Category: French gyroplanes

Finalising the next book, it needed thinning out a bit so this one was part of the cull. Great memories of my second time in France – it’s a shame to waste it!

This my second visit to the Gyro Club Toulouse was a real bonus, as up until about ten days before the meeting, it wasn’t possible for me to go. Suddenly the fates came good and everything fell in to place. Thanks to John and some very last minute organising, I was to arrive in Carcassonne on Friday evening, where John would come and find me. Brian then rang to say that he was taking an earlier flight to Carcassonne and would wait for me there, saving John an extra journey. I was therefore startled to find Brian standing behind me in the boarding queue at Stansted! He’d missed his morning flight by ten minutes, leaving him with six hours to kill in a dreary airport instead of a scenic ancient city. So off we went together.

The panoramic view of the French landscape really brought home just how mind-bogglingly big the country is, at least to an unsophisticated islander. Americans and Australians would probably think it’s quaint and compact! We were ahead of schedule thanks to a tail wind, apart from Brian who was still six hours behind. The approach in to Carcassonne is quite spectacular, coming in low along a plateau at the foot of a ridge of mountains, before banking steeply over the city with a tantalising glimpse of the ancient fortress slipping beneath the wing root. We experienced an enthusiastic return to earth, the poor Boeing seemed to buckle at the knees followed by some equally spirited braking, but as it turned to stagger back to the terminal we could see we had stopped just short of the numbers at runway’s end, with not a lot to spare. That was tight enough to be interesting.

Hence we arrived en France, and emerged from our dazed aircraft into a hot golden evening at 17.40 local time, surprised to see the Alpha Jets of the Patrouille de France national display team parked at the far end of the apron. For a small single terminal airport, it was rather like finding the Red Arrows casually parked at Blackbushe. Several light aircraft shared the circuit with our 737, which was swiftly turned around with minimum fuss and catapulted back to Blighty. Brian scuttled off to collect the car while I waited nervously at the carousel to retrieve my camping gear, hoping that it wasn’t winging its way to some distant location. As a novice in the jet-setting world, I found it disorientating to be in a totally foreign environment merely a couple of hours since leaving home. I missed the journey of the previous year when it took three days to cover the same distance by road, with all the new discoveries along the way. Well, I’ve been told I’m dysfunctional. Regardless, here we were, deep in the south of France in half the time it’d taken me to drive to the airport. Brian returned with our wheels and we spent a few minutes exploring the bug-eyed little Renault, trying and failing to coax it to open the boot. Admitting defeat, we slung our bags on the back seat and sallied forth in search of Bois de la Pierre.

It was a gorgeous evening, far too nice to waste on a motorway so we took to the back roads for a scenic ride through classic Monet landscape. Against spectacular backdrops of distant mountains, we travelled narrow roads lined by soldierly ranks of trees, winding through rolling hills of rich greens and golden hues accentuated here and there by random swathes of scarlet poppies. We spiralled though isolated villages painted in warm shades, flowerbeds overflowing with plump blooms of vivid reds, purples and pinks, colours intense in the honeyed evening light. I struggled to believe that only a few hours earlier we’d been in grey and grotty Stansted. What a contrast, it really enhanced the pleasure.

Using manual GPS (me with a map: Global Positioning Shirl), we didn’t do too badly once we got used to the rather haphazard sign posting on the quiet country roads, and when in doubt, kept the sun to the left when our route mysteriously vanished at a junction. We had a couple of unscheduled tours round some sleepy hill top villages before achieving escape velocity, but soon I began to recognise a few landmarks from the previous year. Driving down a single track road between wide open fields, hoping we wouldn’t meet any oncoming traffic as there was absolutely nowhere to go, we suddenly arrived in a deserted village street. I know that bus shelter – turn right! Up the hill, under the tall arch of the redbrick bridge and there across on the left, the words Gyro Club proudly emblazoned on the hangar roof. Several gyroplanes were already in place on the flight line, but all was quiet as we crossed the runway and parked on the grass. Looking around for John, I was spotted by Jean Marie and engulfed in an embarrassingly huge welcome, surprised that he even remembered me.

