Late but then we have problems here in Forli in NE Italy.
Stats: T/0 Romans Saint Paul in France, 0910, 26 m to Aubenasson, 37m to Aspres, 34m Chauteau Arnoux, 47m to Fayence on the other side of the Alps where we landed at 1110.
T/0 1250 via the northern ATC zone around Nice - 42 m - then 155m over the Italian Alps to Parma, then Forli 98m.
Those are the bald distances, but we had to fly a lot further to cope with the idiot Italian aviation authorities, who now have us in their grasp.
Total distance, 144 to Fayence, 297 more to Forli, grand total 441m in 6h30m, for an average speed of 68mph, very fast for a microlight. Compare this with the average 57mph which I achieved daily on the world flight.
In Romans, Fred was there, as expected, to pick MHB and me up at 0730, looking at a lovely blue sky day, but I soon discovered that the Mystral still lurked to the south, where I wanted to go. Fred recommended going straight down the valley into the venturi around Montpelier; I am glad I gently ignored his advice. It takes ages to get ready. MHB wants photos of everything, they are his solid proof of achievement, and though he has never seen a video, he is aware of their power. I interviewed him on my single working camera, and later, when I took some in-air shots in a benign period, he was really happy. He would only have been happier had I chosen to ignore fighting for our lives at other times and used the video then.
We got away at 0910 into a fresh north breeze, headed south, climbing, and I was astonished to see, once more, 117 mph ground speed. That’s a 30 mph following wind, and we were some way yet from the venturi, when I could expect a wind of twice that speed. We headed for Aubenasson, a tiny airfield at the bottom of a valley taking us at right angles left into the high alps, and my mouth was dry with apprehension as I turned left in this gale and felt my way along the right side of the mountains. MHB was chirrupy with delight at just being in the air - he claps me on the back with joy occasionally - but although none of my height fears have returned so far to haunt me, I was fearful of climbing too high to catch the wind above which could trash us into a pulp. So far, so good, I repeated, remembering the optimist falling from a 100 storey building, as he passed the 37th floor.
The first existential decision was to take a chance and climb over a 4,000 foot ridge, and so avoid a huge loop in the valley I was following. I would like to say it was a brave decision to do it - we cleared the ridge by just 100 feet - but the fact that I eliminated the need to spend a further 20 minutes flying the loop was the clincher. The mountains rose around us, only one with snow on its peak, the genuine high alps being over to our left. Still, it was difficult enough, inside that still place, knowing winds were howling behind us, and I was alive to every passing moment. We headed for Aspres, a small village at the junction of three valleys, following the one road through the area. It was only with a dawning realisation at how the road builders had solved their final problem that I saw what I had to do. I followed the road into a blind valley where it wiggled furiously, seeking a way to climb, and I climbed with it on full power, again above 4,000 feet and fearful of the different weather on the other side of the ridge. I knew, instinctively, it would be different, and was close going over the top - no more than 50 feet high - anticipating being whacked on the other side. This happened, but only for 15 seconds, clinging on as we were banged around, pulling the throttle back, being curt to MHB’s queries about what was happening.
We flew down into the new valley, now over the watershed; I could see that rivers headed south direct for the Med, rather than west into the Rhone.
Conditions became benign over the next stage to Chateaux Arnoux, which I remembered from a 2-hour flight in cloud - I couldn’t see my wingtips then and I had no blind flying instruments - 20 years earlier, practicing for my own microlight flight to Australia. I never saw the ground. But looking at it today, it is lean and spartan. MHB took the controls for a while; I videoed the scene. He has a tendency, without knowing whether his wings are level, to get into great oscillations, which I calmed with one hand while filming with the other. The sun shone brilliantly, our ground speed dropped to match our airspeed, and we punted south, trying to find a way to avoid an Army testing ground which, when in use, is said to be full of explosions. I opted to fly two sides of a triangle, due south to Vinton, then due east to Fayence, rather than the hypotenuse of that triangle, direct to Fayance, which would have put us in amongst the Army hardware. In this way we arrived on a dry grass airfield full of gliders and demands I speak French on the radio. I kept quiet finding my way into what I felt, and it transpired, was a downwind landing. The wind was in the process of changing at that time.
