I tracked over land on the climb to 9000 feet, noticing immediately just how cold the air was. The temperature gauge sat well below zero and I knew it would only get colder. I levelled off and ensured the first ferry transfer was out of the way. The tank had been bone dry just before refuelling in Goose Bay so I knew exactly how much fuel was on board, something that gave me significant peace of mind. I transferred from the standard VHF aircraft radios to the overwater HF radio even though I wouldn’t need it for long. I could speak to the air traffic controllers from Canada, then switch to the controllers from Greenland before finally chatting to the guys in Reykjavik.
I flew all the legs of the flight early in the day because as the afternoon went on, typically the weather would deteriorate. I was fairly relaxed, the sky was clear yet the water looked cold.
This leg was renowned for aircraft icing and the experienced pilots had expressed the need for caution many times throughout the planning stage.
The cloud and water vapour in the air would form as ice on the aircraft if the air temperature were below zero degrees. When ice forms on the aircraft it blocks any view from inside the cockpit as the windscreen becomes opaque, but more worryingly it builds on the wing and changes the shape of the one device carefully moulded to keep you in the air. The worse the ice on the wing becomes, the more lift the wing loses, up to the point where it will stop flying altogether. Ice grabs on to anything it can, even a propeller blade spinning 2600 times a minute. Basically, ice is dangerous. Very dangerous.
I began to zigzag back and forth to remain clear of cloud, which at this stage wasn’t a big issue as it was still fairly clear. I continued to do this for hours but there came a moment where I could no longer stay visual and clear of the icy clouds. I had looked everywhere hoping to see an opening but had no luck. Everything happened so quickly, the next thing I knew I flew into the cloud. The Cirrus was designed to fly low and while it didn’t have the ability to outclimb the weather, it could descend into what was hopefully warmer air. The problem was that this far north all the air was cold; you would have to end up very low before the temperature climbed back above zero and the ice on the aircraft began to dissipate.
As ice began to form on the windscreen and the leading edges on the wing began to thicken and frost, I hoped against hope that the cloud was thin. When you don’t have much flying experience it is hard to gauge just how bad a situation is. I knew that other pilots out there would think this was nothing. In fact it didn’t look all that bad but as some pilots say, any ice is too much ice. All the same, I kept thinking of something I read once: ‘You begin life with an empty bag of experience and a full bag of luck. The goal is to fill the bag of experience before you empty the bag of luck.’
And then the cloud suddenly thinned and finally disappeared and the sun shone down on the Cirrus’s white wings. I looked down and saw a sight I will never forget. It was Greenland. It was a place of brown mountains that looked like shattered rock, with snow and ice in its crevices and cracks. Nothing green could be seen anywhere, of course: I remembered as much from my primary school days where I learned that Greenland was ice and Iceland was green. But in the waters surrounding the land were icebergs, real icebergs, small mountains of blue green ice sparkling in the sun. They were beautiful, but they were also a constant reminder of the water temperature and the conditions I was flying over.
I had little time to absorb all this before Greenland disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. I passed the far eastern point of the island and turned right to align with Reykjavik. Next stop was Iceland.
The weather ahead looked okay. As the hours slipped by I decided to climb higher to 11,000 feet to avoid the cloud below. I knew at some point I would need to descend and hoped to do that ahead where the cloud had cleared. I had no wish to be sandwiched between cloud and the North Atlantic Ocean.
The top fastening of the immersion suit was unbelievably tight; suffocating at this point was not especially appealing, and I held my hand between it and my neck. I contacted Iceland Radio on the standard aircraft VHF radio, and after a few attempts and some patience I was able to hear them. They gave me clearance into their air space and told me to keep tracking towards Reykjavik. There was still cloud, but it was not so thick above the airport and I could track for a landing visually. I reached top of descent, calculated as the distance from the destination airport, and knew I needed to descend now to make sure I arrived over the airport at the correct altitude.
Cloud was still a problem. As I sat and delayed the descent I stared out the front window, watching conditions worsen to the point where even at this altitude I would enter cloud shortly. I had to descend through the cloud layer and I hoped it was thin: a frightening thought. I nosed down and slowed the aircraft as it entered cloud and watched the outside air temperature indicator drop even further.
It was cold, minus twenty degrees Celsius cold. The ice started to build and I watched very carefully. Ice makes the aircraft slow down due to the extra drag but the descent was causing the aircraft to increase speed; due to the simple laws of gravity, we were heading well and truly downhill. I was confident that with the current weather report I would break free into clear air very soon and therefore be free of the worst of the icing conditions. I needed to do that; after all, I couldn’t go back up. The ice had formed on the wings and windscreen and there was little doubt it had also formed around other parts of the aircraft including the propeller. At least it didn’t seem to be getting worse.
But then I spotted the biggest problem of all. The long wire HF radio aerial was strung between the wingtip and the tail of the Cirrus. The air was warming and the ice was beginning to break off the aerial, creating an unbalanced piece of steel wire that began to swing like a skipping rope. I was worried that the wire would break, something I had been warned about if ice formed on it. If it broke from the wingtip it could swing back towards the tail, catching somewhere and potentially causing all manner of serious issues. With the ice nearly gone from the wings I began to slow down, hoping to stop the swinging wire. I was scared.
I wished I had more experience in dealing with icy conditions, but as I went through the checks in my mind I did feel I had made all the right decisions. If I couldn’t reach Reykjavik, however, I had no option in the middle of the North Atlantic but to divert to another aerodrome. But where? And how much fuel would I need? Could I refuel with avgas somewhere else? What about clearances? And weather?
