was blurring and the cloud base appeared to be lowering. To the north and west of me was a mile wide shaft of light illuminating the town of Barrow in Furness. I made this my aiming point knowing at least that the airfield was probably closed but at this point would be my best option in the case of a precautionary landing.
This track equated to the longest sea crossing and I was flying lower with the cloudbase. There simply would not have been the available space to be wearing a life jacket and in any case I had planned to fly around the coast. That dry throat feeling was beginning to develop; this was the longest 10nm over water I had ever flown.
At Barrow I set the GPS to Dean Cross VOR, I tried looking at the chart but it was flapping around so much I could not determine the sector safe altitude but in any event the descending base would force me nearer the beachline. Any thoughts of viewing the lakes had now been abandoned there was a solid cloud line with showers forming to the East. I knew the ground ahead would rise to 3700ft asl, so I edged westward ever closer to the beach, but kept an eye behind me, Barrow was still an option.
Suddenly the GPS flashed a warning "AIRSPACE AHEAD" this confused me, at first I duly pressed ENTER to acknowledge Seconds later and it flashed the same warning and suddenly I could see Sellafleld nuclear power station. The restriction here is to 2200ft and to a radius of 2nm. To the west was a rain shower so I used the pictorial on the GPS and hugged its eastern boundary but its so huge I was able to study its science fiction like quality and in these conditions it seemed all the more sinister. I tried calling Carlisle but the only response- static again.
I was chiding myself now for not turning back or finding somewhere to put down as the fishbowl effect was becoming apparent. At that moment "Uniform Alpha" finally protested and just in time I selected full carb. heat before she choked herself on ice and made the decision for me.
So there I was, as I said at the beginning of this account wet, cold and more than a little concerned, running out of options and there, suddenly, like a javelin from the sky, a great shaft of sunlight illuminating what could only be a pathway to the top of the clouds and to comparative safety. I pushed the throttle fully home and climbed, At 3500ft I was above all the cloud, bathed in sunlight I could feel my whole body warming up, I could also see that the cloud line ended abruptly 10 miles to the east.
I called Carlisle and the controller answered loud and clear; that's VHF - it also likes to see where its going! I gave a position and situation report to Carlisle and heard an on frequency jet provost report Kirkbride area to be opening up and full of holes overhead, I took up a heading direct Kirkbride and saw the peat bog adjacent to the runway glistening like a lake on the sunlight,the cloud was dissipating as quickly as it had formed. The radio was back on.
The boys at Kirkbride sounded as relieved to hear from me as I was to hear them. I landed into a strong headwind, taxied in and shut down outside the boys hangar. These two boys had two great wives who greeted me with the best words of the day ''WOULD YOU LIKE A BREW"? A cup of tea was never more welcome. Now THAT'S what I call northern hospitality!
Mark Gorlov
NORTHERN HOSPITALITY
Mark Gorlov
When I first visited Elstree Aero Club in the summer of 1979 there was a large old CAA poster on the wall. It included these familiar and memorable words. "IT'S BETTER TO BE DOWN HERE WISHING YOU WERE UP THERE - THAN TO BE UP THERE WISHING YOU WERE DOWN HERE".
In 36 years of private flying I have only been in that position on two occasions: The first time was many years ago as a very low hours, perhaps a little over confident, teenage pilot, scared witless and out of control in IMC The huge lesson learnt on that occasion, and the odd nightmare since, have probably kept me safe to this day. The second time, far more recently, was not in itself a scary moment but one that needed to be addressed with the comparative wisdom of the "older and not so bold pilot, that I am today.
It came close to the end of day two of a ferry flight in November 2006; there I was, halfway between Sellafield Nuclear Power Station and Dean Cross VOR at 1000ft agl sitting on the very base of the cloud, in rough air, carb heat on, rain approaching the beach to my left, steeply rising ground to my right rapidly enveloping itself in swirling cloud and mist, a deteriorating horizon ahead, and a big fat restricted area (2.2) behind.
I was in a very small single seat open cockpit biplane a chart tucked under my left arm, a Pooley's stuffed down the inside of my bright yellow jacket (the significance of the jacket will become apparent later; it is by no means a statement of fashion!), raindrops splattering on the tiny windscreen, the radio screeching static and I am sitting in a puddle, truly not of my own making! I had broken my own set of rules, I had closed the door behind me and now a decision had to be made, and with minimum delay.
Day one of this journey should have given adequate warning that events were conspiring to spoil what was going to be, my last great biplane adventure. All the responses to my advertisement for a half share in my EAA biplane had brought requests to buy her outright. Although I was reluctant to part with her, the offer of a good part exchange in my favour was worth further investigation, and to that end I heard myself excitedly offering to fly her "up North" with the objective to survey the Rand Kr2 on offer. Up North turned out to be Kirkbride in Cumbria!
