Plastic Pilot has been planning a trip to Guernsey and I couldn’t help but remember my first flight there. This was also Anne’s first time flying with me. Here is the description I wrote at the time:

It seemed such a good idea. My pilot’s licence was burning a hole in my pocket and I was desperate for chances to use it. My boyfriend’s mother is becoming wheelchair bound and her ability to travel was becoming limited: not because of the flights but because of all the hassle and waiting around. So I came up with a plan: take Anne and her wheelchair for a trip around the Channel Islands. Cliff and I could travel to London the night before and then meet her at Elstree Aerodrome in the morning for the hop across the channel. It’d be a blast.

I knew I was in trouble when the British Airways staff who checked me in for the flight to Heathrow marked my luggage as “heavy”. I compounded this by deciding to leave the case at Elstree Airfield that night, which led to my waking up in a motel with nothing but my flight bag: no shampoo, no hairbrush, no toothbrush, nothing. Just me and the Pooleys UK Flight Guide and a chart. I had planned to call the airfields and check the weather but I’m not a morning person at the best of times; I just couldn’t face it. The Channel Islands CTR is Class A airspace and has 3 pages of instructions in the flight guide. Part of me still suspected they might somehow sense my newness to flying and ban me from coming. I looked out the window instead. The sun was shining. A taxi waited patiently. It was time to go.

That was how I ended up on the apron, sitting in the shadow of the Piper Saratoga, applying mascara without a mirror and wondering if it was too late to cancel. It was. I watched another taxi deposit Cliff’s mother, Anne. She arrived along with her motorised wheelchair and a tiny carry-on bag with everything she needed for the week. I blushed and hid my Samsonite out of the way and made a big show of how heavy her bag was. It weighed slightly more than my make-up bag.

The sky was clear, a church bell chimed in the distance. It felt peaceful. This was in no small amount owing to the fact that the airfield was closed. No coffee, nobody manning the radio, no means of filing a flight plan: we were an hour early.

I eventually called Guernsey out of boredom. A friendly gentleman informed me that the airfield was not accepting flights owing to scattered cloud at 400 feet but that they would be opening soon, once the clouds rose above 600 feet. I paced as I thought about flying at 600 feet over the Channel, searching for an island. Better to wait for the weather to clear a bit more. Anne was pleased to hear she had time for a cup of tea.

An hour later, we were finally organised and at the holding point. “Elstree, November 666 Echo X-ray is ready.”

The radio was strangely quiet. Why wasn’t he letting me proceed?

“Ready for departure,” he prompted me.

“Erm, yes. Sorry. Ready for departure. Echo X-ray.”

I was relieved to see that the weather was fine once we cleared the Isle of Wight. Anne’s crisp voice came through loud and clear on my headset as the English coast retreated from view.

“Does anyone want a biscuit?”

Cliff responded for the both of us. “Not now, Mum. It’s only a short flight.” He shook the map at her, as if she could see it from the rear seat.

I flew straight across the Channel, above the tiny boats motionless on frozen white crests of waves. We’d only been in the air for half an hour when I held up my hand to request quiet as I called Jersey ATC. Despite my fears, I received Special-VFR clearance to enter the Channel Islands zone and was told to fly to the Casquets. I snatched at my map but the spot is clearly marked, a visual reference point to the west to keep planes from overflying Alderney and cluttering up the local traffic lane between Alderney and Guernsey.

“Or some cheese? I have cheese too.” Born in 1924, Anne doesn’t suffer from the traditional war-child malaise of worrying where her next meal comes from. She carries it in her purse.

I gave her a vague wave. I didn’t have time for nibbling. I needed to find the Casquets, My sigh of relief was audible in the cockpit when the three towers perched upon straggly rocks came into view. After changing frequency to Guernsey, I slowed right down so we could get a good look.

Just as we were enjoying the birds’ eye perspective of the sandstone reef, the next call came in: report Guernsey in sight.

I panicked. We were still 15 miles away from the coast. There was a haze of grey land in front of me but did they really believe I could see the runway from this distance?

“I’ve got a bit of chocolate as well,” Anne continued. “As we didn’t have time for breakfast.”

The runway is a mile long; how hard could it be to find? I rubbed my eyes and stared at the rapidly approaching island. I drew out a quick sketch on my clipboard to verify what angle the runway would have from this direction. I looked out at the island and then down at my map and back to the island again. I couldn’t see it.

The radio hissed into life.

“November Echo X-ray, do you have it in sight?”

“I have the island in sight but not the runway.” I look down, as if to confirm the island was definitely there.

