Much seems to be going on in the world of Aviaiting this week just passed.
Last week Paul MacCready died. He was an aviation and man-powered flight pioneer - but his name was familiar to this chap because an instrument in the old sopwith glider is named after him.
MacCready was an accomplished glider pilot and had won national competitions in the USA - and it was competitive gliding which led him to study the aeronautical behaviour of a glider in rising and sinking air - he went on to invent an instrument to help him.
The MacCready ring sits around the variometer - a kind of very sensitive rate of climb meter. The vario tells you if you are in air that is rising or falling - and allows you to judge if you are in a thermal or other lift source.
His device is a simple loop around the Vario - configured for each aeroplane and allows you to read off a recommended glide speed if you are in sinking air.
Thus in the aircraft I fly at the moment - 3 knots of sinking air I can instantly see requires an airspeed of 55 knots for best glide.
Simple and effective.
Have a read of his obituary here:
Paul MacCready
Another glider pilot with a record to his name is also in the news - of what we all hope is not the same reason.
Steve Fossett is an accomplished aviator and has a wealth of experience to draw upon.
Here
and Here
What caught my ear was the usual hyperbole from the lazy journalist on the radio - spouting a standard FAA line.
(The FAA is the US equivalent of the CAA - known here as the Campaign Against Aviation.)
'He wasn't wearing a parachute and flew from an unlicensed strip and failed to file a flight plan.'
That ol' chestnut.
Perhaps if the chap doing the reporting had done a bit of digging he would have discovered that in powered aircraft it isn't the norm to wear a parachute at all - except if you are flying distance at night.
He may have also discovered that almost all airstrips are 'unlicensed'.
He should at least have discovered and drawn a correlation between the purpose of his flight and the requirements to actually file a flight plan:
Fossett was seeking out dried lake beds to attempt a land speed record. You file a flight plan to fly in controlled airspace - which is normally many thousands of feet above the ground.
He wouldn't have been looking for long flat places from 5-6000 feet - it all looks pretty similar from up there.
He was probably below radar cover - so his transponder wouldn't traspond anyway - so no excuses there for them to harp on about his instruments.
So - he wouldn't have filed a flight plan, worn a parachute and taking off from an unlicensed strip is normal.
He's an experienced glider pilot - and as with power - you learn rough field landings.
Yet - it makes for better story copy to go on about the things he hasn't done - that you would expect from a civil airliner - and it makes the whole thing sound that little bit more risky.
We get this sort of hyperbole in sailing too.
We have all seen the sort of headlines:
''A man crashed his luxury 30 foot yacht in the Solent yesterday after failing to inform the coastguard of his movements''.
I know of very few 30 foot yachts that are 'luxury', and If you told the coastguard of movements in the Solent, they will tell you to get knotted.
Anyway - good luck Steve - we all hope you are sitting under your wing awaiting rescue.
UPDATE: Seems His 'wrist mounted' EPIRB (GPS distress beacon) is Off - meaning the chances are, He's bought the farm.
It's sad - but like many an Aviator - I'm sure it is the way he would have wanted to go.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
'Apres mois le deluge'
Apparently (according to R4) Peter Jackson of 'Bad Taste' and the Lord of the Rings Trilogy is to remake the 'Dambusters'.
It was nice to hear one of the original aircrew from 617 sqn and the appropriate deference from Sir Max Hastings - but one wonders - will we get the same deference shown to the original story?
Admittedly - we have all moaned (as Sir Max did) about how Hollywood as re-won the war and it is probably hoped that being from the Commonwealth he would be sympathetic to many of the details - but the question stands:
With these revisionist times - can we be certain that the details of the world's most famous bomber squadron will have their story told properly - or will it be remodulated for today's audience?
After all, what will they call Wing Commander (VC, DSO + Bar, DFC) Guy Gibson's dog?
It was nice to hear one of the original aircrew from 617 sqn and the appropriate deference from Sir Max Hastings - but one wonders - will we get the same deference shown to the original story?
Admittedly - we have all moaned (as Sir Max did) about how Hollywood as re-won the war and it is probably hoped that being from the Commonwealth he would be sympathetic to many of the details - but the question stands:
With these revisionist times - can we be certain that the details of the world's most famous bomber squadron will have their story told properly - or will it be remodulated for today's audience?
After all, what will they call Wing Commander (VC, DSO + Bar, DFC) Guy Gibson's dog?
Friday, August 31, 2007
Invasion - FRANCE! Part 2
It has not escaped this chap's notice that my blog is approaching it's first anniversary. I notice this not because I care about the slow passage of time on my ever weakening frame - but because I started it when I last visited my 'chap' in Burgundy.
