A final scribble culled from This Way Up. It’s getting there.
I dodged another bullet during this escapade from October 2021. We had just returned from a squadron fly out to nearby Sabonnères, visiting the resident model club who gave us an impressive demonstration of their not-so-miniature craft. It was a poignant trip as my last flight to Sabo was with Gègè in his ill-fated Air Copter. That big machine was so amazingly light on the controls (even lighter than Delta-J) that I could hardly feel the rotor. It was an enigma to me. This time I was in company with a reduced but no less enthusiastic crew of Eric, Pierre and Gèrard, who had generously offered to burden themselves with my presence.
Being small and slow, they had us take off first. As usual there was little wind on this humid afternoon and what little there was of it drifted lazily towards runway 13, which meant an extended hammering for Delta-J, devoid of suspension with six-inch wheels. Taxiing to 31 is bad enough, but 13 is even further away and it takes an age to jolt down to the end. Thoroughly shaken up, we managed to scramble into the air after rattling along half of the runway, trying to get the rotors to show some interest. It was a relief to get aloft and find some lift, slotting into our alloted position as the bigger boys sailed past with nonchalant ease. Later, a repreat performance saw us unstick from Sabo’s rough downhill strip, having requested that Eric proceed us in order to harvest his prop wash and boost my lazy Dragon Wings. It never fails. We trickled back to the Gyro Club in line astern, Pierre formating nicely on our right axle. There aren’t many I would trust to fly that close – but it’s shame my action cam was fastened on the other side!
Pierre de Raigniac. He was a damn fine gyronaut
Safely back on the ground, I got the usual ribbing about flying ‘too high.’ Unable to enjoy the same performance and regular practice as my squadron mates, I don’t share their confidence and prefer to leave myself more of a safety margin. They fly too low for my liking – especially when crossing woods, lakes and rivers! Anyway, back at the club we had barely tethered our rotors before Jean Marie began rounding us up for a flight to his house. I felt obliged to join him. Mechanical gremlins had prevented us from flying together, but now we were both serviceable having finally fixed our respective problems the day before I had to leave. Jean Marie is always keen for us to fly together, but once airborne he doesn’t stick around and ‘together’ usually means a mad tail chase for Delta-J and me. It’s not the way I like to fly.
The warm breath that had earlier failed to encourage my rotor blades was by now non-existent, and Jean Marie decided on runway 31, reducing some abuse on my poor airframe. He was already heading for the threshold as I hopped back in after a rapid refuel, and turned the key. Nothing happened. Hardly surprising that the battery connections had shaken loose again, and a few minutes were all it took to fish out the on-board tool kit and tighten them up. Jean Marie can be rather impatient when he gets the bit between his teeth, and today was no exception. Intending to make good use of his prop wash, I thought he would at least wait for us to line up but he was off and away before I’d even strapped myself in. I had my suspicions this wasn’t going to be easy!
Arriving at the threshold, I pointed Delta-J’s nose down the runway and saw Pierre following us out. However, with our leader buzzing testily overhead I thought it best not to keep him waiting any longer. Bad decision. Everything vibrated horribly as I drove the rotors as hard as I could until they had a nice beat going, but I wasn’t fooled for a moment. It takes barely seconds to release pre-rotator and parking brake, and it took barely seconds for the rotors to visibly lose their momentum. Having done all my training by sight, sound and touch, I’m not a fan of relying on rotor tachs, but in times like these when you’re not entirely sure if the battering is due to rough ground or the rotor blades kicking off, I admit that a rotor tach would be very useful. Lacking such an implement means erring on the cautious side and accelerating probably more slowly than I actually could, rather than triggering blade sail which would really ruin the day.
So we rattled and bumped down to the halfway mark, eyes glued to the rotors for any sign of trouble, and still no nearer to flying speed. They were having quite a discussion between themselves: is it worth the effort of lifting the nose wheel before the last quarter of the runway, or more entertaining to wait until the very end and test the pilot’s reactions? At last I felt some lift beginning to gather and not a moment too soon, so I guess they had about much faith in the pilot as I did. Three-quarters of the runway was now behind us. Ride it out, or abort take off and subject Delta-J to another 10 minutes of horrible ground pounding while we taxi back? Seconds to decide or else we’d be going by road. I knew things would (should!) be better once clear of the sheltering influence of the trees on the other side, so with wheels several feet above the grass, I poured on the power. The response was somewhat underwhelming.