Brian wasn’t going to get any sleep until he’d unlocked the boot, so we launched another assault on the little Renault which remained silently impervious as we twiddled, poked and pulled various fittings to no avail. Several motor homes were parked around us and the occupants must have thought we were bonkers! Finally something clicked. Set in the roof, hiding in plain sight next to the interior light, an obscure button released the lock and the rear hatch obligingly popped open. What a daft place to put it. Satisfied at last, Brian disappeared to meet with some friends of his who were staying nearby. I continued the evening’s entertainment, trying to coax my tent pegs into the sun-baked earth of southern France while my camping mallet remained some 700 miles away on the other side of the English Channel. I knew I’d forgotten something. Then John arrived – having realised on the way that he had forgotten his sleeping bag! A handy rock solved the tent peg problem, and a fellow camper kindly rescued John with the loan of a quilt, for which he was very grateful as the temperature dropped to minus two later that night. John had brought the dreaded inflatable mattresses again, but this time we had some twilight left to see with, unlike last year when we were wrestling with the monsters at midnight in the rain. The sun slipped away behind the hangars leaving a rosy afterglow over the peaceful airfield. The stillness echoed with the chirp of insects, the asthmatic wheeze of John’s foot pump, and gentle swearing as I caught my finger between the rock and a tent peg.

Saturday dawned bright and clear, heralded by a multitude of feathered friends in full song at 05.00. I awoke cold and stiff from a restless night, having succumbed to gravity as my mattress slowly deflated itself – the darn things are cursed! Seated at a table outside the clubhouse for coffee, we were joined by René, the friendly neighbour whose generosity had saved John from hypothermia. We managed a conversation of sorts, his English being confined to mechanical terms such as nuts and bolts which he’d learned from reading American engineering catalogues, and our collective French being confined to not very much. It didn’t really matter.

A unique Lycoming-powered tandem gyroplane was already in the air, later to be seen acting as camera ship for a French television company who were filming throughout the day. There was a sudden flurry of interest as the Spanish Futura headed out on to the runway: a big two-seat gyroplane with a bulbous enclosed cockpit, and twin tail booms. On static display the previous year, this was the first time we had seen it move under its own steam, but despite spinning up the rotors it appeared to be just a systems check, as it nosed its way back to the flight line leaving a disappointed audience. It was still early morning but I couldn’t say I fancied being shut in an enclosed cockpit in the already soaring temperatures.

A steady stream of trailers arrived throughout the day, bearing exotic gyroplanes in varying states of construction, adding to the couple of dozen rotorcraft already lined up along the runway’s edge. I counted 39 machines of all shapes and sizes, plus an Alouette helicopter and a group of three high-winged pert-nosed microlights, which for some reason put me in mind of pot-bellied pigs with their upturned snouts and low bellies brushing the grass. Lunchtime was upon us but John and I decided to give it a miss, knowing full well that our stomachs would need all of their spare capacity to cope with the evening feast. The crowds began to disperse, either to dine in the hangar, or to picnic beside commodious motor homes. Some of those vans are so big that I could easily live in one and keep Delta-J in there as well, not that I’d fancy driving such a monster. It was quite funny how everyone vanished as if on cue, so we took the opportunity to photograph the flight line while things were quiet. Spot the foreigners: mad dogs and English gyronauts out in the midday sun. Les anglais sont fou…

A couple of hours later, people began trickling back to the flight line, refreshed and refuelled ready for an afternoon of rotary-winged action. Having done a lot of air to air filming during the morning, the television crew now set up their hefty camera and tripod on the runway for a different perspective. Imagine the tonnage of risk assessment forms required to do that in Britain! A group of eight machines gathered for a special fly past for the benefit of the camera, lead by Jean Marie, Pierre and Xavier in their orange and silver gyroplanes. After a couple of circuits and low passes in line astern, everyone landed before the trio took off again to do their special formation display, signing off with their famous flag release as they flew along the runway at about 60 feet, weighted flags streaming proudly in the breeze below each machine. The CAA really wouldn’t like it. Dropping the flags at the end of their pass, the Patrouille completed the circuit and landed together to loud applause from the appreciative crowd – magnifique!

