For the second year running, Paul McMahon, an Irish microlighter, has organised a fly-in to the Irish Parachute Club, at Clonbullogue airfield, about 30 miles west of Dublin. I read about the first one last year and decided I’d like to go this year. Having worked in Dublin recently, I knew the kind of welcome and hospitality we would get from the good Irish folk.
The event is called “Teddyfield”, as each pilot is asked to
bring a teddy bear with them to be auctioned to raise funds for the Temple
Street Children’s Hospital in Dublin. The other reason for the event is to
promote, and raise the profile of, microlighting in the Republic of Ireland.
Currently there is no recognised licence in Ireland, and those that want to fly
microlights have to cross the border to Northern Ireland and train for the UK
BMAA licence. Once qualified, they then have to get exemption from the IAA to
fly in their own country. Apparently the IAA are trying to stifle the sport,
with talk of transponders and such like, and there’s a real danger they might
be successful.
So I asked around East Fortune to see who’d be up for it. Up
stepped Richard Murphy (of course), Colin Mackenzie, and Gordon Rae. That gave
us a formation of 4 aircraft (3 Quantums and my Blade), with Peter Quinger,
Richard’s employee and fellow architect, making a combined crew of 5, as his
passenger.
We’ve been well trained at East Fortune about safety over
water, so I plotted a route with as little sea to cross as possible.
Incidentally, this is something that few, if any, other attendees from the UK
seemed to consider, with some crossing 70 miles of water to get there. My route
was going to involve crossing the 13 miles of sea between the Mull of Kintyre
and the north Antrim coast. Our plan was to stop at Bute, then cross Arran and
Campbeltown, via the south tip of the Mull of Kintyre, and on to a microlight
club in Co. Londonderry, near Ballymoney, called Mullaghmore. Then we would fly
south for 125 miles, crossing the border to the Republic, and on to
Clonbullogue.
In the week leading up to the trip the weather was fine and
settled with high pressure and light easterly winds. Things looked perfect.
Except for one thing. Every morning dawned with an east coast haar, and this
fog was to prevent flying before midday on most days of that week. For this
reason, we made a last minute decision to leave our respective works early on
the Thursday and make a dash for Bute before dark. This proved a wise variation
to the plan, but made for a stressful and rushed day trying to prepare aircraft
and domestic arrangements.
Gordon, in particular, needed a few heroes that day, without
which he wouldn’t have made it: his manager for giving up holiday to run his
factory while he disappeared; Kwik-fit, yes Kwik-fit, for driving to
Cumbernauld and back to East Fortune to source and fit three new tyres on his
trike; Gordon Douglas for spotting that work needed done and helping out; the
local scrapyard for providing some washers he needed; and his wife Debbie, for
bringing to the airfield everything he’d forgotten to pack in his haste. He
just made it in time.
Leg 1: Thursday April 17th, East Fortune to Bute,
~100 miles.
After the rush to get ready, we took off at 18:45, and the
flying was relaxing. Edinburgh Approach talked us past West Linton, and we
followed the lowering sun via Kilmarnock to Bute. This routing ensured we
avoided the Glasgow control zone. However, while I was working Prestwick, as
instructed, the others, for some reason, were doing their own radio thing. It
was rumoured that Colin had breached the zone and voices were allegedly heard
on the air to that effect. Prestwick and I were blissfully unaware. In the end,
nothing came of it, but we wound Colin up at every possible opportunity
thereafter. We landed just as the sun vanished over the horizon, pitched tents
on the ambulance strip at Bute, and raced to the pub to get food before the
chef disappeared.
Leg 2: Friday April 18th, Bute to Mullaghmore,
~75 miles.
Fuelled up, we were now ready to fly to Ireland. The weather
was perfect. No clouds, a light tailwind, warm and reasonable visibility.
“This couldn’t last the whole trip”, we all thought. It
didn’t.