The Flyer and MHB at the sun-lit petrol pumps in Fayence, Southern France
(near Cannes), lunchtime, Friday, March 9, after flying across the Alps. I stomped off in my moon boots and three flying suits to try and find petrol - 50 litres of LL95 - and met the delightful Giselle, a middle aged lady with eyes like Shirley Maclean. MHB talked to a local teacher called Pierre who flew microlights in his spare time but had never visited Italy, 30 miles away. More photos taken, more wrestling with gear, and I used MHB’s phone to file a flight plan to Forli in the east of the Milanese plane, which means another crossing of the Alps, though not the high Alps.
Southern coast of France – Cote d’Azure – east of Nice,
heading for Monte Carlo at 2,000 feet, Friday, March 9, ’07 We got away in a skidding take-off over rough ground before 1 o’clock, climbed in bumpy conditions heading east, and flew over the capitalist splendour of Cannes and Monte Carlo. I shouted ‘capitalist bastards!’ a couple of times - there were so many of them - but of course, I’m a capitalist bastard myself to my fingertips, and any leanings to the Left I had when young were because I was young.
Monte Carlo and yacht from 2,000 feet, at which BM yelled
‘capitalists bastards’ a few times. MHB wanted guidance on taking photos, over my right shoulder was the best, at the shimmering sea, the yachts - so many tied up, so few actually out there - and we found our way east into Italy, where working class terraced housing appeared; odd, the contrast between the wealthiest people in the world separated by 20 miles from hoi polloi, both looking at the same sea.
The radio worked, at the time, clear communications, and I fantasised about the French ATC voice, thinking she cared about us because we were so small, though she was just doing her job. As we moved along the French coast the radio crackled and made other noises, and the flying conditions deteriorated. The sky still looked the same but the wind behaved differently. I was irritated at being banged around as we headed past Albenga for Genoa. Over the sea, flying conditions should be smooth. Why were we being bumped around so? Irrationally, I blamed Albenga, where a one-armed man had detained Keith Reynolds and I on a world practice flight 10 years earlier, claiming we had to prove - by official faxes from England - that we were a legal aircraft. Thinking such thoughts about villains like that helps to while away the time.
The ATC at Genoa started to bully me. I was not able to understand why, but it’s common with ATC and microlights. I gathered we could not enter Genoa air space, even though we had a transponder to identify us automatically. I can’t stand being bullied. I was only heading for Genoa because I wanted to get over the mountains behind that city on to the Milan Plain. Instead of explaining, I saw some low mountains north of Savona, possibly as good as the mountains behind Genoa, and turned left into them, first ignoring the irritated queries of Genoa ATC - there was no other traffic, so he had the time - and then turning the radio off. I had a captain’s responsibility for my companion and my aircraft, and arguing with irritable Italians wasn’t helping.
We weaselled our way through the air, constantly straightening the wings, but it was quite benign thermal activity rather than deadly winds, heading NNW for a while - back home to England again - just to get to level ground. I was off one map, not yet on another, flying by instinct, watching the compass - which is rare when flying a GPS which tells one all that information - intent on finding the quickest way out of high ground. I described the changing conditions to MHB - I give him a running commentary of the ground we fly over, so he can build it in his imagination. Occasionally I hand him the controls so I can fiddle with something, but he continues to oscillate. He apologises, but I am sympathetic anyhow. It’s the sheer breadth of his ambition, a man blind for more than 20 years attempting to fly a microlight to Australia, that impresses me. What sighted person would opt to be with me in such conditions? Many would volunteer after a night’s drinking, but reality would be another thing. My commentary on the passing conditions must help him.
We were headed for Parma, and the sun was behind my right shoulder when I spotted it, a large city with a tiny airfield. I wanted to tramp east to Forli because I had fond memories on my own England - Australia microlight flight, of a welcome there, adequate fuel, a good hotel and a superb pizza place. When you spend more than 6 hours in the air in a microlight, such things matter. We flew ESE, following the great road that goes from Milan down the east coast of Italy, past Modena and Bologna. I became concerned that the fuel transfer from spare tank to main tank wasn’t working, and though we had adequate fuel to get to Forli, there was not a huge reserve. The sun was going down anyway when Forli came into view, and there I learned we were not welcome.
