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Je n’arrive pas à croire que je suis en train d’écrire ça.

Tu donnes tant de joie à tout le monde, mais maintenant tu es pris trop tôt pour voler avec Gègè. Ce n’est pas juste.

Tu avais le plus grand sourire

Niveau 10, notre très bon ami. Niveau 10.

After a frustrating two-year hiatus, I finally got back to the Gyro Club on the 26th of September 2021. Yay! It took a marathon trawl through post Brexit regulations: what can and can’t be brought into France (mainly can’t) – no fruit, veg, dairy, meat, cereal, etc – which considerably narrowed the choice of camping provisions. Next: proof of funds for duration of visit, date of return, proof of accommodation (my miniature camping car plus address of Gyro Club), additional vehicle documentation and a partridge in a pear tree. I even had the stupid new UK sticker ready for my van, another pointless piece of bureaucracy when everyone knows that GB stands for Grand Bretagne. Now, as a French friend pointed out, we appear to originate from the Ukraine. Rot in hell, Putin.

I hoped all the boxes were ticked with the ever-changing Covid rigmarole, and all my ducks were nicely sorted in tidy rows. Fingers crossed. 8pm Friday, sailed happily into Roscoff and joined the queue for immigration praying I hadn’t overlooked some new form or regulation, but… Passport, pass sanitaire – now sod off, it’s dinnertime. No checks, no paperwork, nothing! A weekend living off powdered soup and pot noodles when I could’ve had my usual camping treats of fried Spam, eggs and mushrooms after all. So if you’re going to France, try to arrive at mealtime and don’t worry too much about the paperwork.

Arrived at the Gyro Club on Sunday evening after a nice steady drive down, nursing a failing turbo. All my good intentions about keeping a safe distance in case anything nasty had joined me on the ferry, well, that went straight out the window, swiftly followed by the hopeful theory that kissing was now verbotten. Wrong on both counts but what can you do! It was a bittersweet reunion all the same. So thrilled to see everyone again and be greeted with such a warm welcome, but a Gerard-sized hole in our midst really brought home the sad reality previously numbed by distance.

At long last I got my mitts on poor neglected Delta-J. She was in remarkably good nick having been stood for so long gathering dust and a generous portion of mouse droppings, although I had left her trussed up like an explosion in a Chinese laundry. Two blissful weeks went by, pulling her apart and trying to remember what I had wanted to do to her two years ago when the time ran out.

That left one whole wonderful week to make up for lost time together, blowing the cobwebs away in fine style. Yet again I thank the veteran mentors who trained me so well on the gyro-glider. Because of them, rotor handling is so ingrained – even after a two-year break – it came back instantly and automatically. What a joyous buzz to hear the rotors sing again! Temperatures were still in the twenties even in October and as usual there was sod-all wind, so it was mainly a matter of booting lazy Dragon Wings up the arse with the pre-rotator to get them interested. They really don’t like warm air.

But we survived with new memories to treasure. An idyllic sunset patrol with the Pyrenees silhouetted against a golden afterglow, the moon rising in perfect balance as the sun dipped below the horizon. A squadron fly-out to Sabonneres scrambling to keep up with the big boys, not forgetting two memorable backseat rides to Auch and Luchon, a spectacular flight through the mountains that I would never dare attempt on a screaming two-stroke. Merci beaucoup, Eric et Pierre.

Once again, I find myself wondering how I got to be so lucky.

A bientôt et l’année prochaine.

So many thoughts running through my head today, the day that sees the completion of my sixth decade. I’m too young to be sixty! Thinking of my mum who went through hell sixty years ago, only to be saddled with me. Was I worth it, I wonder. Thinking of my old dad who died last Halloween. My great aunt told me how he had gone home that evening sixty years ago, thinking his offspring wouldn’t be born on the thirteenth after all, only for me to be dragged reluctantly into the world around half past ten at night, six weeks early and the first to actually survive. There might have been four of us had we all lived.

Sitting on a rock in the sunshine it’s a glorious day for a milestone, perfect visibility with a nice fresh breeze that I’d love to get swishing through my rotor blades, were they not eight hundred miles away. Damn you, Moyle. No, it’s too nice a day to be spoiled by the snake. The sea is a wonderful shade of deep turquoise, beautifully accentuated with white breakers lapping the rocks and rolling onto the sand. Early in the season there’s plenty of room at the moment, but soon the locals will be crowded out for the summer.

