This article appeared in the June 1999
edition of Wessex Airmail. It is reproduced here with minor factual
corrections.
My season thus far has been rather grim; I was seriously beginning to
wonder why it was that I spent large amounts of money on paragliding
kit before wasting time and more money on petrol, to travel to hills
whose beauty I could not enjoy through the frustration of not being
able to fly. I was seriously beginning to consider quitting the sport
before it drove me completeley insane.
Looking forward to the first leg of the nationals in Glencoe, I became
very depressed on seeing the weather forecast, which suggested that
Ben Nevis might get blown away during the days for which the comp was
scheduled. In spite of Ulric's optimistic suggestions that the
`forecast isn't that reliable' and `whatever happens, we will have
some fun', I decided to stay down South, along with the rest of the
field, it seems.
I went to work on Saturday and Sunday, so that I could justify going
flying midweek in the unlikely event of anohter flyable day gracing
Southern Britain during my lifetime. I kept a keen eye on the weather
forecasts, getting satisfaction from seeing that not going to Scotland
had been the right choice - making the right choice was not a familiar
experience this year, in the context of flying. Meanwhile, down South,
Tuesday was promising post-frontal WSWesterlies with strengths within
the tiny paragliding window. I knew exactly where I would go in this
situation - I would pay my maiden visit to Cowdown - but was reluctant
to mention my hopes, in case the daemons which had been conspiring
against me overheard.
To my amazement the forecast didn't change, and on Monday evening I
found myself sprawled out on the floor with air charts and Ordnance
Survey maps, visualizing and memorizing landmarks which would help me
locate the edges of airspace, and writing a declaration of an 82.8 km
goal flight. OK, this seems rather ambitious, I agree, but here's what
I was thinking. I'm starting near Dorchester, in a Westerly, with a
hint of South. Bumping into Bournemouth airspace, limits me to 35km;
tracking South would make me run out of land at Swanage (again...yawn)
at around 45 km; but it shouldn't be too difficult to go North of
Bournemouth, which would result in a clear run to Romsey (75 km),
before bumping into Southampton CTA. The only way of getting around
the latter is to go north of Winchester, squeezing through the gap
between the CTA and the Middle Wallop MATZ, and if by some miracle I
should make it that far then I might as well take a picture of
something prominent; if I'm still in the air, then I'm guaranteed to
be going through this bottleneck. I looked on the OS map, and picked
Rookley Manor.
Tuesday dawned, the forecasts still looked good (`...cloud bubbling
up...' !), so I picked up Pete Studzinski and we headed off for the
hill. The flags en route suggested a North-Westerly, and Westbury
Wendy agreed, but we resisted the temptation to go to Bell. As we
approached the hill, the clouds got denser and darker until the sky
was overcast. The familiar sinking feeling was there again: it looked
like it was going to be another wasted day.
I fully expected to see Pete Robinson (henceforth Peter, to
distinguish him from Pete) and Adrian Coombe at the hill, and at least
I wasn't disappointed in this respect. The conditions, however,
weren't quite as satisfying and Bell was looking like a better choice
of site. Peter summed up my season, and the fact that today seemed
likely to follow the pattern: `You appear to be jinxed this year. I
wish you'd just go away!'. `Yes', I agreed, `I'm beginning to wish I'd
just go away, myself', as, in my mind, I composed the ad in Skywings:
`For sale, almost brand new Sigma 4. British weather forces sale. Will
swap for a pair of knitting needles and some wool.' Nevertheless, I
photographed my goal declaration and the pilots on take off.
The clouds were thinning out a little, but there was not enough wind
to soar, except for a minute or two when the odd thermal came through,
but nobody had much success. 3 buzzards, 30 swallows, bits of crop and
some small farm machinery circled up to the hill, but Adrian and I
failed to join them in spite of trying. Hmmmmm.
Peter took off shortly before the next thermal reached my part of the
hill and soon enough we were climbing, pursued by Pete who outclimbed
us both; Adrian was having more of a struggle. In spite of my very
rusty thermalling technique, I managed to get to 4000 ft, where I
milled around maintaining height and trying to get a feel for the air
before heading off north. A cloud to our South had its base a few
hundred feet below our height, and I was half expecting the source of
the aircraft noise I could hear, to pop out of it at any time.
25-05-1999: Just South of Blandford. Thanks to Adrian Coombe for the photograph.
Pete had decided that Swanage was going to be his destination and was
left on his own. Adrian was struggling for height, but keeping up with
Peter and myself in terms of distance. From then on Peter was always
in front, while Adrian raced past me after reaching 'base just before
Blandford, where I seemed to spend rather a long time.
Badbury Rings, which marked the corner of Bournemouth airspace, were
safely to the South: the first part of the plan had been executed
successfully! The thermals weren't particularly well defined and quite
difficult to keep, but there seemed to be plenty of them with
sustainable strengths of 2-4 knots, the odd bursts of 6-8, and a few
seconds of 12 knots over Blandford; the Davron plays some interesting
tunes when bouncing around between 8 and 12 up . . . perhaps we should
mention this to Karlheinz Stockhausen ?
Soon the clouds were getting very thin and ill-defined. I had not seen
Adrian since Blandford, and while Peter was disappearing off into the
distance it seemed to me that the day was dying off, and a landing
North of Verwood looked likely until the arrival of an odour of manure
accompanied by the singing of my vario suggested otherwise.
Fordingbridge was easily identifiable to the SE with the Avon
meandering past it, Salisbury cathedral was discernable through the
haze to the North, and a large red ship sailing out of Southampton
took centre stage amongst the activity on display there. A small
aeroplane came from Compton Abbas to have a look at me, circling
around me a few times as I thermalled, before going back. He was
probably a mate of the one who expressed an interest over Blandford,
earlier.
Woodgreen and the brown fields behind it provided me with the next
lift after a struggle during which I reached the unprecedented depths
of 1400 ft. Back at 4000 I decided that a commited glide northwards
was needed, if I were to stand any chance of rounding Winchester. I
was surprised by how promptly the glide was interrupted by lift,
before crossing the railway near East Dean, giving me opportunity to
top up and gauge my position.
After the general decrease in the strength and abundance of thermals
over the last hour, I was pleasantly surprised, time and time again,
by what seemed to be on offer now; it dawned on me that I was almost
certainly going to reach my declared goal! Crossing the Test near
Brook, I got a very clear view of Winchester cathedral as I approached
the airspace whose circumnavigation I had planned the night before
with a jocular optimism which I had not really expected to be
rewarded.
Alas, 'twas not to be. I had to leave a thermal which was taking me
into the CTA, finding another not too far . . . which pushed me
towards the airspace once more, thereby forcing me to abandon it too.
The flight ended next to the A34 near South Wonston, at half past
five; four hours and thirty six minutes after it started, and a
stone's throw (well . . . two world class javelin throws) short of 90
km from takeoff.
Pete's attempt to reach Swanage was cut short at Bere Regis, but at
least he made friends with the landlord of The Martyrs in Tolpuddle,
where he spent a good few hours waiting for me. Adrian landed short of
Salisbury, at 48 km, while Peter made it to Romsey (64 km), finally
leaving the 40 km barrier which had been annoying him, far behind.
I am greatly indebted to Adrian Bishop, who need never buy a pint
again in my presence: he wasted his whole evening on driving me back
to Dorset . . . all this just after having come home to Winchester
from Bell, where he watched us fly overhead after his 14 km flight.
Now I remember; it's very clear: the next time anyone (and that
includes me) questions my reasons for flying, the answers won't be so
hard to find.
I'm ready to face a few more months of British weather.