In the ensuing conversation - ATC asked, absurdly, if we knew the local area - I asked where he thought I should land? Anywhere, was the reply, in effect, as long as it was not there. I mentioned fuel, that triggered a response - regulations covered low fuel - so we were allowed in, but we circled for 10 minutes while the twice-daily flight landed. We followed it in and taxied to a holding area, looking at two juicy empty hangars and hoping we could be in there quickly, and away for a beer and pizza. That was at 1730, after 4h40m of some occasionally difficult flying. It was not to be until 2100 that we partly achieved our ambition.
I do not want to bore you with the absurdities of Italian bureaucracy. The Italians we met were a handsome people with a clinging love of regulation, and we had contravened so many I lost count. I left MHB at the microlight for an hour while I listened to how criminal I was. There was utter astonishment when I said I had filed a flight plan for Forli, much blowing of lips and shrugs and claims they had not received it. Somewhere there’s a piece of lost paper with my innocence on it. We were not allowed to use the hangars - insurance, allegedly - we couldn’t go on to the grass to park - they didn’t own the grass - everyone had gone home - where were our passports? A large handsome policeman turned up, but his mind appeared small. He compared everything I wrote with my official papers, having trouble matching the spelling of Hitchen - in Herts, I was born there - with the way I had written Hitchen on the form he gave me. Later, showing him the aircraft, I had to demonstrate that the fuel was low, and find the official markings showing that the main tank carried 47 litres. I decided not to tell him about the spare tank, also empty (I think) because it would confuse him. They collected papers. When I showed him a website devoted to some of my adventures - www.brian-milton.com - they ran off copies of the front page.
I was at last allowed to taxi the aircraft to what they regarded as a safe place and rope it to the ground. I passed the empty hangars with scarcely a glance. I took what gear we needed last night. Elizabeth, chief bureaucrat, told me I may not be allowed to fly out of the airfield, but we could be forced to strip the microlight and tow it away.
Where? I asked.
She shrugged.
My whole case had to be sent to Bologna for discussion. They will decide. But it is Saturday, and there is no fuel available. Actually, there is fuel, but a NOTAM has gone out saying fuel would not be available for two days. I said we could use ordinary Mogas. Elizabeth looked a bit disappointed, though where I could get it I don’t know. If we were allowed to fly out, they had to close and seal the whole airport, virtually make it sterile. That meant we couldn’t leave until the two Saturday flights went through, the second at 1030am.
I managed not to be rude, while MHB was like oil on water. He had been absurdly brave. While guarding the trike, he had heard the jet start up and begin to taxi. He had only the noise to guide him, but he was on his own and the microlight was at risk. He stood there, alone and fearless, waving his long white stick, as the pilots of the jet taxied by. What they must have thought, I don’t know. It was one of the few occurrences last night that made me laugh.
We finally got a taxi to a hotel, no faffing around with showers, just in, pee, put out the damp washing to dry, and then down to the pizza place and three flagons of good beer and the best pizzas I have had for a long time.
It struck me last night that MHB doesn’t swear. I have not heard him say a rude word, not even about Storm Smith, around whose absent head many rude words are buzzing. MHB’s expression of amazement is not the disgusting ‘awesome’ of our American friends, but ‘my goodness’. Tell him an amazing tale, and be greeted by ‘my goodness’. We are gradually swapping stories, but his life is still a mystery to me. I do approve of him though, greatly.
Standard Chartered want an estimate of when we will get to Cyprus. MHB is due at an important event in Jordan early next week, and SCB will stop the microlight flight, get MHB on an airliner to Amman, do the event, and fly him back afterwards. But I have to let them know how. The key is today. If we can get away from these tendrils, find some fuel, and beat it to the south of Italy, we’re back in with a decent chance to give minimal disruption to their timetable. But RMH had to find me Italian microlight fields to land in. Microlights and GA flyers in Italy are quite separate. I know whose side I am on, that of a free people able to make decisions without constant scrutiny of the books.
Copyright: Brian Milton |