With the benefit of hindsight, I had perhaps been a little over eager. A moments thought would have revealed three obvious points to consider: Cumbria, and in particular Kirkbride is a heck of a long way, MUCH nearer to the North Pole than sunny Hertfordshire. November, as a month, is not really conducive to open cockpit flight and even if I managed to avoid freezing to death en-route I would still have to make the return journey if there was no deal to be concluded. Its going to be an adventure I reasoned. My longest flight up to then had been between Elstree and Top Farm!
A window in the winter weather was forecast and so it was decided that the optimum and most convenient day for all concerned would be the 3rd of November. Looking at the charts, taking in to consideration the two fuel stops required and with advice from the prospective purchasers the route was to be Top Farm Netherthorpe - Blackpool - Kirkbride with an alternate, Carlisle. This had been suggested by the boys at Kirkbride for reasons of simplicity, a good alternate and perhaps with some local knowledge of the rapid weather changes in the lake district. And so it was that the fiasco began!
On the 2nd November I made a telephone call to Netherthorpe. " I am calling to request PPR for tomorrow, any problem?". The gentleman at the other end seemed rather officious and suggested that I would have to be put on hold while "the system" generated a dedicated visitors PPR number for my inbound arrival. The number would be required to be quoted on first contact with ATC. I waited and wondered if I had dialled the correct airfield. After some time he returned to the phone with the command" PPR number-ready to copy?" Affirm, I replied, trying to sound equally as professional but without a hint of sarcasm. "Your ppr is number one!" I couldn't wait to be there.
Departure from Top Farm was rather later than planned. I was wearing, thermals, a U.S.A.F. style nomex flying suit, A one-piece bright DayGlo orange "OZEE" microlight pilots suit on loan from Eric Schey and to top it off - the Primark special, a hideous yellow fleece-lined sailing anorak - imagine, Mr Blobby goes flying. This combo would provide warmth and insulation for the epic voyage ahead. I really needed a ground crew to “shoehorn” me into that cockpit, every zip pocket housed an important piece of equipment, mobile phone, toothbrush, Garmin GPS and the inevitable kit-kat. Stuffed down inside the jacket was a flight guide on one side, a Northern England half-mill on the other, together with a Tesco's plastic bag with a change of essentials. To finish I was sitting on the aircraft log books and history file, perched somewhat higher than normal and therefore more susceptible to the icy wind. The biplane afforded precious little room at the best of times but this was tight, the full and free check was interesting!
Netherthorpe came into view 1hr 45 mins later, having established radio contact, calling "downwind" for 06 R the controllers response was “nice landing Mark!“ Blimey, I don't usually do requests! Seems the guy ahead, my namesake, was on his first solo! As I flared over the numbers with a good three pointer coming up, the engine quit! I keyed my mike button "Uniform Alpha engine stoppage on runway 06 will restart and call clear" I completed a straight roll out restarted almost immediately and cleared the runway. Then heard the guy in a C150 at the 06 hold transmit the following: "Seems we have too many visiting pilots today who don't know what they're doing".
I was somewhat displeased with this and stormed into the flying club to let someone know. Apparently the aforementioned instructor was "having a bad day". An apology was immediately forthcoming from the manager. I brimmed Uniform Alpha's tank, emptied mine and departed for Blackpool - I couldn't wait to leave. As I turned north westerly and tracked around the Manchester T.M.A. towards Pole Hill VOR I could feel the air getting colder and an increasing wind reduced the groundspeed to 72kts. I lowered my body as far as I could into the cockpit and held a heading for Warton MATZ. The time was getting on, my reception committee would be gathering at Kirkbride,the further west I travelled the colder it became. My enthusiasm was beginning to wane but I was committed to Blackpool, I needed the fuel.
Warton came in (5's) gave me radar steers to overhead and passed me on to Blackpool approach. Nothing heard but squealing feedback and static, I called the tower and radar frequencies - same problem! I tried all three frequencies three times to no avail. I was getting close to the ATZ so I set course for the Poulton VRP N.E. of the town and called Warton again to explain my problem.
The controller at Warton was excellent he kept me on frequency while he liaised with Blackpool on the telephone. Unfortunately Blackpool had a Boeing 737 international departure and requested that I hold over the sea adjacent to the Town and the beach. In five minutes I could have landed and been on the fuel bay before the Boeing was on pushback, In 25 minutes I would be fuel critical. By my sixth 2 minute racetrack hold over the sea at 1500ft I was beginning to get very cold, I had been airborne now for close to two hours. I made another call to Warton as I saw the Boeing depart, I was instructed to position at circuit height over the runway and wait for a green aldis lamp signal from the tower I circled and waited after 5 minutes I saw a steady green. I thanked the controller at Warton turned final and landed in 300mtrs of Blackpool's 1870mtr runway 28 - and then the nonsense began!