The flight across Goat Fell on Arran was spectacular. Arran
looked small beneath us as we climbed towards the 9000 feet at which we had
planned to cross the Irish Sea. From that height the whole island was visible
and the ridges and mountains looked awesome, and much higher than their 2800
feet or so. We crossed into N Ireland and as we descended towards Mullaghmore I
called them and was told to make any approach that we wanted. Two of our group
(who will remain nameless) took this too literally and with Mark Holmes, the
CFI, spectating, carried out downwind landings. Mark was a great bloke though,
and gave us the run of his place to use as our own. A few days later, on our
return, he was also to provide breakfast, the use of his car, spares, and no
end of practical help and advice. A fantastic new friend indeed.
The set up was similar to East Fortune, but on a much
smaller scale. An old WW2 airfield, with a small portion of runway in use. A
portacabin, a couple of small hangars and a handful of microlights. Ultimately,
we spent a lot of time there. A lot of time!
One thing that’s important when microlighting is a pub
and/or restaurant within walking distance of the airfield. Mullaghmore provided
just that with the wonderful Brown Trout Inn a 20 minute walk from the
portacabin. Ultimately, we had a lot of meals there. A lot of meals!
Mark ran us for fuel, and we bought him some lunch at the
Brown Trout. Soon after we were ready to crack on.
Leg 3: Friday 18th April, Mullaghmore to
Dungannon, ~40 miles
With 125 miles to run to Clonbullogue, we decided that it'd
be prudent to "splash and dash" en route. That's the term we came to
use for refuelling from cans on the back seat without having to go looking to
buy petrol. Mark recommended a private grass strip at Dungannon about 40 miles
down the route, so we set off looking for that. It was easy to spot from above
but as we swooped down to the field it was obvious that the strip was short and
narrow, and there was no sign of the windsock in the tree we'd be told about.
The runway was 300 yards of undulating but immaculately cut grass, running
north-south, with the town of Dungannon across a main trunk road at northern
end. With a stiff wind, at 100 degrees, it was going to be interesting. I
approached first, from the north, and in my attempt to avoid flying too low
over the houses, arrived too high at the threshold and had to go round. Five
minutes and a few nerve-ends later we were all on the ground, and talking to
Glenn Millar. Glenn was a tall, enthusiastic and jovial Irishman, who owned the
strip, and had arrived on a quad bike as we came in. He was a great character
who we all took to immediately. He'd have done anything to help, although, as
it happened, for once, we were self-sufficient on landing.
Leg 4: Friday 18th April, Dungannon to
Clonbullogue, ~85 miles
Glenn watched us depart, saying he'd be visiting Teddyfield
the next day, and we looked forward to sharing a Guinness or two with him then.
This leg was fantastic. We travelled further south, crossing the border in
smooth air, and we watched the fields beneath grow smaller and be gradually
replaced and outnumbered by peat bogs as Clonbullogue got closer. Completely
relaxed, we digested the views and had banter on the radio as the miles slipped
past. This was to be the calm before the storm however, and did not prepare us
for what was to come. I would think that the landing at Clonbullogue will
remembered as one of the most "exciting" of our short flying careers.
The runway seemed infinitely long, oriented east-west, but had a significant
line of mature trees running close beside it up to about half way when
approaching from the west. As I called base leg, the answer came back,
"Golf India November, wind is easterly 15 knots,
gusting 25, severe turbulence from the trees to the left, land beyond the
trees, repeat land long, land long, land long".
“That’s copied, land long, India November” I replied, and
tried hard to keep height and high airspeed as I flew over the first half of
the runway 200 feet above. Despite my efforts, the approach felt like being in
a washing machine. I was thrown left and right, up and down and they continued
to shout “land long, land long”. With a third of the runway remaining it was
time to commit to the landing. Amazingly, in the last 20 feet it all came
together and power and ground effect assisted me to a decent touch down. The
other three followed in with the same advice ringing in their radios, and they
all made good landings too. As I taxied past the organiser, Paul McMahon, who
was acting as marshal, I was given high fives and he yelled “Great Landing! Welcome to Ireland”. I really just
wanted to hold onto my wing. As they parked me next to Brian Milton’s round the
world Quantum, I cut the engine, and a most memorable flight was over. What a
welcome. What a welcome to Ireland indeed.