There are a couple of key differences which stand out as a stark contrast between 'then' and 'now'.
For starters neither myself nor my Arch-Conspirator with whom i travel so much to share in the fruits of Bacchus, smoke anymore.
In times past we could connect with our cousins from across the La Manche not in the fact we could communicate - but in the fact we would share a spot of mundungus with the fellows. Normally over ridiculously strong coffee.
A Gauloise alone could secure the temporary camaraderie of a Truck Driver, farmer or (in cases when I have attempted to wheedle my way out of a speeding ticket) a Gendarme.
(I must point out that in France the possession of French cigarettes has one one sole occasion saved me a 10,000 Franc fine - but in Switzerland it was my friend's possession of a camera that saved me from deportation for taking the old Triumph at just under Mach one outside San Moritz)
But we prepare with care.
Flask of coffee - check
Parsnip and Cabbage sandwiches - check (and yes - I know now I shouldn't eat bread)
18 CD version of 'The Thirteen Gun Salute' check
Wet Wipes - check
The key difference this time is as thus.
2004 was an indifferent year. We stocked up on the best we could scrape from the Crus of Beaujolais and the Premier Crus of Beaune.
This year is very different.
I mentioned earlier that 2005 is special.
Very special.
Everything I have read from sources other than the vignerons themselves is that I should sell my unborn for this year. 1944 isn't a patch on it.
Now - I don't buy wine as an investment. I buy it to lay down, commune with and ultimately consume with glad rapture.
This year is special. Not only will i be loading the car to the gunwales, but we shall be making two, possibly three trips.
A vintage like this comes once in a lifetime.
We may yet upgrade from parsnip to smoked salmon. The Patrick O'Brien CD may be upgraded to 'HMS Surprise' as well.
Watch this space.
There are a couple of key differences which stand out as a stark contrast between 'then' and 'now'.
For starters neither myself nor my Arch-Conspirator with whom i travel so much to share in the fruits of Bacchus, smoke anymore.
In times past we could connect with our cousins from across the La Manche not in the fact we could communicate - but in the fact we would share a spot of mundungus with the fellows. Normally over ridiculously strong coffee.
A Gauloise alone could secure the temporary camaraderie of a Truck Driver, farmer or (in cases when I have attempted to wheedle my way out of a speeding ticket) a Gendarme.
(I must point out that in France the possession of French cigarettes has one one sole occasion saved me a 10,000 Franc fine - but in Switzerland it was my friend's possession of a camera that saved me from deportation for taking the old Triumph at just under Mach one outside San Moritz)
But we prepare with care.
Flask of coffee - check
Parsnip and Cabbage sandwiches - check (and yes - I know now I shouldn't eat bread)
18 CD version of 'The Thirteen Gun Salute' check
Wet Wipes - check
The key difference this time is as thus.
2004 was an indifferent year. We stocked up on the best we could scrape from the Crus of Beaujolais and the Premier Crus of Beaune.
This year is very different.
I mentioned earlier that 2005 is special.
Very special.
Everything I have read from sources other than the vignerons themselves is that I should sell my unborn for this year. 1944 isn't a patch on it.
Now - I don't buy wine as an investment. I buy it to lay down, commune with and ultimately consume with glad rapture.
This year is special. Not only will i be loading the car to the gunwales, but we shall be making two, possibly three trips.
A vintage like this comes once in a lifetime.
We may yet upgrade from parsnip to smoked salmon. The Patrick O'Brien CD may be upgraded to 'HMS Surprise' as well.
Watch this space.
Quick! Everyone's looking!
Route to fame:
1. Get name checked on Iain Dale
2. Blow dust off two articles that have been languishing in draft about wine and Boris.
3. Pretend vaguely that you do more than write about your sailing holidays and complain about the RYA.
4. Watch those hits soar. Not.
Chap sticks - where two's company and three's a readership.
1. Get name checked on Iain Dale
2. Blow dust off two articles that have been languishing in draft about wine and Boris.
3. Pretend vaguely that you do more than write about your sailing holidays and complain about the RYA.
4. Watch those hits soar. Not.
Chap sticks - where two's company and three's a readership.
The only reason why I love the EU
A title that would enrage the Devil himself, but my wits are not so discombobulated in laudanum - for I have one very good reason.
Now - I don't buy all their statist laws, the CAP is a joke, their fishery policies have plundered our waters, their socialist federation dreams are a nightmarish reality and their directives display an ever growing evidence that we are slipping into a hell of their making.
No - I have a singular and what I believe the best possible reason to love the EU - or especially - France.
In 10 days I am trundling over to France courtesy of Mr Peninsula and Mr Orient and driving to a little area south of Dijon known locally as La Bourgogne. It has a reputation for decent plonk.