Flying continued late in to the evening with everyone enjoying the perfect conditions. A ripple of excitement as once again, the Futura left the flight line and taxied purposefully along the runway, this time with Xavier at the controls. The rotors spun and it began to accelerate quite ponderously, just sniffing the air as Xavier got a feel for the beast. Back it came, this time rising a foot or two above the grass and touching down at runway’s end. A couple more low passes, and the big gyroplane trundled back to the flight line and shut down. Daylight mellowed to a soft peachy glow as the last engines fell silent, the machines covered up and left for the night as everyone gathered around the hangar for aperitifs. Locating Brian amongst the lively hubbub of conversation, we squeezed into the throng to enjoy a night of good food and like-minded company. Five or six courses later (I lost count), the crowd dispersed into the darkness, tired and happy after a wonderful day of autorotational action, and waddled sleepily back to our beds.

Hundreds of tiny throats trilled in welcome as the sun returned next morning, the air almost vibrated with birdsong. Two hours later I was being microwaved inside my tent, and popped out to find a cloudless scorcher of a day and still only 07.00. John wasn’t far behind, so we took a leisurely wander around the silent village until the clubhouse was open for business. Seated outside with our bowls of morning coffee, we were joined by Joe, an Irish pilot who’d flown his Italian registered Magni M16 from Switzerland the previous day. He showed us the route on his map, most impressive coming down through the Alps and the Rhone valley. What a spectacular sight that must be.

Jeez, it was hot. This is a relative term by the way: I’m English – anything over 18^oC is hot! The flags drooped from their staffs like wilted flowers, and the sun was a fierce brilliant white as it climbed high above the shoulders of the Pyrenees. Not a cloud to be seen. After the excitement and anticipation of my first visit, I now knew what to expect, which made it even more enjoyable as I wasn’t wound up like a clock spring. The elderly Alouette had departed yesterday evening and now a Eurocopter Fennec arrived in its place, sandblasting the flight line as it hovered in to position along the runway. Autorotation is far more civilised. A mass flight of gyroplanes departed for the traditional trip to Cazères, a large grass airfield just a short flight away towards the mountains. It’s an incredible sight for British gyronauts. The number of machines in the air, plus the variety and ingenuity of designs, not to mention the sheer unadulterated enthusiasm. It couldn’t be more different from our barren isle. We weren’t jealous at all.

Xavier took out his two-seat AX05 after a spell of ground marshalling, and showed us how to do it with several perfect dead stick landings. The flying continued late into the evening in beautiful conditions. Around a dozen participants gathered for another fly past, lead by the Patrouille: a sky full of gyroplanes, all shapes and sizes stirring the evening air in a symphony of swishing rotor blades. Pierre, Xavier and Jean Marie finished things off in fine style with their formation display, flying a final pass with flags unfurled. The icing on the gateau.

Brian had gone to visit a friend near Andorra, so it was just John and me left eating for Britain at the evening meal. Everyone was in festive mood. Loud cheering and good-natured banter accompanied the prize raffle draw, with Xavier in good form on the microphone. Paper place mats folded into aeroplanes sailed past our ears, and explosive pops echoed round the hangar, firing champagne corks in to the rafters. Trying to communicate on foreign shores is a great ice-breaker: I’ve always found the French to be very accommodating and they appreciate the effort, even if it is unintelligible. Stuffed and sleepy, we staggered back to our starlit camp in the early hours, as frogs and insects trilled their nocturnal song.