Incidentally, while chatting to Brian Milton it was apparent
he was interested in our background and our flying, and was genuinely enthused
by “new blood making trips like this”, as he put it.
So far, things had gone pretty much exactly to plan. Friday
evening, and we’d arrived on schedule. We had a few pints and retired to the
tents. From this point onwards though, nothing went to plan. The Irish weather
was to see to that.
The idea on the Saturday had been to fly up to the north
west and tour round by Donegal as we worked our way back towards Scotland. We
awoke to a still stronger easterly wind, but decided it was flyable and made
preparations to depart. As I sat warming my engine I watched as my airspeed
read 25mph. While stationary! Doubts began to grow in my mind. As we taxied to
the fuel pump, the wind increased further, and they announced that it was
gusting 35kts and all parachuting had been cancelled. We quickly pushed the
planes into a vacant hanger and decided to stay put. There were comings and goings
of heavier stuff, but no microlight movements at all that morning. We kicked
around the airfield, a little bored, in the sun and the wind, until the
entertainment began about lunchtime.
Rumour had it that 22 flexwings, flying in formation, had
departed Newtonards and were heading to Clonbullogue. We picked a sunny spot in
the grass to sit down, and readied ourselves for the spectacle to come. And
watching them arrive was an spectacular sight indeed. There was about one
landing per minute and it looked like Heathrow. Each arrival was treated to the
washing machine experience, and the landings were not without incident. At one
instant we counted six in a line on final approach, with one on the runway and
another few downwind. One had a puncture and got stuck at the side of the
runway, one landed with a passenger who’d been sick in her helmet, and one poor
bloke crashed when he ran out of airspeed and dropped the last 20 feet
vertically, wrecking the undercarriage of his Rapier and flipping it over.
Fortunately he wasn’t hurt, and was walking away by the time the airfield fire
tender reached him.
Later, the wind eased, and Gordon decided to go up for a
circuit to test the conditions and find out what ground speed we could get if
we headed north that evening. He climbed up, reported 35mph and came back and
landed. There were a lot of spectators for this as there had been little to
watch for a while, but his take off and landing were immaculate, and everyone
breathed a sigh of relief.
“He’s our hero!” said Colin with feeling, the adrenalin
beginning to pump at the thought of being asked to fly that evening.
I reckoned that Gordon was the only flexwing to take-off
that day. His ground speed, however, was too slow to make meaningful progress,
so we pitched tents for another night, and headed for the Guinness. In the
meantime, Richard’s trousers had split.
Leg 5: Sunday 20th April, Clonbullogue to a field
somewhere near Navan, ~35 miles
Next morning we awoke to overcast skies and north-easterly
winds, and decided to go for it. The difficulty was finding somewhere within
range that we could aim for. We considered Enniskillen to the north west, but
were told it was closed and being used for HGV training. There was no chance of
reaching Mullaghmore, Dungannon or Newtownards in that north-easterly, so we
looked for alternatives. Someone suggested a grass strip at Kilkeen, on the
east coast, just over the border, under the Mountains of Mourne. It was about
70 miles, so we decided to give it a go.
I filed the flight plan with Shannon, we skipped breakfast
and got airborne at 8am. As we disappeared north I called the controller at
Clonbullogue,
“Golf India November, 4 microlights, currently 5 miles north
and departing to the north east. Changing to the microlight frequency. Bye, and
thanks for everything”.
I will never forget the response this provoked, delivered
slowly and in a thick and hungover Dublin accent,
“Golf India November, you are brave and courageous pilots
and we appreciate you making the effort to fly here to be with us. May God go
with you. And God willing you’ll be back next year”.
Colin had been apprehensive before we set off, and I’m not
sure this helped. But with Him looking after us, what could go wrong?