Now personal taste is one thing - and whilst it can be a little inaccessible (and this is likely to stir up a heated debate more than anything else) I believe a decent Burgundy will knock the spots of all but the finest Bordeaux.
In the past Nanny has decreed that we can't bring home too much as we will make ourselves poorly and Gordo won't get all that lovely duty. The revenue men would stop, search and on the merest whim take away one's hard earned vino.
Now one can whine on about limits and the like - but this is the bit I like.
I can move freely into France from this sceptered isle and buy as much decent plonk as I wish, and not a red cent will go to the British Government.
I can bring it back in tranches of 10 cases (I reckon three trips will do it) and still not give anything to Gordo. If I personally have less than 10 cases at a time it is construed by customs to be personal (which, of course, it is).
This is just as well - because (And you heard it here...) 2005 is being heralded as the Best Vintage probably ever.
I shall be selling a kidney to ensure I have enough of this incredible year to enjoy far into my old age. I shall open every bottle safe in the knowledge that not one red cent of my enjoyment is going to the Government here.
It's not as good as free - but free from the clutches of the Whitehall Thieves is the next best thing.
Thank you France.
Now - I don't buy all their statist laws, the CAP is a joke, their fishery policies have plundered our waters, their socialist federation dreams are a nightmarish reality and their directives display an ever growing evidence that we are slipping into a hell of their making.
No - I have a singular and what I believe the best possible reason to love the EU - or especially - France.
In 10 days I am trundling over to France courtesy of Mr Peninsula and Mr Orient and driving to a little area south of Dijon known locally as La Bourgogne. It has a reputation for decent plonk.
Now personal taste is one thing - and whilst it can be a little inaccessible (and this is likely to stir up a heated debate more than anything else) I believe a decent Burgundy will knock the spots of all but the finest Bordeaux.
In the past Nanny has decreed that we can't bring home too much as we will make ourselves poorly and Gordo won't get all that lovely duty. The revenue men would stop, search and on the merest whim take away one's hard earned vino.
Now one can whine on about limits and the like - but this is the bit I like.
I can move freely into France from this sceptered isle and buy as much decent plonk as I wish, and not a red cent will go to the British Government.
I can bring it back in tranches of 10 cases (I reckon three trips will do it) and still not give anything to Gordo. If I personally have less than 10 cases at a time it is construed by customs to be personal (which, of course, it is).
This is just as well - because (And you heard it here...) 2005 is being heralded as the Best Vintage probably ever.
I shall be selling a kidney to ensure I have enough of this incredible year to enjoy far into my old age. I shall open every bottle safe in the knowledge that not one red cent of my enjoyment is going to the Government here.
It's not as good as free - but free from the clutches of the Whitehall Thieves is the next best thing.
Thank you France.
Where's Boris?
With all the goings on over the Brown bounce and Dave either being on the ropes or showing everyone what for on Newsnight - it all seems to have gone terribly quiet over Boris and the Mayoral campaign.
I do have an observation to make about the arch-chap though.
His Telegraph columns are becoming more and more focussed to what could be described as London issues: transport, street disorder and bike theft and the like.
Is this just me - or has his column become his platform - or was it always thus?
In which case - most of us who read you Boris already would vote for you - you need another outlet!
I do have an observation to make about the arch-chap though.
His Telegraph columns are becoming more and more focussed to what could be described as London issues: transport, street disorder and bike theft and the like.
Is this just me - or has his column become his platform - or was it always thus?
In which case - most of us who read you Boris already would vote for you - you need another outlet!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The Aegean Mission Part III
Nisos Kos to Nisos Plati, 12 miles.
I have chosen to gloss over the first day at sea.
It is traditional for a few minor items to go awry and it would be ungallant of me to dwell to much on the minor items. Suffice to say First Mate and I had some opportunity to practice turning in a seaway and collecting items.
With the boat hook.
It is worth mentioning the first night however - for tired as we were, I was particularly pleased with the results.
I have commented previously that some of our Med-based cousins effect their anchoring with much in the way of shouting, hullooing and use of mobile telephones - both First Mate and I - and quite rightly - reflect upon their behaviour and wrinkled our collective noses at such nonsense.
We are British, sons of the waves and as such better than these johnnies - for it is by our standards that one judges 'a high notion of seamanship'.
With this burden of responsibility weighing upon us, we hove into view of our first proper anchorage.
'Nisos Plati, Good holding weed and sand, anchor in 5-10 metres' says Dear Roderick.
There was in residence already a large Gin Palace, in the middle distance a large 50' in Italian colours, some other yachts including a Frenchman plus a bum-boat at the small church quay in the bay. A few goats for company ashore.