The last time I came to Poldhu was a very different occasion. A bright and crisp winter’s evening, I walked down to the beach carrying Dad’s ashes in my backpack. It was remarkably calm for February with a gentle swell causing the briefest of ripples in the bay. The sleeping waters shone like a sheet of burnished steel that perfectly mirrored a scattering of low cumulus drifting above. It wasn’t a particularly spectacular sunset – it was just nice to see the sun! – but the evening was perfect all the same and as darkness fell in the chill of night, it felt right to set him free.

So many thoughts today, such a time of reflection was completely unexpected. Chris Julian, my autorotational mentor was killed ten weeks after his sixtieth birthday. I well remember how perplexed he was about reaching the milestone, he just couldn’t get used to the idea. ‘Tiz terrible when you’m sixty’ he would complain in bewilderment. Poor old sod, sixty was the end of the line for him, but I doubt he would’ve coped well with old age.

I had no plans to celebrate (never do), and the few people who matter to me are all far away. Next weekend is Whitsun. In normal times pre-Covid, I would be deep in the south of France by now, heading for the Gyro Club Toulouse. Normally I would be with my friends tonight. We would celebrate together the seven May birthdays of club members, four of us one after the other this week. I think of them a lot and hope that they are all still there when I finally get to return. We lost founder member Pierre Cena last year, the day after my dad died, and back in July, Gerard fell to a terrible accident that shook us to the core. But he was doing what he loved – what we all love at the Gyro Club – doing what binds us together and makes us family, what we will continue to do, remembering our big bear of a friend and all the fun we shared.

I can’t wait to fly again and be with my friends, to get my hands on my gyroplane at last after what seems like an interminable delay. To spin my rotor blades and feel them come alive on the wind and hear their song, such joyous energy – oh yes please! This is such a perfect flying day, I’d love to go to St. Merryn now and wind up the rotors for old time’s sake and catch the spirit of Chris and Tony. For now though, this sixty-year-old kid is going to sit on the beach and have an ice cream to celebrate my continued existence, irrelevant though it is in the great scheme of things. Just another vegetable in the great stew of life.

And so begins another year of uncertainty. The less said about 2020, the better: two friends gone and my old dad as well, none of them remotely connected to Covid. Gotta love the irony.

No travel to France to fly Delta-J with my friends, no music of the wind through the rotor blades – how I miss their song! But they will sing again. It may not be this year, it maybe the next, but as soon as the chance arises we will spin on the wind together once more, I’m determined of that. Many people have far more serious concerns, and I have nothing to complain about.

This site grows more slowly now, my aerial adventures being herded into a possible ebook instead of just padding out these pages. But the site remains active and always monitored: there’s plenty here to read of autorotation past and present, still much to do and people to help. Positive vibes, adapt and overcome.

Be it on the ground or in the air, stay safe and continue to make the best of things. There’s always a bright side – you just have to find it.

En pensant à ma famille de Gyro Club

There’s been a recent effort to twist gyroplane history to suit an agenda and blame the pioneers of the sixties and seventies for the current attitude of British authorities towards our fabulous rotorcraft. The claim is that there’s no parallel with the early days of the aeroplane when isolated people had to find things out by trial and error just the same, with all the peril that entails.

I found this forgotten copy of an essay tucked in the back of a book. Written by J. Courtenay Thomas, it records a talk he had with one such enthusiast from the early days of homebuilt aircraft. It captures beautifully the keen adapt and overcome attitude which resonates with striking familiarity through the early days of the homebuilt gyroplane.

It’s an echo from a lost era so I copy it here in tribute to the spirit of all those like Ray, who helped to lay the foundations for all of us who love to fly. The story takes place in Cornwall, at the bottom south west tip of the British isles.

Ray Bullock, the Flying Man of Fraddon.
The story of a Cornishman who built, flew and crashed his own aeroplanes
by J. Courtenay Thomas.