It was rough, and the ceiling was at 1200 feet. As our
ground speed dropped below 30mph, it was obvious we were not going to reach
Kilkeen. After 80 minutes, and with the ground ahead rising, Richard had had
enough of the turbulence and put down in a field. We followed him in. It was
still only 9:30am, and we were now cold, tired and hungry, and a few miles
north of Navan.
As we got out of the planes, we had no plan at all as to
what to do next. This field was in the middle of rural Ireland, and we had
visions of never getting out of it again. A minute or so later, a welcoming
face appeared over the wall of the field. Mary Doggett, a lady in her sixties
who lived in a cottage beside the field and had seen us come down, had come to
check we were alright.
When she offered us tea, we were over the wall in a flash. I
couldn’t image what her husband must have thought as five pilots appeared in
his kitchen, looking cold and dishevelled, clad in flying suits and life
jackets. We were a long way from any sea.
“You’re an Angel, you’re an Angel” said Richard repeatedly,
as the kettle began to boil.
“You’ll have some toast?”, asked Mary and we didn’t
disagree. “There’s bacon? Ah, you might as well have an egg too. And
sausages?”.
She was fantastic. It was the most memorable moment of the
trip so far. We were stunned by the hospitality and could hardly believe our
luck. Five full cooked breakfasts were demolished, we were given use of their
phone, and Mary flicked though her diary to re-arrange Mass. This was Easter
Sunday, and our arrival had turned the Doggett’s plans for their day on their
head, but they didn’t seem to mind at all.
Richard kept telling Mary she was an Angel and when she said
that she had five daughters, we looked at each other and giggled, and thought
to ourselves, “No really, you’ve been generous enough already. Breakfast will
be just fine!”.
As we left their house, Gordon demanded of Mary a “big Irish
hug”. Without argument, it was warmly despatched.
Leg 6: Sunday 20th April, the field near Navan to
Trim, ~10 miles
The phone calls over breakfast had been used to make contact
with Trim, a small GA airfield, underneath the Dublin zone, which was located
about 10 miles to our south, and significantly, downwind of us, albeit in the
direction we had just come. Although reluctant to submit to those elements
again, we agreed that it would be sensible to get to an airfield with the
potential for weather information, fuel and hangarage. At that stage I had
visions of flying home Aer Lingus from Dublin. The Doggetts watched us depart
and in no time at all we were approaching Trim. As I tried to transmit, yet
another lump of air hit my plane and the control bar and talk button were
ripped from my hand. I passed my message again, but no-one replied. Trim has a
neat grass runway, running east-west and in the howling north-easterly this
provided yet another cross-wind challenge. We rose to it though, and four good
landings later we were on the ground again. By this stage, crosswind landings
held no fear for us. We’d had plenty of practice.
As a result of these two legs, we had made net progress of
25 miles. There was a long way to go.
Pat Murphy, an Aer Lingus pilot, owns the airfield, and as
he showed me how to operate the hangar doors the others met Seamus, who runs
the club. Yet again, we were given anything we wanted and had access to hangar,
clubhouse and coffee. Everywhere we went we were overwhelmed with the reception
from the Irish people. As it turned out, Pat has flown the old Aer Lingus
display plane in airshows at East Fortune. It’s a small world.
Despite Trim selling avgas on site, we had time to kill and
Seamus was happy to drive us to the petrol station for mogas to save us some
money. (Oban, North Connel, PLEASE NOTE!!!). Gordon requested a plug to charge
his radio, and Richard ordered needle and thread. Seamus disappeared, and a
couple of hours later returned with it all. As Richard did his sewing, the rest
of us dozed for a while in the portacabin and watched some Grand Prix on
television as the wind blew itself out.
Gordon had phoned for a weather report, and the news was
good. The wind was to drop right back in the evening and conditions were to
become much more benign. In Ireland when you call the aviation weather you
speak to a met office forecaster direct. It’s a wonderful service, but only
available south of the border.
