From 2008: I wrote this after an idyllic flight one gem of a winter’s day, when Nature was in a benevolent frame of mind – an improbable attempt to capture the elation of autorotation and transfer it to the page. Join Delta-J and me for a wander up the north coast of Cornwall…
It’s a beautiful timeless afternoon at St. Merryn. Pale golden sunshine bathes the familiar scene with a soothing mellow glow, and this old airfield that I love so much seems to be almost smiling. The air is crisp and chill with a freshness like clean laundry, a palpable sense of vitality flowing across the countryside on a lively wind that hints of a buoyant tide aloft. Delta-J sits ready on the tarmac, rotor blades twitching gently as if savouring the breeze in anticipation. She’s all checked out and good to go, so lets do it.
We have a brisk south-westerly blowing about 15-20 mph, a nice steady wind so the rotors can pick up speed by purely natural means. Wind direction dictates that we use the Gyro runway today, slightly downhill, it has the least damaged surface of all four runways (the Long, the Short, and Wendy’s being the other three). To get there we taxi down the Short and across the intersection with Wendy’s, the roughest and most overgrown of them all, so named because it heads directly towards Wendy’s bungalow on the other side of the fence. Jolting slowly over the clumps of vegetation that are doggedly reclaiming the aged tarmac, we reach the relatively smooth threshold of the Gyro runway and stop for a final systems check. Engine temperature normal; test the ignition circuits; zero the altimeter and make a mental note of the time. The rotors are thriving in this excellent wind so after a quick look around for other traffic, we’re all set. Power up to 4000 rpm but we barely crawl forward against the drag of the rotor disc and Delta-J lifts her nose as if to sniff the breeze. Dip the stick forward to reduce the drag and balance briefly on the main wheels as I open the throttle and we leap into the air with minimal ground roll. Almost a vertical take off!
Climb out tracking over the runway just in case of hiccups, but the engine behaves impeccably and we sail across the airfield boundary in fine style. No conflicting traffic, everything doing what it should be doing, so a suggestion of left stick and rudder points us lazily towards the Camel estuary. The wind has lifted us to 1000 feet already, which is as high as we can go until clear of St. Mawgan’s zone. It really is a day to savour; pale blue sky dotted with fair weather cumulus, a pallid sun veiled by wisps of high stratus paints the scene in pastel shades. Even the ocean is peaceful today, an infinite sheet of glistening steel.
There’s nothing like a gyroplane for getting the full panoramic view, so as we have the sky to ourselves – 360 coming up. A desolate moonscape of china clay works dominates the skyline around St. Austell, beyond which the south Cornish coast is silhouetted against the bay. Tracing the coastline down towards the south-west I can just see the dark smudge of the Lizard peninsula merging with the horizon, the most southerly tip of the British mainland. Sometimes the when the air is exceptionally clear, the Isles of Scilly reveal themselves twenty-eight miles off the coast of Lands End, but we’re out of luck today and the very last corner of this green and pleasant land remains shrouded in a misty haze. The distant wind farms of Truro and Carland Cross make excellent landmarks as we pivot our gaze up towards the north coast, we can’t get lost down here.
Tracking along the coast past the popular tourist towns of Perranporth and Newquay, a range of rocky headlands reach out to sea edged in foaming white, they spread like fingers webbed with stretches of golden sand. Follow those pointing fingers and far beyond the western horizon lies America, with nothing but ocean in between, a flight of fantasy for a tiny gyroplane with 30 litres of fuel on board. Instead we continue on the home straight, passing the village of St. Merryn and over the lighthouse perched on the shoulder of Trevose Head, sweeping across the sheltered coves nestling between the cliffs, seven bays for seven days. All that rugged Cornish beauty encompassed in less than a minute, as we swing down the mouth of the estuary to Padstow and complete the circle.
More wind farms lie far ahead at Delabole and Davidstow, a diminutive cluster of matchsticks from here. We’ll go take a closer look after gaining altitude to cross the river Camel, just in case I have to test our gliding proficiency part way across. Gyroplanes have many virtues but unfortunately gliding isn’t one of them! Later in the year the speedboats will be out, cutting swathes through the estuary with helpless tourists dragging behind on unsteady skis. It’s fun to chase them and mimic their patterns in the air above, but all is quiet today and the waters flow undisturbed towards the waiting sea. Safely across the river leaving the deserted beaches of the posh peoples’ playground behind, and cruise on up to the wilds of North Cornwall, happy as a lark as we sail alone through the fresh winter sky.
We’ll swing over to the right a bit and scoot inland as I intend to fly back down the coast later on. Heading vaguely north-east towards the wind farms, the town of Wadebridge straddles the river away to our right and beyond that among the hills lies Bodmin with its homely grass airfield. We’re in their patch now yet it’s strangely quiet for such a flyable day, no other traffic around so perhaps the wind is too strong. Never mind, all the more for us. The ground rises up beneath our wheels to culminate at the high peaks of Rough Tor and Brown Willy, their familiar bulks squat ahead, towering over North Cornwall as we ascend the flank of the county’s rugged spine like a fly on a crocodile’s back. The air is so marvellously buoyant today, the rotors are lapping it up, harvesting free energy that takes us to 2100 feet with only a minimal increase in power.
