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.

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.

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.

• 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

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.

A few weeks ago, it had all seemed sensible and, dare I say it?

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.