I cleared to taxiway Charlie and positioned to await further lights from the tower, I waited shivering, engine running. Ten minutes later a ''follow-me van" arrived and leading me to an area remote from the fuel bay, signalled me to shut down and hastily drove away. I tried the radio again nothing! I shut down. climbed out of the aircraft, removed my bone dome. Turned on the mobile and telephoned ATC, explaining my predicament, the controller actually suggested that I should start the aircraft, and request taxy by mobile phone! This is where the one armed paperhanger bit comes in - it requires two hands to start this aircraft and the crook of the elbow to hold the stick back. This cannot be done with a bone dome on your lap and even if it were possible how could you hear with an un-silenced Iycoming a couple of feet away. The prop wash rushing around your ears and both hands required for throttle and stick to taxy across a deserted ramp to the fuel bay 50mtrs away!!
Further rather curt, but polite, telephone communication resulted in me obtaining exceptional permission to taxy non radio to the refuelling area. I filled the tank, flashed the card, but alas it is not that simple. Today apparently, was the first day of a new computerised invoicing system integrated with card payment facilities. The job of collection for G.A was entrusted to the ramp guys who could not, for love nor money, persuade the system to work. Time was now critical and after waiting 55mins for an invoice and the payment to process I had lost the will, and the daylight required to go on.
Adjacent to the fuel bay is a maintenance hangar operated by Air Navigation and Trading (ANT). I negotiated with the hangar foreman who kindly agreed to lock the aircraft away for the night. The following day being a Saturday it would be essential for someone to be in attendance for me to gain access to the aircraft early in the morning. "No problem the boss is in to do some paperwork." He then pointed over the fence to the airport Hotel so I set off on foot - Mr Blobby with a tesco bag, walking across the ramp past the fire station and out of the gate, as the night came falling from the sky. The hotel was full! How quickly can such a potentially good day become such a drag? I waited for the bus to town.
The Kirkbride boys had backed my decision to night stop and promised a great morning flight with lovely views of the lakes the mountains and Morecombe Bay to be anticipated, then things became even more bizarre. It is a fact, and certainly an education for me, to discover that most of the famous Blackpool Landladies will not entertain the rental of a hotel room to single "gentlemen". Make what you will of this, but frankly when you are tired and cold, your VHF radio has given you the mother of all headaches ,and all you have eaten in the last six hours is a stale kit kat, its time to try a little bribery! And so I found a bed for the night - pre paid of course.
A phone call to the boys suggested "an evening walk up the golden mile and a traditional fish "n" chip supper not forgetting t’illuminations". What an eye opener this turned out to be, early November and half the country is having a holiday. Out at 9pm walking around in short sleeve tee shirts and flip flops,mini skirts for the "ladies", the kids are either munching chips or ramming their faces full of candy floss whilst their trainers, ears and wristbands are glowing with flashing lights. Getting nearer to the famous tower the "penny arcades" became dearer - £1 a go seemed to be the norm. The "ladies" at this location were far classier - some of their tattoos were even spelt correctly!
Interestingly, it was not easy to find any kind of restaurant that offered seating whilst dining but eventually a suitable establishment was found. I walked in and sat down. Ten minutes past before I clued up to the fact that one must approach the counter and order. I was really hungry and enquired as to the types of fish on offer. I always deliberate carefully, either plaice or haddock, sometimes rock if its really fresh. The proprietor cum head chef, cum table clearer, come washer up, fixed me with an icy resigned stare "its fish "n" chips or pies - we close in fifteen mate" " Fish please - no contest" I said quickly. I thought about doing a Kensington and Chelsea on him and to enquire whether the pies were organic with a vegetarian option? Just to wind him up, but it seemed too dangerous.
At 6.25am the wind was rattling the windows as I peered out at an ominous and overcast sky. I showered, put on the U.S.A.F flight suit and hit the breakfast room. As I ordered the lightest of breakfasts (the fish "n" chips were still hanging around!) the elderly lady serving put a hand on my shoulder stating that the "girls" in the kitchen were getting a little flustered re: my appearance! I glanced towards the kitchen doors, you know the type, double swing doors with porthole windows, and there I saw Hinge and Bracket but partly devoid of any teeth, thumbs up and grinning like two Cheshire cats. If only I had brought a couple of pairs of nylons with me we could have all revisited 1945 together!
The airport gate was locked, so dressed as Mr. Blobby I made my way into the terminal. It was deserted except for a young woman at the enquiries desk. "Can you let me out on to the ramp, please" I politely asked. "I'm sorry" she replied "you will have to go and see the immigration officer in the customs hall." I related my situation to him and showed him the fuel and landing fee invoice. He asked to see the contents of my tesco bag and requested that I walk through the x-ray scanner. Well of course the alarm activated. I counted 11 metal zips on my three layers plus an assortment of coins, cards, my watch, my GPS etc. Having convinced him that really all was well and the only person that I posed any risk to was myself I asked him to be let me out to the ramp - without a hint of irony he declared ''you’re not wearing a Hi-Viz waistcoat, it's more than my jobs worth".