It’s too nice a day to go tearing around. Drifting cumulus cast shadows over the patchwork of hills and valleys in an ever-changing pattern of hues, and the air grows chilly in their shade. A dark smudge far out in the Bristol Channel hints at the presence of Lundy Island, sometimes clearly seen from St. Merryn, but like the Scillys, it’s hiding today. Beyond Delabole is the bleak wartime airfield of Davidstow, the birthplace of Cornish autorotation back in the early 1960s. It looks quite pleasant at the moment but inclement weather paints a very different scene, lashing the exposed heights with the full force of Atlantic fury. There’s a super wind bowling down off the open moors, tumbling over hills and vales like a mountain stream, it creates a joyful maelstrom of swirling eddies and we bob like a cork in its boisterous tide. Nothing makes me feel so alive!
The slate quarry creeps closer beneath our wheels, distinctive angular ledges cut in to the rock, spiralling down several hundred feet below the surface like a huge grey pudding basin made from Lego bricks. This wind is excellent, a surging flow of vitality that’s perfect for a hover and such an opportunity cannot go to waste. I let it drift us away from the village as not everyone appreciates a noisy gyroplane overhead, so we stop at the edge of the wind farm and turn to face the wind. Airspeed immediately increases to 80 mph, but a glance over the side shows ground speed is barely 20 mph as the wind races down off the open moors. A quick look at the time: the wind has veered, meaning we’ll be more head-on going back which could make the fuel situation interesting if I’m not careful.
First a clearing turn to ensure that no one will sneak up on us while we’re hanging around, and I’m amazed that we still have the sky to ourselves. Why is no one else enjoying this glorious day? All clear, ease back on the stick and watch the airspeed drop as her nose comes up, leaving the engine at 5000 rpm and see how slowly we can go without losing height. It feels like we’re sitting on our tail – lovely playful wind! Airspeed registers 20 mph and still it supports us in a delicious hover, united in harmony with the giant wind turbines busily threshing the air below. What a set of rotor blades they would make. Floating above in my own tiny turbine, holding our equilibrium with just a twitch of controls, I can only describe it like riding on a dandelion seed as I let the wind drift us back towards the coast. I am so lucky to do this.
Much as I’d love to stay and play, fuel burn regretfully dictates that it’s time to leave, so we level out and power up to push through the wind, airspeed rises to 75 mph but the ground passes beneath us at a crawl. Crossing the mythical lands of Arthurian legend, we rejoin the coast at the ancient ruins of Tintagel castle and settle down to fly back along the cliff tops. I like to trace the nooks and crannies of the coastline with our wheels, another jolly game invented by Tony Philpotts. He taught me to line up a main wheel with the cliff edge and snake in and out of the coves and inlets as we ride along, bouncing in the turbulence off the sheer rock below. Slow progress but super fun! A warm glow permeates the western sky like sunlight through a stained glass window. Scattered clouds blush with a hint of pink and copper, and the sea blanches to a pale turquoise of almost luminous quality, flecked with gold and edged with a frothy white lace of foam.
Skirting the harbour village of Port Isaac, the gaping mouth of the estuary lies ahead and it’s time to square up and fly tidy again, as we approach the zone boundary. There’s so much lift in the air that Delta-J doesn’t want to come down and we’re throttled back to 4000 revs before she slips into a modest descent. We cut inland from Pentire Point and level out to cross the river, passing sleepy Padstow snuggled behind the protective arm of the harbour wall. A quick vertical descent drops another 500 feet so as not to worry St. Mawgan, just in case they have the binoculars out in the tower (we’re too small for their radar to identify alone). A familiar pattern of silent runways lie ahead as St. Merryn comes in to view, and I rouse myself to wake up and get with it after such a long and lazy ride.
It’s hard to spot the faded windsock against the gathering dusk, but yes, the wind has veered to the west which means landing on the rough and tumble of the Short runway. We swing round to line up on the heading, keeping the power on just a bit longer as the wind is still quite feisty and I want some height in my pocket should the engine quit. Cross the old perimeter road and in over the parachute club’s portion of the airfield: they’re not active today, grounded by the same glorious wind that has been such a gift for a gyroplane. And now we’re home. 350 feet at the boundary fence with 50 mph on the clock, we drop swiftly, the wind having a last mischievous tug at us as we slip from its clutches back to earth. Gently check back on the stick and hold her there as the speed falls away to settle nicely on the main wheels, the rotors take the load with a jubilant whop! and stop us in our tracks. I wait a few seconds to lose some rotor speed before taxiing back to the hangar, tired, cold and stiff and utterly content. What a fantastic afternoon – happiness is an empty sky and a little red gyroplane!
Spinning on the Wind 