As I did I realised, cheeks aglow, that he had meant the island from the start, not the runway. There was a pause before he responded, politely refraining from laughing while the microphone was on.

“November Echo X-ray, we are at your two o’clock. Report airfield in sight.”

I looked to my right, convinced that I was about to run out of island and head straight into France, when I saw it: a beautiful long strip of grey perfectly positioned for me to do a gentle turn towards it and land.

We had arrived. My passengers seemed a lot less surprised by this than I was.

I’ve since taken Anne to the Isle of Wight, the Scilly Isles and most recently, the Isle of Mull. We’re currently discussing which island she’d most like to see next.

After landing on Jersey, my attention was immediately taken by a plane parked near the flying school, half a wing missing. A laminated sheet was attached. Ever the voyeur for accident reports, I couldn’t resist.

The pilot had noticed a slight thump shortly after taking off. He checked for anything visibly wrong inside the cockpit and noticed no issue. A passenger thought he’d seen something black on the left side of the plane. The pilot decided it was likely a bird strike, no damage appeared to have been done, so he continued his planned flight across the English Channel (from Ireland to Portugal). As they carried on, he noticed that the port-side fuel gauge showed as empty. The starboard fuel showed as full. I’m guessing he tapped on the gauge a few times and cursed before informing his passengers that it was likely just a display error, nevertheless they were going divert to Jersey in order to check the issue on the ground. It was an uneventful landing until he climbed out of the cockpit and saw the ripped remains of his wing.

He’d knocked off the entire wingtip tank and a large portion of his port wing and aileron. Pine needles were found within the fuselage.

The preliminary accident investigation found a 50 foot pine tree near the starting airfield with 6 foot severed off the top and fragments of wing in the branches. The fuel tank was found around 75 yards farther along the route.

I put my fingers to the jagged edges of the wing remains and stood there for a while. I’m constantly amazed at the resilience that small planes show, how they are able to keep flying in the direst of circumstances. I learned enough physics and aerodynamics to pass my aviation exams but deep down I still believe it’s magic that holds the things up in the air. If I’m honest, I suspect that (like Tinkerbell) if I stop believing in the plane’s ability to fly, it will crash with a thunk into the reality of gravity.

I continued to the terminal with a final backwards glance at the Cessna Centurion, grounded.

Spent the day cleaning up — here on the blog various small things have been fixed up. Unfortunately, that means that subscribers probably got every post again as I changed the permalinks. But now it’s set up more usefully, where you see the category rather than the date as a part of the URL. I promise I won’t do it again.
We have a useable 404 page now which I hope you will never see, and I have fixed the confusing navigation to now take you to “previous posts” and “later posts” rather than making you guess which direction “next” might be taking you.

I’ve cleaned up http://www.flickr.com/photos/landing/ so the images here now correctly link there (and I snuck some new ones in) although I have only finished the Alderney set so far. I should get Guernsey and Jersey done by the end of the week.

I feel so very organised. :)

I love it when a random search drops me onto a website which was not, in any way, what I was looking for but absolutely interesting in its own right.

Today I stumbled on this great collection of photographs of Alderney taken by CR LeCocq between 1900 and 1918:

http://www.cipostcard.co.nz/lecocq.htm

I especially love the shot of the lighthouse being built — I took dozens of photographs of the lighthouse. And take a closer look at the wrecks. I tend to think of them as little stories and lose sight of the fact that we’re looking at real ships and real people. These images bring that back into focus for me.

Speaking of wrecks, I read “Rebecca” for the first time which gave a very real and frightening view of the “wreckers” and the real shock and misery of a sinking ship, let alone the concept that someone might have done this to you on purpose. I’m glad I read it as I think I was in danger of romanticising the entire concept (not that I’ve seen any evidence of actual wrecking so far). It was also interesting seeing the news and the public reactions to the wreck of the Napoli and the mad rush for the loot in Devon.

Coastguard officials have accused scavengers of “sheer greed”.

Is there an implication there that on the small and very poor islands, it was a different scenario? There was a fairly recent wreck near St Mary’s that I made some notes to find out about, it would be interesting to see whether the media coverage is similar.

We sat on the terrace of the Chalet, gazing out at the water and Sark in the distance, while Peter and Mary put up with a torrent of questions about the island and the must-see places.

“And while you are exploring the bays, you should go visit the towers, they’ve been put into quite good order, although I still wouldn’t want to be a soldier living in it during a winter gale! Just don’t believe anyone that tells you that the towers are all Martellos. Most of them are not.” Peter gave me a stern look.

“Not what?”

“Not a Martello tower,” Peter explained.