Leg 7: Sunday 20th April, Trim to Mullaghmore,
~100 miles
At 5pm, as the forecaster had told us it would, the wind
dropped away and we decided to get going. Unsure if we would reach Mullaghmore
in one hop we decided to pass close to Glenn’s place at Dungannon again, but
decide in the air if we had the range for Mullaghmore. As it turned out that
flight was superb. The air had turned smooth and we managed a respectable
50mph. We’d been bracing ourselves after the flights of that morning, and none
of us expected such and easy and enjoyable passage north. We crossed the border
at Armagh, 1000 feet above the Border danger zone, and tracked up the west side
of Loch Neagh. As we passed close to Dungannon, Mullaghmore was within reach so
we pressed on. As the clouds parted and the winds dropped still further, I
called Belfast Aldergrove for a flight information service. They seemed pleased
to have someone to talk to.
As we approached our adopted base of Mullaghmore, the sun
was just setting, and we were pleased to have made such surprisingly good
progress north. It seemed a thousand miles from the dramas of that morning down
near Dublin. As had become customary, I landed first and turned round at the
end of the runway to watch the others come in. As number two, on final
approach, Gordon could see me on the ground, waiting and watching, and
confidently radioed,
“Give me marks out of 10 for this one Graeme”.
After his sixth bounce, I said nothing at all, and he called
again as he raced down the runway, seemingly still not quite under control,
“Zero?”.
“Affirm”, I replied. He knew straight away that he’d won the
prize for the worst landing of the entire adventure, and accepted it
gracefully. He blamed Kwik-fit for putting too much air pressure into his
tyres. We laughed, and then headed for the Brown Trout for dinner. That night,
we had a “deep” discussion in the pub, about nothing to do with flying or
weather.
The next two days were to prove very frustrating.
Leg 8: Monday 21st April, Mullaghmore to Mullaghmore, ~50
miles, and
Leg 9: Monday 21st April, Mullaghmore to Mullaghmore, ~50
miles
Mullaghmore is situated about 25 miles from the point on the Antrim coast at which we wanted to head out over the sea for the Mull of Kintyre. We woke up to bright skies, but they quickly closed in leaving small breaks in the cloud with higher layers visible through the holes. We wanted a safe height for the water crossing home, so decided to climb though the gaps in the first layer, as high as we could, and cross the water ensuring there were always gaps beneath through which to return. On the first attempt, as we neared the coast, the gaps in the lower level filled in and we could barely clear the high ground near Ballycastle. The decision was easy. We turned back and retired to the Brown Trout for lunch.
Later, we tried again as things looked more promising at
Mullaghmore, but again, as we got to the coast we came up against a vertical
wall of cloud and returned once more. We retired to the Brown Trout for dinner.
We had flown 100 miles that day, with a net gain of nothing.
Frustration was growing. We slept in the portacabin at Mullaghmore, and
overnight the heavens opened. In the morning the planes were marooned by deep
puddles. We retired to the Brown Trout for breakfast.
By this stage our relationship with the Brown Trout had
blossomed to the extent they were happy to provide us with shower facilities, a
mobile phone charging service, and lifts for fuel. They were glad of our
business. We grateful for their help.
Leg 10: Tuesday 22nd April, Mullaghmore to Mullaghmore, ~70
miles
By lunch time it was brighter and we made another attempt.
This time there were multiple, complex layers of broken stratus and cumulus. We
lost sight of each other as we dodged round the clouds, but on reaching the
coast I could still see no way through. Having reluctantly decided to give up
yet again, I headed westwards along the north Antrim coast, where the weather
looked brighter, for some sightseeing. As I took in the views, Gordon called on
the radio to say he’d found a gap and was going for Scotland. I wished him well
and carried on with my tour, over Rathlin Island, Giant’s Causeway, the
Bushmills distillery, and the famous old golf links of Portrush. Sadly, I’d
forgotten to have my camera to hand for that flight, so missed some great
opportunities there.
The forecast was much better for Wednesday. Gordon called to
say he was home. We were jealous. Peter, Richard’s passenger, said he would be
giving up his training. He never wanted to see another microlight again. Sorry,
East Fortune, if we’ve lost you a student, but we hope, in the cold light of
day, he’ll reconsider.
We retired to the Brown Trout for dinner.