It was early in the 1930s when it all began, the older residents of Fraddon may still remember Ray’s flying escapades, long before the sight of aircraft in the sky was commonplace! It was almost half a century later when Ray asked me if he could make one more flight in an open cockpit aircraft. He was then a cheerful elderly gentleman, born and bred in the Fraddon locality, with a delightful sense of humour and optimism. I was fortunate enough to take him up in an old Tiger Moth and afterwards he told me of his flying experiences, relating them in his natural Cornish accent.

All day long my lorry had kept me busy carrying grass cuttings for the Highways division of the county council. That evening, I settled myself in my favourite armchair alongside the kitchen range. Somehow I had got hold of an old magazine on DIY flying and in it was an article on the Flying Flea. It suddenly occurred to me that I could build one in the shed at the bottom of the garden. The more I thought about it the more I like the idea, and then plucked up enough courage to ask Mother what she thought about it all.

‘Don’t be daft Father’ she said, ‘what are you going to do with a flying machine, you have never been up in the air, and I don’t think you have ever seen one close up let alone talk about putting the contraption together.’

A few weeks later I made up my mind to go ahead. The advertisement read ‘Send us a postal order for £3.3s.0d and you will soon be in the air.’ The plans were not difficult for me to understand as there was nothing I loved more than putting bits and pieces together. Most of my evenings were spent in the garden shed, making parts and very soon my new creation was ready for its firing up. After wheeling the machine out of the garden I was on top of the world when it started first time. My biggest problem was now getting it into the air. At the time I knew nothing about flying technique, but I felt certain I could handle things.

Very early next morning, I hoisted the Flying Flea onto my lorry and drove the half a mile along the main road running from Indian Queens to Bodmin. Traffic was non existent in those early mornings, so it never occurred to me that I might upset anyone. After all I was paying enough in rates for the upkeep of the road. Swinging the propeller, I started the engine and lowered myself into the cockpit. For a time I taxied up and down the roadway, the noise of the spluttering engine and fresh morning breeze made everything well worthwhile. After a few hopskip and jumps to see how she behaved, I then made a momentous decision. Turning the machine around so that there was a clear stretch of roadway ahead, I pushed the throttle fully open and made up my mind that I would soon find out what the flying business was all about.

The Flying Flea clattered down the roadway, increasing speed all the time and then, on my giving the stick a mighty yank, the wheels left the ground. It never occurred to me that the machine would fly itself, because I was convinced that you needed to move the stick violently back and forth in order to keep her up, just like working the village pump. The wheels kept whacking the ground again and again until, at last, the bottom of the cockpit dropped out, leaving my legs dangling in mid air. I put the parts back in the lorry and it was not long before I was flying again.

This time, I did not pump the stick and found she flew quite smoothly, straight and level. After a few minutes, I decided to turn around and go back home. Making flat turns to the right, skidding all over the place, I finally got the machine facing in the opposite direction, but the roadway was completely out of sight! In the distance I could see a zigzag of black smoke and realised that this was coming from my engine on the way out [this refers to a steam traction engine, not the aircraft!]. Heading for the road I soon found Indian Queens, closed the throttle and pulled back the stick. The machine bounced a few times, causing a noisy crunching on the stone roadway and then settled down, just like a broody hen on her nest!

One day, Mother said ‘I don’t think that it is fair on the milkman, he comes out early and there you are flitting up and down, frightening the horse something terrible!’
It had already occurred to me that the fellow might be a bit nervous, because every time I taxied and flew by him, he would jump down from the cart, run up to the horse’s head and hold on like grim death. Anyway, I went straight away to see the farmer who owned the land at the bottom of my garden and he gave me permission to use his steep meadow, providing that I did not use the meadow when his cows were in feeding and to take care not to frighten them. From now on I used the meadow instead of the main road, always taking off downhill and landing uphill. I was asked by someone what I did about the wind, but told him that you don’t take no notice of that new fangled notion, always take off downhill and land coming up, but never forget the sheep and the cows!

The postman arrived one morning with a very official looking buff coloured envelope marked ‘Air Ministry: Civil Aviation Division.’ The letter read something like this: It has come to our notice up here in London that you have been operating a flying machine in the Fraddon locality and it concerns us that you do not have a licence for such carryings on. Will you therefore present yourself at your earliest convenience to the examiner at Plymouth Airport, so that the necessary formalities can be attended to.