It seems that in 1794 during the Napoleonic Wars, the British responded to a plea from Corsica to help them fight off the French. The Royal Navy attacked and captured a large, round tower on Mortella Point but it took two days and they suffered unexpected casualties. When the British left Corsica, they decided to destroy the tower to keep it from being used by the French but even that proved more difficult than expected. The Royal Navy was impressed and made plans of the tower, apparently at this point getting the name wrong. The decision was made to create towers in the same style to defend the English Coast. In the early 1800s a hundred of these towers were built: chunky brick structures that were 30 foot tall and 13 foot thick on the seaward side. The towers became redundant when Napoleon defeated in 1815 and were never used in battle.

“We have 15 towers along the coast,” Peter told me, “but they pre-date the Martello towers, built in 1780. They are smaller and not as strong. Guernsey does have Martello towers: Fort Grey is one, they call it the cup and saucer. I think there are two others. But the locals will tell you they are all Martello towers. They aren’t.”

I nodded, impressed at the pitfalls involved in describing disused fortifications.

Much later, I had forgotten about the conversation when I saw grey brick looming up from a green field covered in buttercups. I realised that I had found one of the towers that Peter had been telling me about. I explored around it and its cannons. I laughed aloud when I found and read the plaque attached to it. The plaque is there to inform visitors that they have reached Tower No. 11, Rousse Tower, and that it is not a Martello tower.

Useful websites for the Channel Islands:

• http://www.jerseymet.gov.je/ with webcams of the runway and St Helier!
• http://www.bbc.co.uk/guernsey/ and http://www.bbc.co.uk/jersey/ but not Alderney. :(
• http://www.visitguernsey.com
• http://www.aboutjersey.net and http://www.jersey.com/ and http://www.jersey.co.uk/ (Have you guys ever thought about consolidating?)
• http://www.nationaltrustjersey.org.je
• http://www.flyalderney.com/
• http://www.alderney.net – I especially liked the very brief history
• http://www.alderney.gov.gg

The Casquets, the set of towers we’d seen on the flight in, is not surprisingly an important figure within the recent history of the island but the most interesting and tragic story is told at the Maritime Museum: the wreck of the Stella.

In the 1890s the competition between the ‘London and South Western’ and ‘the Great Western’ railway companies was heating up. The route across the Channel to the Channel Islands became the main battleground, with the ships openly racing each other to get their passengers ashore first. A number of issues were reported (with the Captains generally claiming they were “racing the tide”) but generally this competition was seen as exciting and a newspaper article in the Guernsey Star reports on a race between the Ibex (Great Western) and the Frederica (London and South Western) as if it were a sporting event. “The Frederica, skirting near the rocks and crossing the Ibex’s bows, beat the latter, after a grand race, by one minute and a half at the pier heads.”

The Stella was one of three steamers put into service in 1890 by London and South Western specifically for speed; the company’s advertising focused on best crossing times. By 1899, however,  there had been at least one accident due to the competition (the Ibex struck a ledge going full-speed 40 feet from the Frederica) which led to an inquiry and the Captains certificate being suspended for six months. A sensible concern regarding the racing is beginning to arise and the two railway companies were “making tentative efforts to call a halt”.

However, the ‘Easter run’, the first daylight runs of the season, whetted interest in the best crossing times and spirits were high with special low fares offered for the holiday.

The Stella departed on March 30th under the command of a seasoned Captain within this context: a priority of getting the ship and her passengers to the Channel Islands as quickly as possible.

The ship met rail passengers from Waterloo at Southampton and then began the trip to Guernsey and Jersey with 217 on board. The weather was sunny and clear when they departed Southampton and continued to be fine as they passed the Isle of Wight. Shortly after passing the Needles, a thick fog began to form. The captain slowed to half-speed until they cleared the fog and then resumed his initial speed of 18 knots.

Shortly thereafter the fog descended around the Stella again but the Captain kept the ship at 18 knots. The Captain and various crew members, including the first officer, remained on the bridge, with a seaman sounding the fog whistle. At this point, the Captain and crew seemed to believe they were still half an hour away from the Casquets: a dangerous reef with three lighthouses placed upon it which was used as a standard visual turning point for the route to Guernsey.

It is unclear how the Stella had managed to veer off her course but at this stage she is still travelling at 18 knots in heavy fog. ‘The Wreck of the Stella’ by John Ovendon and David Shayer gives the following chilling account of Captain Reeks final moments:

“At 4pm three things happened simultaneously. Reeks heard — and the sound must have made the hair stand on his neck — a fog-horn blast of immense power from directly above his head; Hartup in the bow yelled ‘Stop her’ and ran back along the deck covering his head with his forearm; and at the same moment the men on the bridge and a handful of passengers on the deck saw, ‘as though a door had suddenly opened’, an immense rock loom out of the fog 80 yards directly ahead, towering over the ship.”

