Next weekend Cliff and I will be braving the Alps though which I’m already having nightmares about. We’ll be flying from Málaga to Lake Constance for a wedding which I’m very much looking forward to but there’s still the flight to plan (Argh, do we have maps for Switzerland?) and the fear of going over very high mountains to conquer.

This will probably be my most exciting/frightening flight to date, unless you count the roller coaster effect when taking off from St Mary’s in Scilly…

The Yarborough Monument on the hills of Culver Down looks out over the channel like a burnt out lighthouse. It is a memorial for Charles Anderson-Pelham, who became the first Earl of Yarborough in 1794 and founded the Royal Yacht Squadron. Lord Yarborough had what appears to have been an illustrious naval career but in 1846 he died at sea. The Bembridge.com site rather bizarrely comments that this was “…a sad occurrence as he was unaccompanied by any of his family.” The Royal Yacht Squadron funded the monument.

I’d love more information about Charles Anderson-Pelham or the site of the monument, if any readers would care to point me in the right direction.

I love that phrasing: “he became aware” .. .it makes it sound like such a calm moment. I don’t usually haunt the accident reports (they make me nervous) but this one was someone I know.

The subject came up the first time as I was doing circuits at Oxford Airport for my night rating. I was doing a flapless landing in the dark, watching the papi. It looked good to me.

“Two reds, that’s right. Don’t get too low. I mean it Sylvia, don’t lose that height.” There was an edge to Alistair’s voice that was out of character. I did the touch and go and when we were back on downwind he said, “Ben had some trouble here, I’ll tell you on the ground. Just remember to maintain that height.”

I met Alistair through a very competent instructor named Ben. Ben got a job flying a Citation and although he was still doing a bit of teaching on the side, his schedule and mine rarely meshed so I didn’t see much of him. He’s one of those instructors that makes me want to fly better than I do: he’s good with the plane, patient with the training, and likes to have a laugh.

Once we were on the ground, Alistair told me about Ben’s last training flight.

“He was doing night flying, like this, and somehow they ended up a low on the approach. Flew straight into some cables.” I was relieved that I’d seen Ben briefly at the airfield that afternoon, so I knew he was OK. I had no idea there were cables there at all.
From the accident report:

An aircraft ahead in the circuit caused the trainee to extend the downwind leg before turning onto base leg and commencing the approach. The instructor stated that when the aircraft was approximately 400 metres from the threshold, he became aware of some power cables ahead which the aircraft then struck in the area of the nosewheel. The instructor immediately took control of the aircraft and commenced a go-around whilst declaring a “mayday ” to ATC.

After conducting a handling check overhead the airfield to check for normal control response and handling qualities, the instructor flew a circuit and low go-around to allow the AFRS an attempt at visually inspecting the aircraft using spotlights. They could not see any damage and the instructor rejoined the circuit. He then briefed the trainee for an emergency landing before commencing a final approach to the runway.

They landed just fine, despite damage to the nose landing gear and the wing. It sounds terrible, but I’m always cheered to hear success stories like this, proof of the resilience both of pilots and planes. The plane flew straight into power wires fifty feet above the ground and didn’t turn into a flaming fireball of death. That’s good, it moderates my own fear quite a bit.

It was a few weeks later when I ran into Tom, the man I blame for my PPL, and we were talking about what made for good instruction. We discussed Lee, my favourite instructor of all time, a man who is so passionate about flying that you can’t help becoming passionate as well. And then I mentioned Ben.

“I don’t know him,” said Tom.
“He’s a good guy. I met him through Louise.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him, I think. I think he’s the guy who wrote off my plane.”

Ah, er yes. That would be him. A change of subject might be in order.

You’d think I’d be used to UK aviation by now … it’s a small world.

Edit: see the comments for a direct response from Zazzle.

I’m starting to think about the details now and who to target with the descriptions.

I decided some queries in the US would help to gauge interest in flying around British islands.

I realised that the first thing I needed was US postage stamps for stamped self-addressed envelopes. I thought it would be cute to use the new service I’ve been hearing about to make stamps out of your own photographs.

I chose a sufficiently pitiful picture, added some text and was ready to go.

I started with Zazzle, the service tied into Flickr, but when I tried to fill in their form I kept getting an “unexpected error” and I was advised to click my back button and try again.

Has this advice ever actually worked for anyone?

I tried to debug it briefly, then gave up and went to the USPS web site. They won’t sell to you direct but they did give a few authorised dealers in addition to Zazzle.