Early next day I took off for Plymouth. Below me I could see the airfield and commenced my approach and landing. This was a corkscrew, spiral operation. What you do is this. Have a good look around and pick a spot to put her down on; keep looking at the spot, never allowing your eye to wander, make tight turns and cut your throttle. When you think you are going to hit the ground, straighten up proper like, and heave back on the stick. Everything when ‘fitty like’ and I put her down exactly where I wanted. Waiting for me was an ambulance, a fire engine and about six officials with anxious looks on their faces.
The senior officer approached and questioned me as to what I thought I was doing, coming in like that! I explained that it was the only landing I knew of and, as he could see nothing was hurt I then addressed the officials and explained that I had come up from Fraddon in Cornwall on the written orders from their superiors in London and that, in my pocket, I had a signed document ordering them to give me a testing. Fishing the letter out of my overall pocket, I handed it over to their chief. The poor man seemed completely flummoxed and told me to stand by my machine and await further instructions.
Rushing back to his office, the official examiner collected all the text books he could find on pilot’s notes, navigation, meteorology etc, and staggered back to the aircraft. They were handed over and he instructed me to return home to Cornwall and that he did not want to see me again until I knew everything that was written in the books. I thanked the gentleman for his kind attention and guidance, at the same time piling the books on my seat, which meant I would be sitting a little higher in the cockpit. Bidding them all farewell, I added ‘Today is Friday, so I will be back here for this testing on Monday morning.’ With that, I headed south to Fraddon. Many months later I returned to Plymouth Airport and got my licence to fly ‘all types of land planes.’

My Flying Flea had a very strong will of its own and one day suffered considerable damage. I don’t think that we ever ‘hit it off’ all that well.

My second construction was a BAC Drone, a far more friendly aircraft, built from made up parts and odd pieces of the Flying Flea. It was a delight to fly and one day I decided to go to the Scilly Isles. The only thing which niggled me was the 2/6 landing fee I had to pay [2 shillings and sixpence]! Unfortunately, the Drone also had a rather short life and was broken up on landing.

Another machine had to be made and this time I decided on a Parnell Pixie, Tom-Tit. This was a high wing monoplane made from parts retrieved from the old machines, coupled with items made up in my shed. The petrol tank was fitted high over the cockpit. In order to ‘top her up’ during the flight, I would stand up in the cockpit, hold on to the control stick with my knees and then, by bending over, extract one of the petrol cans which made up my seat. After unscrewing the cap, I inserted a funnel into the tank and poured the petrol, just like I did for the lorry. The can was then replaced, so that the seat was just right for seeing out of the cockpit. Only about half of the petrol went into the tank, but the rest was very useful for washing down the aircraft.
Sadly, one day I loaded too much petrol on board, making the machine excessively heavy. When I crash landed at Colan, it cost me a broken arm and a leg with the Pixie on top of me. My flying activities were certainly not over and while my limbs were mending I started to build another machine in the shed. The outbreak of war stopped my flying antics for the time being. I suppose the neighbours must have thought me crazy but, if I was a younger man, I would be building another machine today!

‘Did not have a licence for such carryings on’ – what a wonderfully Cornish turn of phrase!

Incidentally, it was the stories of Ray Bullock’s exploits that caught the imagination of a young local tearaway. Later, Ray would help to mentor his developing interest in homebuilt aircraft – that young tearaway was Chris Julian.

So you put in years of effort slaving over a hot keyboard, trying to decipher pages of hastily scribbled notes on what seemed like good ideas at the time – if only you could remember the context. Seasons pass by unheeded as disjointed paragraphs are battered into submission, rounded up and herded into chapters that begin to form something vaguely resembling a manuscript. Life is confined to the margins of the page, scrutinising endless lines of type for elusive errors until the familiar pink elephants begin their march across the screen, trampling the remains of your sanity and failing eye sight.

But you hung in there and now it’s done! The elephants have packed their trunks and the pigs have taken wing, performing joyful aerobatics in celebration. Sacrifice a large chunk of the bank balance for the cause, and the moment has finally arrived when all the labour pains and swearing produces the small wad of tightly bound paper wrapped in a crisp new cover, clutched proudly in your hot little hand.