The Captain tried evasive action but it was too late and the Stella was going too fast. The dangerous shoals of the Casquets tore out the bottom of her hull. The fog was such that the keepers of the lighthouse never saw a thing.

Within 8 minutes the ship had sunk. 105 passengers and crew died in the worst disaster in the history of the Channel Islands’ mail steamers.

I sat on the concrete, trying to apply mascara and lipstick without a mirror, surrounded by parked planes. What the hell was I doing here?

A few weeks ago, it had all seemed sensible and, dare I say it? …fun. I was wildly optimistic about the whole idea and even invited Cliff’s mother to join us for the first trip to the Channel Islands. I bragged about my ability to get by on a wing and a prayer and even bought a jaunty little wheelie bag for the island flying. This lasted until it was actually time to pack. I sat at home on my bed, surrounded by piles of clothes — winter jumpers and summer t-shirts, walking clothes and dinner outfits and shoes for all occasions. I cut it down to half what I thought I needed and then looked at the dinky bag again. Not even close. I finally broke down and dragged a proper suitcase up from the garage and promptly filled it.

I was spending a week island-hopping in a small plane. The British Airways staff who checked me in for the flight to Heathrow marked my bag as “heavy.” This wasn’t an auspicious start.

The plan was simple: fly to Heathrow and get a lift to Elstree in North London the night before, make sure the Saratoga looked healthy and happy, then stay locally and leave for Guernsey first thing in the morning. We arrived at the airfield at dusk and I couldn’t help but feel that the big, bulky, heavy lump of a suitcase was over the top for the single night’s stay, so I shoved it into the back of the plane and left it there.

This led to me waking up in a small brick hotel with nothing but my flight bag. I am not really a morning person. At quarter to eight I lay there gripping the side of the bed tightly, willing myself to wake up and be functional. Cliff tried to tempt me with descriptions of a fried breakfast. I put the pillow over my head.

Eventually I forced myself out of bed. Bleary-eyed and out of sorts, I realised just how foolish I had been. No shampoo, no hairbrush, no toothbrush for God’s sake. Just me and some maps.

In an hour, I would be flying. Under the circumstances, it seemed a bad idea. I took a deep breath, splashed water on my face and considered flight planning, specifically the weather. The correct procedure is to check met reports and phone airfields directly. My handy-dandy copy of Pooleys Airfield information has the phone numbers. It also has two pages of instructions for flying into the Channel Islands, in addition to the standard airfield information. I felt intimidated. I decided to avoid speaking to them in case they noticed quite how incompetent I was and banned me from coming. I looked out the window instead. The sun was shining. A taxi was waiting for us outside. It was time to go.

That was how I ended up on the tarmac, brushing my hair and wondering if it was too late to cancel. It was: I watched another taxi deposit Cliff’s mother, Anne. She arrived along with her wheel chair and a tiny carry-on bag with everything she needed for the week. I blushed and hid my Samsonite out of the way and pretended to make a big show of how heavy her case was. It weighed slightly more than my make-up bag.

I thought I’d do one last search on “alderney milk” to check for any theories as to where the tradition of Milk-o-Punch came from. Top hit was this site. Ooops.

So for the next person who does that search and lands here, let me clarify that it is Milk-o-Punch, not with an “a” as I spelled it. Si’s list of pubs is very useful although I should mention that it’s the Marais not the Murray. And no, I never did find out why it’s appropriate to steal dairy products and add rum on the first Sunday of May.

I’ve failed utterly to find out anything about the history of the Madonna Stone. Ditto La Roc à l’Épine. If anyone can point me to any detail about either of these, it would be greatly appreciated.

Meanwhile, research is taking a lot longer than I expected but first drafts of Guernsey and Alderney are done. Working on Jersey still but feeling very overwhelmed with just how much interesting information I’m finding about every little island. I can’t quite see how anyone could cover 38 of them within a lifetime….

My favourite photographs from Guernsey and relevant notes are now on flickr:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/sylvia/tags/guernsey/

I have sooo much information and I’ve not yet read about my shipwrecks nor the book I picked up at the occupation museum. And that’s just one little island! I still have 37 to go…

The weather was really quite good, the only real rain we had was on Sunday as we traipsed from pub to pub. As a result, we only tried five different versions of Milk Punch but that was probably plenty. :)

I found not one but two wonderful lighthouses which I adore and I could happily go back to any of the islands for a longer stay. Alderney was my favourite, I wish I could have had more time walking around the coast there. Anne liked Jersey best, I think because she got to browse through lots of jewelry shops.