No joy, all of them specify US-only. I sent a pleading “you will post to military bases abroad, why won’t you post to me!” email to one of them but received a standard response telling me how wonderful their service was … for people resident in the US.

OK, so back to Zazzle. I mailed them regarding the error I was receiving and received a prompt reply asking me to check my security settings and various other browser issues.

I mailed back stating that I had checked everything again to be sure but there did not seem to be a local issue. I tried on two different browsers on three different machines and although the snazzy “design your stamp” scripting worked great, as soon as I tried to place the order, it went belly up.

I received a response from someone who had clicked that I was not in the US and said, quite firmly, that the offer was only available to US residents.

Now, I know peop;le do this. I didn’t have the issue with the other companies I checked that told me that they would only ship to the US.

I have HUGE issues with a company that:

1) has an FAQ that specifically states that they ship internationally . I am lightly amused to note that since I blew up at them, there has been an attempt to fix it. It now says:

For information on shipping rates for Zazzle Custom Stamps, our customizable postage product, within the United States, click here. We regret we cannot ship Zazzle Custom Stamps outside of the United States.

For information on shipping rates for all other products, select your destination:

* United States
* Canada & Mexico
* Other International

Other International continues to say that they ship to 67 countries internationally.

2) has a form that gives an “unexpected error” if you select a country other than the US. Who codes this shit? So those of you who thought, “ooooh, but they said they ship other products internationally” when you read the above bit, note that you can’t actually place the order.
and finally,
3) Can’t imagine that my life isn’t centred on the US
I am upset that, because I believed the bit on the website about shipping internationally, I wasted a few hours in hopes of purchasing something that you won’t sell me.

To then say, “but it’s not really a problem, just have it sent to a friend in the US and they can forward it to you” is not particularly helpful.

*grumble*

Anne’s crisp voice came through loud and clear on my headset as the English coast retreated behind us.

“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 for quiet as I requested clearance to enter restricted airspace. I was told to proceed to the Casquets.

“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 might come from. She carries it in her handbag.

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. I slowed right down and wished for my camera.

Just as we were enjoying the birds’ eye perspective of the lighthouse clinging to 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 1500 metres long, how hard could it be to find? I rubbed my eyes and stared at the rapidly approaching island, then down at the map and back at the island. 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.

As I did, I realise, 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 Xray, 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.

Driving along a coastal road, I saw something at the last moment.

“Stop the car! There was a sign back there.”

Cliff slammed on the brakes. “A sign for what?”

“I dunno, but it looked interesting.”

He gave me a nasty look but backed the car up and found a wide bit of road to pull over on. We hiked back to look at the sign, a chunky bit of stone with “National Trust for Jersey – Le Saut Geffroy” written on it.

“What’s it mean?”

Cliff shrugged. “I don’t speak patois. Something to do with Geoffrey. Jump, maybe.”

Jump seemed viable, it was a ledge looking over rocky outcrops in the sea. I thought it quite a nice spot to sit and watch the birds until I heard the story behind it.

It seems poor Geoffrey had been sentenced to death, and specifically to be pushed off this ledge. A crowd had gathered to watch his demise but to everyone’s surprise he landed in the water and swum to shore, safe and sound. He climbed back up to the ledge where an argument had broken out as to what should happen next: should he be pushed off again or should he walk free, having already “received” his punishment. He laughed at the crowd and jumped off the ledge with a smile – this time missing the water and dashing his brains out on the rocks. The dilemma was solved, and the ledge named after his fateful move (generally translated as Geoffrey’s Leap).

Luckily, I knew none of this as I sat watching the oystercatchers on the rocks below me.

The Parish Church of St Brelade is a romantic Norman stone structure, dating from the 11th century, a reminder of French government of Jersey. I paused to look at the stained glass windows but I was much more interested in its neighbour, The Fisherman’s Chapel.

The Fisherman’s Chapel is a chantry, a medieval pay-for-prayer chapel endowed by the rich to ensure that prayers would be said for their souls after their death. This one is a squat square building, high on a ledge, looking out over St Brelade’s Bay. The location probably led to the theory that the name, Chapelle-ès-Pêcheurs, was to do with the Fisherman’s Guild but this has fairly recently been rescinded. It’s currently believed that the name comes from a corruption of sinners in French: pécheurs.

I have sympathy for this more recent view, I am not very good with orthographics either.