This sluggish excuse for a climb out was not to my liking, neither was our close proximity to the road that crosses the end of the strip. I made a rapid left turn across the neighbouring field and flew parallel to the power cables strung along the road, clawing for every inch of altitude. The anticipated improvement beyond the trees failed to materialise and we were really struggling. Pierre had caught up with us (granny on her bike could’ve caught up with us!), shadowing closely alongside and probably wondering why we were hedge hopping. I was wondering that myself. Engine temperature was rising rapidly but to ease its burden by more than a few hundred revs wasn’t an option, and had we been over anything other than the wide open plain ahead, I would have called it quits and gone back. Jean Marie was a distant speck – so much for taking a last flight together! Hoping for a bit of wind or a patch of lift to cross our path at some point, I settled uneasily into a delicate balancing act, trying to maintain what little height we had without cooking the engine. Pierre’s heavy rotors and huge propeller gave him plenty of lift and he could have easily gone on ahead, but my loyal wingman remained at our side. I miss Pierre.
By this time Jean Marie had completed the bombing run over his village, and I was relieved to spot him steaming back towards us at his usual rate of knots – and even lower than we were. Now we can put an end to this uncomfortable excursion. As soon as he had whizzed by, I checked on Pierre’s proximity and motioned that I was turning for home. We were only 15 minutes away and that was 15 minutes too many as the rotors laboured to produce anything useful from the lifeless air. The poor engine gave all it had, doggedly clinging to the measly 400 feet we had accumulated – ironically I was flying like a Frenchman! Needless to say we staggered home (with a few more grey hairs), and survived another close call. That was not pleasant and I really should know better.
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 triotook 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 Futuraleft 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 18oC 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.
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’sbeing 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 Gyrorunway 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 Shortrunway. We swing round to line up on the heading, keeping the power onjust 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!
Flying as an ‘Ulmiste’ in the south of France is very different to being a gyronaut in the UK. Gyroplanes are a class apart under British regulations: a very special class, which automatically excludes them from any concession granted to other flavours of homebuilt aircraft – and always for a very good reason that no one can actually explain. They don’t understand us so they trap us in a time warp, unable to evolve and barely tolerated. Such a huge contrast in attitudes.
French gyroplanes fall into the microlight (ULM) category – even the big factory-built machines qualify. What a world of opportunity this presents! The freedom to investigate and explore: to try out ideas and improvements, to nip down the local hardware store and gather all you need without certificates, batch numbers etc, and the inflated aviation prices that come with them. It took a long time to get used this new approach after 20 years of negativity and heavy over-engineered 1960s gyroplane designs – I just couldn’t believe it was all so simple – surely there was a catch? But it never came.
When I took my Cricket down there in 2009, it was the first time they had seen a British designed single-seater, and without fail she drew the same three reactions in exactly the same order. First impression, the exclamation invariably ‘How small and cute she is!’ (like her pilot. Ahem). The French machines are as half as big again, with tall masts to accommodate large propellers. A second glance, the glaring deficiency is all too obvious: ‘Why do you not have a stabiliser?’ Basically because our authorities are still in the dark ages where gyroplanes are concerned. I’ve yet to see a French autogire without one, and our distinct lack of tail feathers caused great consternation among our new friends, a fire which continued to burn unabated until I was later able to join them in the 21st century.
The third reaction without fail was total conviction that the British are quite insane. And who could argue? Fastened inside the pod of my machine – my tiny single-seat open cockpit flying machine as per British regulations – is a ‘No smoking’ sign. The hilarity was absolutely justified. They do not allow a horizontal stabiliser, yet you MUST have a No smoking sign??!! I couldn’t explain it either. (10 Years on, British gyronauts have now been permitted to bolt a cumbersome and inelegant flat plate to the tails of their Crickets. The ‘No smoking’ bit still applies.)
Flying down there is very different. I don’t pretend to know all the ins-and-outs, my understanding of the French language remains at a very basic level despite all efforts to improve. My friends credit me with far more intelligence than I actually possess, and regardless of attempts to understand pertinent ULM web sites, I still rely heavily on them to keep me on the straight and narrow. I’ve always hated radio and have struggled to cope with it ever since fixed-wing training. While the jargon poses no problem, the mental block to get the words out and broadcast to one and all across the frequency is an almost insurmountable challenge – a hang-up deeply rooted in my general inadequacy with verbal communication. I’m sure I was a mouse in a previous life (still got the teeth), preferring to remain hidden and not draw attention to myself, anony-mouse as it were, but it’s very frustrating at times.