I have a ton of books to read through and a fair amount of scribbled notes that I should transcribe before I forget what it was I meant to say. It’s going to be a busy week.

Slight reorganisation of plans, flying to Elstree (London) on Thursday, picking up Cliff’s mum who thought it would be fun to go with us (pretty daring for a woman of 81!) and flying to Guernsey first thing in the morning on Friday, arriving in time for a lunch date with a local who has offered to tell us all about the island.

Unfortunately, I’m not overly impressed with the weather report, which seems to imply I could fly into Guernsey any day except Friday, which is forecast for rain.

I always knew the British weather would cause problems and was the reason why it seemed sensible to not even consider starting until Spring was firmly established. But I really didn’t think that the very first flight for the very first trip could end up getting blown out!
If I chain-refresh the page, do you think the forecast will change?

I’m slipping the dates for the Channel Islands by 2 days, which fits in better and also means I get to spend Liberation Day on Jersey.

The final plan is:

4 May: arrive Guernsey (evening)

5 May: Guernsey

6 May: Guernsey (Ale and Food festival, yum)

7 May: Alderney (Milk-a-Punch Sunday, thanks to SI for the list of pubs)

8 May: Alderney (hangover recovery)

9 May: Jersey (Liberation Day)

10 May: Jersey

11 May: Depart Jersey (aw!)

Now I just need to book beds and we’re good to go!

… lest you think I’m only going there for the alcohol.

A meal in St Anne in view of St Anne’s church.

Hike out to the neolithic burial site, followed by a visit to the Alderney Museum.

A trip on the only running railway in the Channel Islands.

Find out about the Elizabethan wreck which seems an awesome project.
See a gannet and maybe even a blonde hedgehog.

Visit The Nunnery, an old fort from Roman times used as a staging post between Brittany and Britain.

Leave the island to see Burhou if possible (served as a shelter for fishermen and shipwrecked mariners, now a bird sanctuary).

Alderney has an annual event called “Milk-a-Punch Sunday” and I’ve specifically worked my schedule around being able to be there, plus a day on the ground on Monday to recover.

http://www.alderney.gov.gg/index.php/pid/16/more_info/7

This long-observed tradition is a drink made of milk and egg and given a little kick by a healthy tot of rum, offered by every publican on the island and often imaginatively adapted to their own recipe. The origin of the tradition is suitably blurred, but folklore has it that – on that day of the year (always the first Sunday in May) anyone can milk anyone else’s cow and ‘borrow” an egg or two from anyone else’s hen. This legitimate booty is then mixed with a generous lashing of rum, a pinch of nutmeg, a spoonfull of sugar and each licencee’s closely-guarded secret ingredient. And, with fresh milk straight from local cows – Milk-a-Punch is guaranteed to be particularly delicious. But remember – you have been warned.

I haven’t been able to find out much more than this; I guess the plan is to visit the various publicans and ask to taste their special recipe? Does everyone take part or should I be trying to make up a list of places to go in advance? Any advice on making this a memorable Sunday would be appreciated. :)

The Food and Ale Festival. I think this means a pub crawl. I hope so. :)

Currently looking at spending most of the time in St Peter Port, seeing the harbour and the market and probably the German Naval Signals HQ, Hautevill House and Castle Cornet.

I’m not sure if the shipwreck museum in Fort Grey is worth a visit, likewise the Little Chapel. I’m tempted to spend the time out of doors instead exploring the coastline.

• Visit Vineyards of La Mare
• Find out about Jersey Apple Brandy
• Try a real Jersey Cream Tea
• Go to the Ramsar wetlands
• Walk on the seabed where Jersey was once connected to mainland France
• Take a coastal cruise from Grouville Bay
• Visit the sea front at St Clement including Green Island
• Get a tour of Mont Orgueil Castle
• Have a meal at St Aubin’s Bay
• Go to Elizabeth Castle and find out why it was named after the queen
• Visit St Matthew’s Church
• See the WWII fortifications at Noirmont Point
• Find the Fishermen’s Chapel at St Brelade’s.
• See the lighthouse at Corbiére
• Look at the underwater forest at low tide
• Find the Dolmen de Grantez and maybe even a Jersey Green Lizard
• Spend a few hours in St Helier and see the Victorian food markets
• Listen to someone speaking Jèrriais
• Walk out to La Hougue Bie
• Go through the Jersey War Tunnels, avoiding the cafe next door
• Visit Hamptonne

Tell me what I’ve missed!