As any yachtsman will tell you anchoring or mooring is stressful not necessarily because they are difficult to achieve, but because everyone is watching and judging you.
We had better get it right first time for an audience was there - gins in hand, binoculars trained ready to suck teeth and shake heads at the slightest slip.
One boon - as is typical for the waters in this part - they are spirit clear and we could easily survey the bottom and pick a suitable patch of sand to lay our ground tackle.
We idled the boat in at half a knot with First Mate peering over the pullpit for just the right patch. She chose well, for on her call I knocked us gently astern while she lay down the cable - putting a third of it down.
The cable laid out and astern we chugged until we jerked nose down satisfactorily and swung gently either side of the cable.
We both held our breath. Slowly, the boat took the tension on the chain and we eased up to wind. Unconsciously we both selected different transits ashore and watched for dragging.
We had not only bitten cleanly, but bitten first time. A third of our 60 metre chain and a clean bite in 7 meters.
Text book.
The First mate had clearly been hiding her skills under a bushel. Clean anchoring and using transits no less.
A swim down afterwards revealed an image straight out of the RYA Dayskipper book - anchor cleanly in the sand, with a clean catenary of chain.
Not only were we able to feel smug about our skills - but it augured well for the week - for ahead lay the sternest test yet - Patmos!
Patmos - a complex entrance, narrow moorings in front of jeering crowds, contrary winds and a part of the Aegean where the Meltemi blows it's hardest. To top it all, the glass was dropping slowly - it was going to come on to blow.
But tonight we could rest easy, for soon we had gins in our hands and the entertainment of an American catamaran attempting that which we had achieved - but oh so gratifyingly -with somewhat less success....... and a free light show from the perseids to boot.
Next Installment: Episode IV - A lesson in The Weather Gauge and our second brush with the Kriegsmarine.
I have chosen to gloss over the first day at sea.
It is traditional for a few minor items to go awry and it would be ungallant of me to dwell to much on the minor items. Suffice to say First Mate and I had some opportunity to practice turning in a seaway and collecting items.
With the boat hook.
It is worth mentioning the first night however - for tired as we were, I was particularly pleased with the results.
I have commented previously that some of our Med-based cousins effect their anchoring with much in the way of shouting, hullooing and use of mobile telephones - both First Mate and I - and quite rightly - reflect upon their behaviour and wrinkled our collective noses at such nonsense.
We are British, sons of the waves and as such better than these johnnies - for it is by our standards that one judges 'a high notion of seamanship'.
With this burden of responsibility weighing upon us, we hove into view of our first proper anchorage.
'Nisos Plati, Good holding weed and sand, anchor in 5-10 metres' says Dear Roderick.
There was in residence already a large Gin Palace, in the middle distance a large 50' in Italian colours, some other yachts including a Frenchman plus a bum-boat at the small church quay in the bay. A few goats for company ashore.
As any yachtsman will tell you anchoring or mooring is stressful not necessarily because they are difficult to achieve, but because everyone is watching and judging you.
We had better get it right first time for an audience was there - gins in hand, binoculars trained ready to suck teeth and shake heads at the slightest slip.
One boon - as is typical for the waters in this part - they are spirit clear and we could easily survey the bottom and pick a suitable patch of sand to lay our ground tackle.
We idled the boat in at half a knot with First Mate peering over the pullpit for just the right patch. She chose well, for on her call I knocked us gently astern while she lay down the cable - putting a third of it down.
The cable laid out and astern we chugged until we jerked nose down satisfactorily and swung gently either side of the cable.
We both held our breath. Slowly, the boat took the tension on the chain and we eased up to wind. Unconsciously we both selected different transits ashore and watched for dragging.
We had not only bitten cleanly, but bitten first time. A third of our 60 metre chain and a clean bite in 7 meters.
Text book.
The First mate had clearly been hiding her skills under a bushel. Clean anchoring and using transits no less.
A swim down afterwards revealed an image straight out of the RYA Dayskipper book - anchor cleanly in the sand, with a clean catenary of chain.
Not only were we able to feel smug about our skills - but it augured well for the week - for ahead lay the sternest test yet - Patmos!
Patmos - a complex entrance, narrow moorings in front of jeering crowds, contrary winds and a part of the Aegean where the Meltemi blows it's hardest. To top it all, the glass was dropping slowly - it was going to come on to blow.
But tonight we could rest easy, for soon we had gins in our hands and the entertainment of an American catamaran attempting that which we had achieved - but oh so gratifyingly -with somewhat less success....... and a free light show from the perseids to boot.
Next Installment: Episode IV - A lesson in The Weather Gauge and our second brush with the Kriegsmarine.