During the week, the aerial prerogative over the plain belongs to the Armée de l’Air. I’m not too comfortable flying on a weekday! It’s not uncommon to be happily minding our own business at the club, only for the peace to be shattered by an unearthly roar and dark shapes ripping through the circuit, sometimes a fleeting glimpse of fiery jet pipe barely 200 feet above. And they’re always in pairs. The Patrouille de France take no prisoners either. Nine Alpha Jets blasting through the area at minimal height, at least two of them directly through our circuit. A hapless gyronaut would be chewed up and spat out before they even knew what hit them. Even their wake turbulence would be enough to ruin your day.
Over the plain: Pyrenees on the nose
Don’t go too high, my friends warn after persuading me to partake of the week-day sky. They habitually fly around at 400-500 feet, which seems like hedge skimming as I look down from the relative safety of 800 feet. My flying opportunities are very limited being based some 700 road miles from my aircraft (depending how many detours the satnav finds), so confidence levels diminish accordingly with lack of hours. I prefer a decent bit of altitude beneath us, a few extra seconds of safety margin to compensate for my lack of practice should anything untoward occur.
Although we wear the same Rotax 582 engine as several other single-seat machines at the club, they sport unique configurations able to accommodate much larger propellers and rotor blades. My gyro being based on a heavy 50 year-old design, only has room to wear a petite 52 inch propeller, which coupled with our lightweight 22 foot diameter rotors cannot hope to match the performance of our French companions. Only a complete restructure would solve it. Consequently they don’t understand my reluctance to fly in the high temperature and light wind conditions that persist from late May onwards – we just don’t have the same oomph! On squadron fly-outs, the others casually breeze past and disappear into the distance leaving us to flounder in their wake, my poor engine screaming in protest, temperature gauge nudging the red as we struggle for a morsel of lift in the tropical haze. So yes, I’m wary – it’s not a good feeling when your rotor blades have nothing to bite.
I’ve never seen a French gyroplane without tail feathers. Look at the variety and innovation, while us Brits have barely progressed from the Bensen. They’re having a wonderful time, yet none of these machines would get off the ground in the UK – except the little red one without a horizontal stabiliser…
In 1993, my transformation from fixed-wing driver to gyronaut began with an old Bensen gyro-glider. For 19 wonderful years we were based at St. Merryn, a beautiful old wartime airfield on the North Cornish coast with 8 tarmac runways to play with – perfect for glider training. This is where I and many others learned about free-spinning rotor flight, courtesy of Chris Julian and Tony Philpotts. It was so much fun! Such painful irony that Chris, along with our friend Bob should’ve been killed flying another glider up-country, thanks to the stupidity of one particular individual who has never had the guts to say sorry.
Gyro-gliding should be mandatory for new gyronauts. Nothing else can match it for pure unadulterated rotor flight: no engine or instruments to worry about, all unnecessary distractions are removed – it’s just you and the rotor blades. Fly a gyro-glider and it will open your eyes to the sheer power of autorotation. You’ll learn to understand the rotors and their behaviour, how to read them without the need for instruments and discover the very heart of gyroplane flying. In the old days before the onset of two-seat machines, nearly every gyronaut began their training on a glider. Sadly, now that two-seat training is readily available, the glider has been largely forgotten by the ‘establishment.’ Considered an out-of-date-has-been by those with no clue, it still gives the best insight into rotor handling that no two-seater can match.
It’s a long time since I wrote the following piece, but what we did that day remains just as relevant to gyroplane training, and rotor handling in particular. In fact it’s even more relevant these days when newly qualified gyro pilots are so reliant on widgets and gizmos to tell them what they should really know by the seat of their pants.
12 Year old Ed: junior gyronaut
The 2nd of September 2007 was quite a special day for a young lad who first flew the glider with me when he was only 12 years old. Now aged 15 and tall enough to reach the steering bar, Ed Weaver returned to St. Merryn to have another go. We had a good strong wind for him, blowing about 15 knots just a few degrees off the nose of the main north/south runway. To recap on what we’d done all that time ago, I parked the glider into wind and after going through the preflight inspection together, Ed started the rotors by himself and spent half an hour practising feeding the wind into them, using the stick to regulate their speed by opening or closing the rotor disc to the airflow. The old RotorHawk blades were relatively tame and docile, but with quite a feisty wind coming in off the sea, Ed had his hands full to settle them down as random gusts blustered through, upsetting the blades and triggering flapping. He did very well and corrected the first kick of blade sail without any prompt from me – instantly shoving the stick fully forward to kill off the wind (a manoeuvre never to be performed in the air, by the way), letting the rotors stabilise before gently bringing the stick back, inch by inch to let them accelerate once more. Excellent handling practice.