Daybreak arrived as punctual as ever with nature’s alarm clock in full swing at 0.500, and baking nicely inside the tent two hours later. It was with great reluctance that I sorted my stuff ready for packing, but at least I didn’t have to deflate the mattress! My all-up-weight had increased considerably, I hoped the 737 could cope. John surfaced shortly after, so we went for a last wander around the tiny village, leaving the morning dew to dry on the tents in another dazzling dawn. The snow-dusted peaks of the Pyrenees stood tall on the horizon, flanked by a sky of clearest blue. Birds trilled from the trees, and insects chirped in the grass, harmonising with the cheerful twitter of skylarks – what a gorgeous morning. A row of silent gyroplanes stood guard along the runway, dew sparkling on their covers in the early sunlight. Parting is such sweet sorrow and how it hurts to have to leave it all behind. We packed our tents and loaded the car before taking a final coffee in the clubhouse, bidding farewell to Armand and Jean Marie who were out early as usual. I wished I had the words to express how much we’d enjoyed it all, but I hope they understood. John stuffed me kicking and screaming into the boot of the car and took me away.

It was only a short drive to the lakes at Peyssies, but we needed the windows wide open in the early morning heat. It was going to be another scorcher. John dropped me off and we parted company after a marvellous weekend, heading back to Toulouse for his mid-morning flight. And where had that Brian had got to? The buzz of a Rotax engine could be heard across the fields, some lucky gyronaut stirring the morning air, a fantastic view with the mountains so clear. Speaking of Brian… The sound of a rapidly approaching vehicle crunched over the gravel, as a bug-eyed little Renault shot towards me at alarming angle of bank, and slid to an abrupt and dusty halt. Brian’s back! He had another day to enjoy in country, so we decided to go back to Carcassonne and spend the afternoon before catching my evening flight.

It was boiling inside the car, but the views across the rolling hills towards the Pyrenees made it all worthwhile. The light was exquisite, enhancing the boldness of the colours vibrant in every hue, a banquet of visual perfection and I gorged myself shamelessly. Somehow we managed to rejoin the main road passing the airport, and followed signs to the centre ville, roasting in the suburbs. Abandoning the car outside an imposing guildhall, we bailed out in search of the ancient fortifications, hot tarmac sticky beneath our feet. I knew it was on a hill to the east of the airport, so we headed east and up, and more by luck than judgement there it was, a mighty fortress standing above the city. Massive walls of serrated battlements like rows of perfectly square-cut teeth, connected rotund towers capped with conical spires. I wondered if J.R.R. Tolkien had ever visited, as it was exactly as I’d imagined his walled city of Gondor. We continued our ascent to shortly arrive at a wide footbridge crossing the river Aude, the citadel rising above a cluster of trees on the opposite bank. Picturesque doesn’t begin to cover it. The river looked so cool, clean and inviting, gleaming in the sunshine as it flowed beneath our feet.

Panting in the oppressive heat, we climbed steep narrow streets in search of a watering hole, finally reaching an quiet café at the foot of the castle walls. A brief respite in the shade of the trees, but time was against us as always. We set off on the final ascent, the bastion towering above us from the steep slopes of a dry moat. The sense of history was almost palpable, woven deep through the ancient stone – what incredible times these walls had seen! It was impossible to do it justice in little more than an hour, we were almost galloping through the maze of narrow alleyways and cobbled streets, snatching hasty photos. At last we found our way on to the battlements of the outer wall, scrambling up the mighty stonework to look out over the modern city spread below. Squeezed between a gap in walls several feet thick, I felt overwhelmed by the weight of centuries and laid my palm against the stone to touch the past. If only they could talk… It was all too much.

The spell was rudely shattered by the twenty-first century as a Boeing 737 curved in on final approach, barely higher than we were – a brutal reminder of my fate. Tired, hot and dusty, we plodded back down the hill to find the car and go our separate ways. Brian dropped me off at the airport (cheers mate) but where had that weekend gone? It seemed like only minutes since we had cannoned on to the runway from Stansted. I dragged my feet and pack into the relative cool of the terminal building, where most of the population of Essex awaited the return flight. What a weekend. What memories. And how lucky am I.