New entry for next year's bounders contest
This fellow would have done well at this year's Chap Olympics - especially the bit about crashing through the enclosure and leading her and three others off into the jungle.
Jumbo Romance
Thanks to Kate for the link!
Jumbo Romance
Thanks to Kate for the link!
Gosh, is that a spreadsheet you're using, or are you pleased to see me?
I have often wondered what we used to do before the Internet or E-Mail when we wanted to look like we were working. (My first office job involved memos, telexes, carbon paper and the like)
There is also a whole generation for whom a Kalamazoo ledger, NCR paper and trimphone are complete mysteries…but I digress.
I also recall that we all used to trog out at lunchtime to Travel Agents and the like - a task we all delight in nowadays thanks to the Internet, as it is a) accessible from our desks and b) we can look like we are working at the same time.
I raised this matter with someone over email today - pondering that we all like playing travel agents nowadays - whiling away those quite moments - so what do Travel Agents do when they are pretending to work?
There is also a whole generation for whom a Kalamazoo ledger, NCR paper and trimphone are complete mysteries…but I digress.
I also recall that we all used to trog out at lunchtime to Travel Agents and the like - a task we all delight in nowadays thanks to the Internet, as it is a) accessible from our desks and b) we can look like we are working at the same time.
I raised this matter with someone over email today - pondering that we all like playing travel agents nowadays - whiling away those quite moments - so what do Travel Agents do when they are pretending to work?
She rather wittily replied that 'They pretend to do stuff in Excel Spreadsheets- for the Glamour'.
If you combine that with the High Octane world of PowerPoint and the Dangers of MS Project - I clearly lead the life of some international playboy.
Well - compared to your local branch of 'Tommy C' anyway.
Witty quote: copyright bagelmouse 2007
Cracking Headline!
More light blogging today, despite the fact I'm in T'North and in my fave hotel.
I did see This though!
I did see This though!
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
All quiet on the Western Front
I have more things to come on the Aegean Mission, but the swine who pay me to run on the wheel a demanding more amperes.
The next post is particularly long and is terribly complimentary....so I need a bit of a run up at it.
UPDATE: This is my second century post....forgot to mention, but not that I'm going for quanitity over quality.
The next post is particularly long and is terribly complimentary....so I need a bit of a run up at it.
UPDATE: This is my second century post....forgot to mention, but not that I'm going for quanitity over quality.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
Can you eat Seagull?
We we languishing in the dunes on Sunday contemplating our current situation. Barbecue number two lit, second bottle of rosé cracked and we (or rather I was) speculating on the meteorological situation unfolding above us.
Clouds were forming over a sea breeze front which was developing over us. We had watched some birds merrily thermalling in the distance whilst I bored the company with the shape of the thermal and how the said birds found the best lift. We watched them gain height, then swing over to the dunes to carry out a patrol along the shoreline.
I may have pointed out that sailing and gliding makes you the very worst form of weather-wonk.
The birds were using the ridge lift over the dunes to maintain effortless flight - allowing them to soar along the ridge and scan the various beach users for scraps.
They were Herring Gulls.
Great soarers are Herring Gulls, if a little sarcastic. They spot you joining a thermal with them, and fly off leaving only your seat of your pants and your instruments to find the core of the thermal. Other birds are more gracious with nature's free flight, and will happily share with you. (More on this to come)
However, we clocked the Herring Gulls on their patrol and the inevitable conversation cropped up: Are they edible?
There have been many articles in the Yachtie press as to the suitability of the Gull as a source of dinner.
We concluded - after much discussion - that whilst theoretically you could one should ask if one should?
Pelagic or littoral Gulls would have dined on nature's bounteous table - and whilst fishy in flavour should be wholesome. Gulls that dine ashore - in our landfills and our bins along busier beaches or marinas should almost certainly be avoided. Apparently they taste somewhat like Crows do: bitter and stringy.
None would certainly be suitable for barbecuing - but possibly for slow cooking.
Seagull Stew.
Delightful.
We would have to be very desperate, or very drunk to consider such a meal.
Even my chum who sailed the Pacific did not stoop to such horrors - despite the fact he confessed to consuming three sacks of onions during his crossing from the Galapagos to the Marquesas.
Anyway.
I have been doing my Jonathan Livingstone bit today.
An hour's soaring in 4 knot thermals. Utterly delightful day, even if they were breaking up before cloud base at 3800 feet.
Aviation has moments of terror, muck-sweat hard work and very occasionally moments of totally sublime beauty.
I joined my first thermal at 900 feet from the winch over the local village - the instability kicked off by a combine harvester.
Twenty yards in front of me there was a Red Kite.