Gyro kites…
Later we hitched up the 115 foot tow line and took the glider out to play on the main runway. The wind was slightly from the right, but no real problem. Ed brought the rotors up to speed, then followed through on the stick as we took off and flew down the runway about 10 feet high, settling down nicely at a respectful distance from the giant dung heap sprawled across the end. I showed him how to use the energy in the rotor disc to reverse the glider back and do a three point turn, as the tow car took up the slack in the line. Being towed back downwind is the worst part, bumping over ragged tufts of vegetation at 15 mph with no suspension on the glider – ouch! By the third take off, Ed was handling the stick on his own with only a few minor corrections from me, and 90% of the landings by the end of the first hour. For the second hour I was little more than animated ballast and if the wind had been more on the nose and not so gusty, Ed could have soloed if he wanted.
15 Year old Ed flying the gyro-glider – cool as you like!
As it was we had to wait for the following Sunday, as the wind had gone to the other extreme with Saturday being flat calm. It was also westerly, which meant the shortest runway with more lumps and bumps of foliage breaking through the aged tarmac. The wind was about 8 knots maximum but a steady mild breath this time, so Ed could open the rotors up relatively quickly without setting them flapping. We did another short static session with the glider to recap again, but he’d mastered the starting bit easily, so I set him up with my gyroplane to show him the contrasting behaviour of different blade profiles.
My bird wears Dragon Wing rotor blades which are much lighter in weight and have a more streamlined, efficient aerofoil section than the RotorHawks – and they’re absolute pigs to spin up by hand! With Ed in the seat controlling the stick, I pushed the rotors round as hard as I could to see if he could get them to catch the wind and accelerate. There’s no way I’d even bother attempting it normally, but the wind was docile and steady enough not to seriously upset them, so I thought it’d be a good demonstration – and it was. Try as we might, despite hurling my entire 8 stone bulk behind them, and with Ed’s careful coaxing on the stick – we could not get those rotor blades to show any interest in picking up at all – whereas the tame old RotorHawks had settled easily on the light breeze with little effort. You only get to know a true feeling for the rotors by learning to start them by hand: a machine relying on mechanical drive and tacho’s can’t give you the same insight. It’s like trying to ride a horse without an empathic understanding of the feel of its mouth against the reins.
With another lesson under his belt, we hitched up and took the glider out for Ed to try some tamer conditions. Light winds mean towing at a faster ground speed to compensate the lack of airspeed, which I don’t like doing as we’re forcing the machine to fly. Luckily both Ed and myself are lightweights so we didn’t have to drag the glider along at an excessively fast pace to keep it airborne – which was a good thing as we didn’t have much runway to work with in a westerly direction. With two of us onboard we were lifting off just before the intersection with the main runway (a particularly rough patch to accelerate over), and the car had to begin slowing almost immediately, being some 80 feet ahead of us. Ed flew well, doing everything himself except the three point turn at the end, and after several runs he felt happy enough to attempt it solo.
I strapped him into the middle of the seat and positioned the glider on the threshold, aiming for the smoothest possible take off path between the weeds. I explained what was going to happen and questioned Ed as to exactly what he was going to do, making sure we both understood who was doing what, and no one was going to scare the pants off the other. All he had to do was repeat what he’d been doing all morning (which he’d now find much easier sitting in the middle of the seat) and remember to ‘plant’ the machine firmly on the deck as soon as the main wheels touched down. I gave him the traditional St. Merryn salute, pretending to bite my fist in mock terror (just as Chris had done to me all those years ago) getting a broad grin in return. Perched backwards over the passenger seat of the tow car, I could see the rotors were turning as fast as possible with the glider stationary, and we began the tow with a steady acceleration, increasing by 5 mph at a time. The nosewheel lifted nicely and my youngest student became airborne, flying sedately to the end of the runway and settling down to a text book landing. I ran back to join a relieved fledgling gyronaut on the seat, giving in to the obligatory high-5 (well, he’d earned it!) before reversing the glider round for the run back to the hangar. Ed’s beaming face told me all I needed to know.
What a great feeling it is when someone clicks with the machine like that – be it glider or powered gyroplane – and suddenly realises what it’s all about. Ed can be proud of himself: he has a skill that very few do these days. When new people come in to the sport, no matter what kind of gyro they choose to fly, they need and deserve to be taught the essential basics of rotor handling. And for that, you can’t beat a gyro-glider.
I wrote this in 2015, after an idyllic afternoon with my gyroplane on a special day. It was only meant as a private musing but it’s from the heart, so I’ll put it here in tribute to those who have been part of our autorotational journey.