The story goes that the chapel was meant to be built much further inland at a spot better protected from the wind and the sea but, unknown to the builders, the chosen spot was already inhabited by les p’tits faîtchieaux, the fairies. In the night, they quietly picked up all the tools and materials and left them by the shore. The next day, the workers retrieved their items and began work on the foundations. Of course, the little people undid all the work and moved everything back down to the shoreline again in the night. The people took the hint and built the chapel where the tools had been dumped: at the shore of St Brelade’s Bay.

The actual reason for the location is no less interesting: the chapel was built to replace a previous chapel: a simple one-room wooden cell that, according to ancient folklore, was built by Brelade himself. It is quite probable that Brelade travelled to Jersey in the 5th century: he was known to have been on Guernsey and was travelling all over to found religious communities. The exposed location and view of the bay as well as the circular churchyard are all typical of the Celtic religious communities of that time. Certainly there is evidence of a structure from the middle of the 6th century, so the legend isn’t far off.

The current stone structure was built in the late 1000s at the time of the construction of the main chapel. It is quite literally made of the sea, “limpet shells crushed and dissolved with boiling sea water” formed the mortar for the building.

It wasn’t until 1918 that the medieval frescoes were discovered preserved under a layer of plaster: it was these that I came to see. They are incredibly well preserved, angels and disciples in medieval dress portraying the Annunciation and the Assumption. I was thrilled to see that the paintings had not been fully restored but instead reproductions of what they would have looked like at the time are displayed on plastic coated story boards left near the entrance for you to compare to the work on the walls.

We left to amble down the path leading to the perquage, the safe-passage which exists in every parish, the extension of the church sanctuary leading down to the sea where the criminal could board a boat. All around us are the lichen covered gravestones, worn down from the constant salty wind from the exposed position of the graveyard. One large rose-coloured stone in pristine condition caught my eye. It chronicled a family called Davis, starting with a woman born in Jersey in 1866 who died (last, in 1954) in London, her brother and his wife who died in South Africa during the Second World War, their son who was killed in 1916 at the Battle of the Somme in France, and ends with the “two kind and lovable ladies who died at Port Elizabeth South Africa in January 1951″.

From my notes

We arrived at the station where I tried to buy a Day Rover, unlimited travel on both the electric train and the steam train. “It’s a special event” said the unshaven man at the counter. “I can do you a return to Ryde and you just get off at Smallbrook Junction.” I started to ask about the event but Anne interrupted. “So she’s got a ticket to Ryde?” The man nodded with a straight face and I found myself unable to ask questions as I tried not to laugh aloud. I got the tickets and we waited for the train.

As we bumped our way along the line, Anne went through the brochure, “Day Out with Thomas” – fun-packed day with the famous blue engine and his friends. Oh joy.

I’m finally getting around to organising my photographs and the shots from the Isle of Wight are rapidly appearing on Flickr:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/landing/sets/72157600034671389/

Did you know there was an Isle of Wight County in Virginia? I first realised that I might have gone astray when I saw that “the Isle of Wight Museum offers Indian artifacts, Civil War memorabilia, prehistoric fossils from the nearby James River, and a re-created nineteenth century country store.”

And no, it’s not an island although it does at least have a port.

The weather played along: I was able to fly every evening last week. A minor hitch came up with the the plane being an N-reg (registered in the US). We sorted it out by using this darling TB10, a friendly, light plane that seemed eager to please; not something I’d ever say about the Saratoga!

The navigation was a lot less exciting than I’d hoped, looking out at lights with a map on my lap:

“What’s that up there?”
“Er, Oxford? No, no, give me a second. Banbury?”
“Yep, what’s that road up there then?”
“Um, M4?”
“Correct again. Follow it.”
“OK.” I lined the plane up with the pretty twinkly red lights of stationary traffic and hoped that Alistair wouldn’t make me turn off onto a roundabout.

Of course, there is more to it than that. Distances are a completely different perspective: we could see Birmingham from 2400 feet above Oxford, something that would never happen during the day. Line features look very different. Roads are good. Rivers and railway lines? Not so much. Watch for black-outs: if you can’t see lights, there’s a good chance you are about to fly into cloud … or, worse, a mountain. As for an engine failure? Pray.

The airfield stayed open until 8 and twice we were the last ones there, the runway lights turning off behind us as we landed. It felt so final.
We finished just before the weather began to turn; snow was forecast for the following evening.

So now I have my night rating and I can fly on instruments … but only if it’s dark.