He was circling in the core of the lift - so I had only to follow him to sit in the core of the lift. From my position I could see his feathers curling around the wind as he moved his head and flew in a relaxed circle. I trimmed the aeroplane to as slow a speed as I could and held station behind him as best as I could, at least trying to stay below him. At one point he was above my canopy from around ten or fifteen feet.
I followed him to about 2500 feet, when another glider barged in and came up behind me.
Two gliders were clearly to crowded for him, and he peeled off. I held the thermal to 3800 feet, and had another two climbs off the source later - but my day was complete. I have never been this close to a bird when solo - and it was a magical experience. Akin to sailing with Whales.
Not many of us get a chance to actually fly with the birds - I am privileged indeed.
Clouds were forming over a sea breeze front which was developing over us. We had watched some birds merrily thermalling in the distance whilst I bored the company with the shape of the thermal and how the said birds found the best lift. We watched them gain height, then swing over to the dunes to carry out a patrol along the shoreline.
I may have pointed out that sailing and gliding makes you the very worst form of weather-wonk.
The birds were using the ridge lift over the dunes to maintain effortless flight - allowing them to soar along the ridge and scan the various beach users for scraps.
They were Herring Gulls.
Great soarers are Herring Gulls, if a little sarcastic. They spot you joining a thermal with them, and fly off leaving only your seat of your pants and your instruments to find the core of the thermal. Other birds are more gracious with nature's free flight, and will happily share with you. (More on this to come)
However, we clocked the Herring Gulls on their patrol and the inevitable conversation cropped up: Are they edible?
There have been many articles in the Yachtie press as to the suitability of the Gull as a source of dinner.
We concluded - after much discussion - that whilst theoretically you could one should ask if one should?
Pelagic or littoral Gulls would have dined on nature's bounteous table - and whilst fishy in flavour should be wholesome. Gulls that dine ashore - in our landfills and our bins along busier beaches or marinas should almost certainly be avoided. Apparently they taste somewhat like Crows do: bitter and stringy.
None would certainly be suitable for barbecuing - but possibly for slow cooking.
Seagull Stew.
Delightful.
We would have to be very desperate, or very drunk to consider such a meal.
Even my chum who sailed the Pacific did not stoop to such horrors - despite the fact he confessed to consuming three sacks of onions during his crossing from the Galapagos to the Marquesas.
Anyway.
I have been doing my Jonathan Livingstone bit today.
An hour's soaring in 4 knot thermals. Utterly delightful day, even if they were breaking up before cloud base at 3800 feet.
Aviation has moments of terror, muck-sweat hard work and very occasionally moments of totally sublime beauty.
I joined my first thermal at 900 feet from the winch over the local village - the instability kicked off by a combine harvester.
Twenty yards in front of me there was a Red Kite.
He was circling in the core of the lift - so I had only to follow him to sit in the core of the lift. From my position I could see his feathers curling around the wind as he moved his head and flew in a relaxed circle. I trimmed the aeroplane to as slow a speed as I could and held station behind him as best as I could, at least trying to stay below him. At one point he was above my canopy from around ten or fifteen feet.
I followed him to about 2500 feet, when another glider barged in and came up behind me.
Two gliders were clearly to crowded for him, and he peeled off. I held the thermal to 3800 feet, and had another two climbs off the source later - but my day was complete. I have never been this close to a bird when solo - and it was a magical experience. Akin to sailing with Whales.
Not many of us get a chance to actually fly with the birds - I am privileged indeed.
UPDATE:
Article in the Times thanks Kate!
Friday, August 24, 2007
Just call me 'Jonathan'
Well, this chap's sun dappled temple veins have throbbed their last for this week, as one slowly spools down from a furious week hamstering at the wheel.
What awaits this 'sunny' bank holiday?
Well other than spending Saturday acting like a superannuated Ravy Davy Gravy while I sweat out my latest mid-life crisis to the strains of Hernan Cattanéo (He is rather good, mind you) - I shall be luxuriating on a British beach (not the deck of a yacht) while compatriots spoon feed me Rioja and under done sausages
But the bank holiday itself?
I have Important Work on Monday.
Yes - I shall spend the day being a better seagull.
No breakfast flock mayhem for me, oh no.
Nothing quite like pseudo drippy-hippy 1960's mysticism wrapped up as an excuse to play withtoys aeroplanes.
What awaits this 'sunny' bank holiday?
Well other than spending Saturday acting like a superannuated Ravy Davy Gravy while I sweat out my latest mid-life crisis to the strains of Hernan Cattanéo (He is rather good, mind you) - I shall be luxuriating on a British beach (not the deck of a yacht) while compatriots spoon feed me Rioja and under done sausages
But the bank holiday itself?
I have Important Work on Monday.
Yes - I shall spend the day being a better seagull.