G-BVDJ is 21 years old today. It was exactly 21 years ago on a Sunday afternoon at St. Merryn, when Chris Julian took her into the air for the very first time. The pile of metal we had carefully cut, shaped and bolted together now transformed, the process of creation hadn’t been in vain. I still remember how elated I was, how pretty she looked in the sky – how impossibly tiny. There were teething troubles naturally, little niggles to be ironed out over the following months, but now I owned a real flying machine. How cool was that!
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that 21 years later (29th May 2015 to be exact) we would be in the south of France, stirring the air together under the imperious gaze of the Pyrenees. Back then I had rarely left British shores and certainly had never ventured abroad by myself. To actually drive alone, some 800 miles on the wrong side of the road in a language I can barely speak, not to mention towing the most important part of my life behind on a trailer – nah, don’t be daft! Yet here we are, and it’s all because of gyroplanes.
21 years. That little red machine changed my life completely. With the encouragement of the late, great Ken Wallis, I left my home and moved 200 miles to be near our beloved airfield at St. Merryn, where a small group of veteran gyronauts patiently kept me the right way up as they shared their wisdom with the neophyte. ‘She won’t fly’ said the critics, ‘girls don‘t fly gyros.’ ‘She flies’ said my mentors, ‘like a bit of silk.’ And thanks to them and the gyro-glider, I did. They’re all gone now, the gurus whose autorotational roots traced back to the 1960’s, but the memories we made together and the skill they gave me to survive lives on, encapsulated in Delta-J. The little red machine they helped me to create and to master exists because of Chris Julian and Tony Philpotts. Along with Bob Partridge and Les Cload, their knowledge and friendship remains a vital part of the fabric that made me a gyronaut. They fly with us always.
As does the man who has done (and continues to do) more for the ordinary British gyronaut than any other – the unassuming and unsung hero that is Tony Melody. He took this gyro-glider fledgling who some said would never fly, and defied expectations by moulding a bundle of nerves into a qualified gyro pilot. A female one at that. Whatever next! And not forgetting Mark Hayward, who with his yellow Bensen lead us on many adventures, helping to build this new gyronaut’s confidence in straying from the local patch. Tony and Mark, to share your experience and great sense of fun has been an honour and a pleasure. You too will always be part of us.
That little red machine changed my life. Cursed with shyness, it’s almost impossible for me to make friends. People don’t notice you when you’re shy, normally I’m invisible. Delta-J defines me: with her, I become someone. People see who I really am and want to talk – ‘What is it? How does it work? Do you fly it?’ Since I took my first step on the autorotational path in 1990, all the friends I have are the direct result of becoming a gyronaut. People all over the world – many of whom I have never met – but brought together by the love of my little red flying machine. There are people who have travelled many miles to trust me with their lives, learning vital skills while enchanted with the magic of the gyro-glider; even now they keep in touch. I’m truly privileged.
The pioneering spirit that infused St. Merryn no longer survives in Britain these days. Any sign of enthusiasm for the homebuilt gyro is immediately crushed by the ignorant, and with it dies the innovation and curiosity to evolve. My veterans would be saddened by what we’ve become. Individuality is frowned upon and commercial clones have no soul. Even the basic skills are gone, the essential now re-labelled ‘old fashioned’ by those with no clue. But cross the English Channel and a whole new world of possibility opens up, and it’s here that Delta-J and me have rediscovered what we thought irretrievably lost.
21 years of memories, the strong roots that hold us firm as we begin our new incarnation with the friends who have become as important to me now as those of old. On this beautiful grass airstrip of Bois de la Pierre, the Gyro Club Toulouse has embraced our lost soul and given us new purpose. A positive attitude does wonders, innovation and ingenuity are alive and flourishing. The spirit of adventure and shared passion for gyro flight binds us in a strong community that’s joyful to be part of. The few commercially built machines co-exist in harmony with the homebuilts, just as it should be. If only the Brits could be so open minded.
So it’s nicely fitting that Delta-J should commemorate her 21st birthday with a flight from Bois de la Pierre today. A very different landscape from that where we began: huge open countryside with no sparkle of ocean on the horizon, just a colossal barrier of snow capped mountains to the south. It was an emotive flight through an overcast sky as we celebrated her coming of age and remembered all those who had made it possible. She’s more than just a machine, you see, every part of her holds a memory.
Sometimes I just can’t believe how lucky I am – and it all stems from Delta-J. I can’t imagine where life would’ve led me if I hadn’t discovered gyroplanes, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be a patch on this!
Spinning on the Wind 