So it seems that a vast DAYGLO baby grow, plus a hideous bright yellow sailing anorak (same colour as the average life vest) is not enough to satisfy the "Health and Safety" contingent that I will not get mown down walking across an EMPTY ramp in broad daylight. Go figure as the Americans say. And then things got even worse ... I did walk across that ramp to find 'the hangar chained closed! Eventually and after some considerable delay that included stepping outside the secure fencing (achieved by ramming a brick under the gate - not my idea) I was able to safely remove "Uniform Alpha" from her place of rest.
My pre-flight was thorough, my flight log complete, the weather acceptable, a bit more wind than optimum, sky obscured base 2500ft (of course I had also telephoned ahead to check conditions at Kirkbride). We had a go situation, all that remained was to book out, request light signals for a non-radio departure, if necessary, and enjoy the ride.
I went to the ramp controller’s office, picked up the telephone and began to pass my details. He interrupted me with words that left me speechless "The runway is CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE"! 1870mtrs of tarmac and two guys with shovels at the far end, I pleaded to be let out. I could have been airborne in 300mtrs and at 1200ft.agl way before the end, or even have departed in their tea break for their safety and my sanity but it wasn't to be negotiated - the only way out: a runway 31 departure accepting a 15kt gusty crosswind with climb out to the north over the sea.
GREEN LIGHT - takeoff, layoff 40 degrees of drift, maintain centre line, glance over my right shoulder, and with great relief set course for the shortest crossing of Morecombe bay heading for Cark (Grange over sands). I dialled in the frequency and transmitted to Cark - nothing but static although I could hear another aircraft positioning downwind, I noted his callsign and tried to get two-way comms with him but to no avail. At this point I became a little uncomfortable - this weather was not as forecast: rain showers were evident over the beaches and the high ground to starboard. Ahead the horizon was blurring and the cloud base appeared to be lowering. To the north and west of me was a mile wide shaft of light illuminating the town of Barrow in Furness. I made this my aiming point knowing at least that the airfield was probably closed but at this point would be my best option in the case of a precautionary landing.
This track equated to the longest sea crossing and I was flying lower with the cloudbase. There simply would not have been the available space to be wearing a life jacket and in any case I had planned to fly around the coast. That dry throat feeling was beginning to develop; this was the longest 10nm over water I had ever flown.
At Barrow I set the GPS to Dean Cross VOR, I tried looking at the chart but it was flapping around so much I could not determine the sector safe altitude but in any event the descending base would force me nearer the beachline. Any thoughts of viewing the lakes had now been abandoned there was a solid cloud line with showers forming to the East. I knew the ground ahead would rise to 3700ft asl, so I edged westward ever closer to the beach, but kept an eye behind me, Barrow was still an option.
Suddenly the GPS flashed a warning "AIRSPACE AHEAD" this confused me, at first I duly pressed ENTER to acknowledge Seconds later and it flashed the same warning and suddenly I could see Sellafleld nuclear power station. The restriction here is to 2200ft and to a radius of 2nm. To the west was a rain shower so I used the pictorial on the GPS and hugged its eastern boundary but its so huge I was able to study its science fiction like quality and in these conditions it seemed all the more sinister. I tried calling Carlisle but the only response- static again.
I was chiding myself now for not turning back or finding somewhere to put down as the fishbowl effect was becoming apparent. At that moment "Uniform Alpha" finally protested and just in time I selected full carb. heat before she choked herself on ice and made the decision for me.
So there I was, as I said at the beginning of this account wet, cold and more than a little concerned, running out of options and there, suddenly, like a javelin from the sky, a great shaft of sunlight illuminating what could only be a pathway to the top of the clouds and to comparative safety. I pushed the throttle fully home and climbed, At 3500ft I was above all the cloud, bathed in sunlight I could feel my whole body warming up, I could also see that the cloud line ended abruptly 10 miles to the east.
I called Carlisle and the controller answered loud and clear; that's VHF - it also likes to see where its going! I gave a position and situation report to Carlisle and heard an on frequency jet provost report Kirkbride area to be opening up and full of holes overhead, I took up a heading direct Kirkbride and saw the peat bog adjacent to the runway glistening like a lake on the sunlight,the cloud was dissipating as quickly as it had formed. The radio was back on.
The boys at Kirkbride sounded as relieved to hear from me as I was to hear them. I landed into a strong headwind, taxied in and shut down outside the boys hangar. These two boys had two great wives who greeted me with the best words of the day ''WOULD YOU LIKE A BREW"? A cup of tea was never more welcome. Now THAT'S what I call northern hospitality!
Mark Gorlov