No breakfast flock mayhem for me, oh no.
Nothing quite like pseudo drippy-hippy 1960's mysticism wrapped up as an excuse to play with
Velvet Brocade Bordello Pants
To the Gentleman or lady who googled ''Bordello Pants' and so came unto my site:
Welcome, you are among friends - even though I strongly suspect I know you already.
Mine's an Earl Grey with a snifter of Gin, please.
Welcome, you are among friends - even though I strongly suspect I know you already.
Mine's an Earl Grey with a snifter of Gin, please.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Aegean Mission Part II (a)
An observer's guide to Yacht hiring in the Dodecanese - how to spot nationalities…...
No 2. French Yachtsman
Lone elderly man made of tan shoe leather.
Load no food other than sea-weed, but flagons of rot gut wine on the foredeck.
Sails carry no reefing points, as the lines tangle around the solar panels.
Anchor with the minimum amount of chain, lays ground tackle with a shrug
Never moor stern to, instead anchor in the roads to glare at other boats
What etiquette?
No 3. Italian Yachtsman
18 people on board in speedoes and bikinis, all talking on their mobile phones.
Spend two hours arguing in the supermarkets with ten trolleys of food and then clear out the shop of retsina, while talking on their mobile phones.
Sail massively over pressed at all times with entire deck talking on their mobile phones.
Deposit sixty metres of chain in 5 metres of water, then swing wildly, over everyone else's anchors, while talking on their mobile phones.
Moor stern-to in a place too small for a mirror dinghy at full astern, involving the entire crew arguing over how it should be done. Repeated three times - with mobile phone breaks.
No flag etiquette.
Time in harbour spent hiring scooters and talking on their mobile phones.
No 1. British Yachtsman
Normally a couple or two couples, with loads of sunblock.
Under provision on food, over provision on beer.
Tend to sail a little over reefed.
Give plenty of swing room in anchorages and lays ground tackle with care.
Approaches stern-to moorings with discretion, care and at a walking pace and deploys lines with accuracy.
Observes inshore etiquette to the letter, including lowering of colours at sunset.
No 2. French Yachtsman
Lone elderly man made of tan shoe leather.
Load no food other than sea-weed, but flagons of rot gut wine on the foredeck.
Sails carry no reefing points, as the lines tangle around the solar panels.
Anchor with the minimum amount of chain, lays ground tackle with a shrug
Never moor stern to, instead anchor in the roads to glare at other boats
What etiquette?
No 3. Italian Yachtsman
18 people on board in speedoes and bikinis, all talking on their mobile phones.
Spend two hours arguing in the supermarkets with ten trolleys of food and then clear out the shop of retsina, while talking on their mobile phones.
Sail massively over pressed at all times with entire deck talking on their mobile phones.
Deposit sixty metres of chain in 5 metres of water, then swing wildly, over everyone else's anchors, while talking on their mobile phones.
Moor stern-to in a place too small for a mirror dinghy at full astern, involving the entire crew arguing over how it should be done. Repeated three times - with mobile phone breaks.
No flag etiquette.
Time in harbour spent hiring scooters and talking on their mobile phones.
Sausage Savagery in Salford
Pork snack anarchy hits Britain's streets!
Nice to know the CPS has nothing better today in the glorious peaceful streets of our green and pleasant land!
Nice to know the CPS has nothing better today in the glorious peaceful streets of our green and pleasant land!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Aegean Mission part II
I never lose the sense of anticipatory romance from arriving at an airport in the dead of a scorched night and having to walk across fuel spattered tarmac.
Jetways are great, but you get a sense of the real achievement of the engineering you have encountered when you descend the steps and glance back to giant turbines, red strobes and hard hatted erks scurrying around the belly of the beast in which you flew.
It connects you with the reality of it - and as an aviator one's self, you feel the connection between yourself (who is used to wire controls and propellers) and the chap perched 50 feet above you in a white shirt with a clipboard in his cockpit.
In someways it helps for those who fly not well to have the experience sanitised. Jetways and soft lighting removes one far from the harsh reality of flaps, ailerons and landing gear.
Sanitisation, though is vital when one is to be whisked away from chav-city-luggage handling to one's Yacht.
It is far better to be carried off far from the madding chavs in their charter airline finery, then to cope with public transport at 4 am in a foreign clime.
And thus we found ourselves in the back of a car that awaited our arrival.
Cheeky chappy cabby he was, having had Bill Clinton, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston in the back of his cab.
Yachtie heaven was a short slink away. The First Mate and I grinned with anticipation while the strange banter wafted over our heads.
Jetways are great, but you get a sense of the real achievement of the engineering you have encountered when you descend the steps and glance back to giant turbines, red strobes and hard hatted erks scurrying around the belly of the beast in which you flew.