Do you become the author’s equivalent of a baby bore? Can’t resist touching it, admiring it from all angles, bombarding family and friends with photos of your name on the cover, and regaling them for the umpteenth time how you cleverly resolved Chapter No-One-Cares after weeks of suffering from a particularly obstinate writer’s block. Nah.

Or were you somewhat disappointed that the end result wasn’t as perfectly formed as you had hoped? An important part of your cover design compromised to meet a deadline; the photographs not arranged to their best advantage, another compromise dictated by time constraints. So it wasn’t love at first sight, unfortunately.

The overwhelming sentiment in my case was relief that it was all over. Two months since publication, I still can’t bring myself to look at my modest tome for fear of finding yet another defect slipped between the pages beneath the radar. Post-publication stress disorder – is that a thing? There were times when I feared the book would never be ready, heartily sick of reading and re-reading my own words to catch unexpected mistakes that weren’t even mine, introduced at various stages of the publishing process.

When the first of the several ‘final’ drafts was sent for my approval, completely devoid of any caption to describe the twenty-nine photos, I was pretty much at the end of my tether (quite an exceptionally long and unflappable tether too, I might add). The buffers were comprehensively slammed in to when the amended ‘final’ final draft was returned with captions randomly inserted, bearing no relation to the photos that were in the wrong order anyway. Presumably I got the short straw.

But what the hell, the deed is done. I’ve written the thing and there it is warts and all, filling several boxes that represent a large portion of my life savings. Now what? Simply persuade the unsuspecting public that this unique and brilliantly written tale is worth parting with a few pounds to enrich their lives with. Advice on how to do such a thing is plentiful, and for those – let’s face it – vast majority of writers who aren’t hampered with chronic shyness, all perfectly feasible suggestions. Yeah, no problem! Bring on the book signings, line up those interviews, preen and pose for photo shoots and splash them liberally over social media. Me, I don’t even have my name on the cover.

So what’s left for the introverted author who communicates better on paper than in person? Interviews are not for me: I’m most uncomfortable being placed in the spotlight like some strange specimen to be gawked at until something more interesting comes along (which wouldn’t take much, to be honest!). Who cares what I might think, I can’t take myself that seriously. Having suffered a few such meetings for the autorotational cause when first qualified as a gyroplane pilot, I view journalists with extreme suspicion. Why bother to ask questions, take notes, or even talk to me at all when the resulting articles bare no resemblance to anything that actually happened. One report by a regional rag stated that I liked to ‘land in a field and go for a walk.’ Utter fictitious twaddle! Walking can be done anytime anywhere, whereas every airborne moment with my gyro is a rare and precious gift not to be squandered. And as if I’d leave my little bird parked alone in some random field. Honestly.

Invest in a professional photographic portrait for promotional purposes. Yep, can’t think of a better way to scare people off. What a challenge for Photoshop! Airbrush all the character that is now perceived as imperfection from my ugly mug and there’d be nothing left. My face isn’t a pristine show home, it’s been lived in for 57 years and the cracks are showing. Imagine the waiting audience deceived by this glossily polished creature displayed on the poster – and then I turn up – they’d all want a refund! No, HD wasn’t made for faces like mine; it frightens horses and the hens stop laying. I feel stupid signing books anyway, never know what to write and why deface a nice crisp new copy with my scribble. Next…

Inevitably there’s no escaping the ubiquitous F word: the dreaded Facebook. I don’t want to put myself out there. I guard my privacy and fail to understand the relentless urge to publicly broadcast every mundane mortal moment of existence to people who have no idea who they’re reading about, and care even less. Anti social media, that’s me. But authors MUST have a website! It’s a fact, engineered into genetic code and carved in tablets of stone. An online presence to promote themselves and their scribblings, somewhere to be followed, linked, shared and connected to by other unknown forces floating in cyber space. The lesser of two evils (possibly), only time will tell. So here we are, albeit warily in truth: reluctantly dipping a digital toe into the ether, poised to flee at the first hint of approach.

Sorted. But wait, there’s a catch! Not only must you promote yourself, your book and further scribblings – now you have a website, dear unsuspecting little author – you have to promote that as well! Where does it end? Do I need another website to promote this website to promote the book, ad infinitum etc. etc.

Oh dear. The pigs are on finals…