Leg 11: Wednesday 23rd April, Mullaghmore to Bute, ~75 miles
We awoke in the portacabin to freezing fog, and as it burnt
off Peter cooked bacon, egg and sausages that Mark had kindly left for us the
previous day. We turned the wings into sun to de-ice, and the Brown Trout were
summonsed to run us for fuel. By 8am the sun was shining, but there was to be a
frustrating four hours before the fog was to clear Bute. Richard had tracked
down the phone number for the library in Campbeltown (as the tourist office was
closed), and had a librarian looking outside and delivering a fog status report
every half hour. In keeping with the entire trip, people we always so helpful.
Eventually, a call came from Bute saying the fog had
dispersed and the sun was shining on the airstrip, so I filed the hundredth
flight plan with Londonderry, and we were on our way. The weather was kind to
us this time, and the flight to Bute was superb. There were spectacular,
towering cumulus developing over Arran, but dodging around it just added to the
fun.
Leg 12: Wednesday 23rd April, Bute to East Fortune, ~100
miles
We splashed and dashed at Bute and the flight back to East
Fortune was uneventful. Colin flew a very wide berth round the Glasgow zone,
still conscious of his alleged misdemeanour six days earlier.
We landed, tired, but happy. Colin kissed the ground, and we
all went home. That evening I ordered some flowers to be sent to the Angels of
Navan.
Although we’d made arrangements to be away for three days,
it had turned into six. It was a wonderful adventure, the longest and furthest
any of us had done in a microlight so far. There was frustration at times, but
there were so many memorable moments, and people. It won’t be long before we’ll
be planning the next one, I’m sure. We all gained experience and confidence,
and many valuable lessons were learned. A good craic!
For anyone at the club thinking of flying to Ireland here
are my notes on the formalities to be completed. I don’t guarantee this is
necessarily the full legal position, but in practice, it worked for us. I have
all the contact numbers and addresses if anyone needs them:
1.
To fly in the Republic of Ireland you have to get exemption
from the IAA. Best to do this a few days in advance.
2.
To fly from Scotland to Northern Ireland you need to tell
Special Branch your plans. They have a form to fill in, but I found it easier
doing it over the phone. You must contact Special Branch in the region you’re
leaving from. For us, that was Strathclyde police, as we were departing from
Bute. I called Lothain and Borders, but as our last point of contact was Bute,
they were not interested.
3.
You also need to file a flight plan with Scottish ATC. Again
there’s a form to fill in and fax off, or it can be done on the radio, but I
found it easier to do it by phone. One plan covers all the planes in the group.
4.
You also need to call Special Branch in Northern Ireland of
your plans. Again I did it by phone. They occasionally gave me a hard time
about not giving 24 hours notice, but Mark assured us the rules are 1 hours
notice, so I just told them of our intentions, ignored the abuse, and then got
on and flew it.
5.
For flights between Northern Ireland and the Republic, again
a flight plan is required, and Special Branch in NI must be told.
6.
For the return flights, again all of the above should to be
done. It’s not a problem though. It’s just a few phone calls really. Well, a
lot of phone calls, when you make as many attempts and adjustments as we did.
As far as flight plans go, it is also essential that on
landing you call to close the plan. This is to say you have safely arrived (or
turned back in our case, quite often). If you don’t do this, the theory is that
within half an hour of you being late, search and rescue will be launched to go
looking for you.
In practice though, I found flight plans a complete waste of
time. Every time, without fail, when I called to close a plan, I was answered
with something like “What plan is that? Never heard of it? We have no record of
that.”. At one point I queried this, and was told that Scottish pass the
details to “Brussels” and they are meant to pass them on the destination ATC.
Somewhere along the lines, this (not surprisingly) didn’t happen. It therefore
seemed pointless, but to keep legal I carried on making the phone calls, in the
knowledge that if we wanted emergency help we’d have to ask for it on radio, as
is normally the case anyway.
Graeme Ritchie
East of Scotland Microlights
graeme.ritchie@ecosse.net