It connects you with the reality of it - and as an aviator one's self, you feel the connection between yourself (who is used to wire controls and propellers) and the chap perched 50 feet above you in a white shirt with a clipboard in his cockpit.
In someways it helps for those who fly not well to have the experience sanitised. Jetways and soft lighting removes one far from the harsh reality of flaps, ailerons and landing gear.
Sanitisation, though is vital when one is to be whisked away from chav-city-luggage handling to one's Yacht.
It is far better to be carried off far from the madding chavs in their charter airline finery, then to cope with public transport at 4 am in a foreign clime.
And thus we found ourselves in the back of a car that awaited our arrival.
Cheeky chappy cabby he was, having had Bill Clinton, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston in the back of his cab.
Yachtie heaven was a short slink away. The First Mate and I grinned with anticipation while the strange banter wafted over our heads.
And so to SY Athena.
My First Mate has clearly be brought up with noble austerity, for she was suitable impressed by the yacht. I found her a little on the small side (Last time I was here, I rented a Dreadnought) and listing to starboard - but the Cream Leather sofas, cooling fans and Ice box worked their magic and soon we were established aboard.
One needs no reminding at this juncture, that a boat grows a foot shorter everyday.
The first day is always handover. The Boat chap (In this case an ex-KriegsMarine Petty Officer) comes along and runs through the controls with us, indicates the location of various items of kit aboard, goes over the sailing ropes and ticks off an inventory.
We met shook hands firmly and we exchanged knowing looks.
'Where do you sail Herr D--?'
'English Channel, old boy.'
'Ach, you know they say there is no seamanship East of Gibraltar!'
'Indeed, one must watch out for rogue Italians!'
'Jah! We understand each other!'
The check out took five minutes. Being a nautical cove, he clearly saw the cut of my jib and that of the studious first mate and reckoned we were right seamen. (In the non-gender specific sense of the word)
Now - a quick reflection - when one hires a boat in the UK, the owner comes aboard and counts the teaspoons. One gets charged for every chip, scratch and scuff on the plates.
In Greece they understand the commercial realities, and treat one with some respect. In other words, he didn't count the teaspoons, which considering his Teutonic nature was rather gratifying. When one has handed over the thick end of a thousand Euros in cash, a ten cent spoon or fifty cent wine glass does not break the bank.
Like the UK, Greece has a glut of charter boats. The difference is, in Greece, they treat me as a customer who has chosen their business. In the UK, one gets treated as a nuisance who should be punished for the smallest transgression of cutlery.
Renting a boat in blighty is somewhat akin to taking rooms off one of those sorts of 'landladies' who seemed to exist in the 1950s. They come along afterwards and check the pillows for stains. There may be more boats than crew in the Solent, but while they are largely run as tax sinks to escape Gordo's thievery, we will scant see the likes of service I enjoy from my chums in Greece.
It is afterall cheaper to fly to Greece and hire a boat for week than it is to do it from Scotland.
PS: I have a photo of the barky, but she's going to require upload and editing.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Been busy today, but:
There was a bit on the Radio this morning about the Gdansk shipyards facing large cuts because of EU competition regulations - on the grounds of their massive state subsidy.
Story Here
I'm not bleating a position either way on this, but it would be ironic that the birthplace of the Solidarity movement which heralded the lifting of the freedom of association restrictions in Poland - heralding the decay of Communism there - would fall foul of another Superstate.....
Or that it only survived the fall of the wall with massive state aid......
In other news....the Beeb has yet again leapt to the aid of Gordo by publicising some data errors in a Conservative Briefing. One wonders why they didn't castigate Patsy (remember her...?) when she pumped money into marginal constituencies, or is there any in depth investigation as to who appointed all the denying chief execs - and just what Millbank's hold on them is.
To be honest when faced with shaming their lords and masters, they will all close ranks, won't they.
Hat tip to Kate for the source for the second one.
Story Here
I'm not bleating a position either way on this, but it would be ironic that the birthplace of the Solidarity movement which heralded the lifting of the freedom of association restrictions in Poland - heralding the decay of Communism there - would fall foul of another Superstate.....
Or that it only survived the fall of the wall with massive state aid......
In other news....the Beeb has yet again leapt to the aid of Gordo by publicising some data errors in a Conservative Briefing. One wonders why they didn't castigate Patsy (remember her...?) when she pumped money into marginal constituencies, or is there any in depth investigation as to who appointed all the denying chief execs - and just what Millbank's hold on them is.
To be honest when faced with shaming their lords and masters, they will all close ranks, won't they.
Hat tip to Kate for the source for the second one.
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