The air temperature was climbing, the swinging aerial slowing down and eventually – to my massive relief – the nose of the Cirrus finally found clear blue sky. I was within minutes of Reykjavik airport and my knowledge of routine kicked in: I joined a final approach onto the runway. It sat on the edge of a town that looked interesting, all uniform, small, colourful houses like something from a postcard.
I touched down and breathed out for what felt like the first time in a while. I had made it and resolved never to fly a single-engine aeroplane from Canada to Iceland without icing protection ever again.
I parked between a bunch of other aircraft, and climbed out as best I could in the immersion suit. My handler was nearby, and we said hello. He seemed really nice, but his English was not good. I waddled inside with my passport and bags to complete Customs and noticed that the cumbersome suit felt a little strange, sticking to me so that I looked like a cryovaced piece of steak. It took a few moments before I realised what had happened. At 11,000 feet I had pulled the tight neck seal away from my body but when everything became busy I had let go and flown the aircraft to the ground. On the ground the air pressure within the suit was still the same as at 11,000 feet above. With a swift movement I broke the neck seal and let the air rush into the suit. It sounded like a semitrailer letting off the air brakes.
I unpacked and spent twenty minutes fixing the HF radio aerial. The metal wire had well and truly been stretched after its impersonation of a skipping rope and it needed tightening. I slipped the Cirrus into a hangar and found a taxi to the centre of Reykjavik, desperately needing food and sleep.
I placed my bags in the back of the taxi, hopped in the front passenger seat and said hello, but the driver’s response was nothing but a smile. I had no idea how to speak Icelandic; I think I may have accidentally skipped over that option in high school. Instead I held up the address for the motel: Spítalastígur 1, Amtmannstígur 5, Reykjavik, Iceland. I could have attempted to pronounce it but it would have only complicated the situation. He hesitantly nodded and we set off. I assumed Iceland was only a small country and therefore we could only get so lost and having just confirmed the amount of water surrounding Iceland in the North Atlantic, I knew we weren’t going far.
The conversation was hardly riveting. I sat and watched as the little colourful houses zipped by like illustrations in a geography textbook. Even the motel wasn’t a typical one, more like a little unit for a family. I checked in and soon found myself sitting on the couch of a unit, still wearing the flight suit. Before long I threw the bags into a pile just inside the door and the lifeless body of the orange immersion suit lay across the floor. I was tired and it was already 9:30pm, but I was hungry and it was still broad daylight outside.
My body clock had already been diagnosed as clinically insane, it had been through so many changes and I think it was beginning to just take things as they came. I quickly changed and walked to the centre of town to find something to eat before bed. The town was a hive of activity, the sort that could make me assume it was lunchtime, whatever else my watch was telling me. I walked along the strip of restaurants, stopping to read each menu, but there was no English in sight. Anything that had been translated into English still had Icelandic words hidden here and there. I’m a fussy eater and there was no way I was taking any chances on an Icelandic delicacy.
Just as I was about to give up at 10:30pm, I walked around a corner to find a familiar coloured sign – Subway. It might have been in Icelandic and the girl behind the counter might have only spoken a little English, but I had been to Subway a time or two and I had the pointing to what you want through the glass thing well and truly down. I pointed and she laughed at me while making my contraption of a meal, which thankfully looked like one prepared back at home, no surprises there. I paid with a credit card as I had no Icelandic kroners and headed back to the unit. This was the first time I had been in a country where the language spoken was not predominantly English.
Iceland lacked a little in this department but as a country it really interested me, partly because I had never really thought about it before. I had never imagined travelling to Reykjavik in the same way I had longed to visit to England or Italy. I figured that while I was there, with two full days before my next leg, I would make an effort to see as much as I possibly could.
I planned to tackle the aircraft on day one, it needed to be repacked, refuelled and readied for the flight to Scotland, the next step. Customs, the departure details, weather and specific times had to be organised with my handler, BIRK Flight Services. If I could squeeze all of this into one day then I could relax and have a look around before taking off again. It would be a challenge, but all I could do was try.
I set off for the airport and began working away. In most cases we used a fuel truck for refuelling but on this particular day the trucks were delayed, so I chose to taxi the aircraft to the fuel bowser. My handler was a young guy who I discovered did speak English; it was just his accent – and my Aussie one – that made communication a little more complicated than usual. Within an hour we had the ferry tank filled and we had thrown all the equipment that lay around the aircraft into a little car. Once back from the bowser I slipped the plane back into the hangar where it was slightly warmer, then took the time to carefully repack and give the plane a quick clean. I double-checked the little adjustment on the HF aerial, spoke to a few interested passers-by who knew enough English to chat away, then finally hopped into the car for a ride back to town. The Spirit of the Sapphire Coast was once again ready to go.
I was excited to have a few hours left in the day and impressed at just how quickly the plane had been prepared. BIRK Flight Services were used to private international flights and had everything worked out pretty well. I decided to spend the evening walking around Reykjavik township as the unit was fairly close to the centre. Good booking, Mum!
I found a church sitting on the top of a hill and decided to wander in and have a look around. There was a lift that took you up to a viewing deck, so I handed over a few newly acquired Icelandic kroners and walked inside. I think the lift used to be a refrigerator and they had painted it silver and tied a rope to the roof, it was tiny. I was crammed inside with a French couple and in typically awkward fashion we stood silently watching the numbers increase as we made our way to the viewing deck. Suddenly the lift stopped and my now close acquaintances said something in French. We weren’t at the top and whatever they said was a bit more alarming than bonjour.
We picked up the emergency phone and spoke with the operator. It turned out that the French couple spoke English also, which was great as we were going to be spending the next little while cementing our friendship. Up to this point, along with flying and all the other jobs, I had shared experiences via social media using photos, videos and blogs. I was due to film a video blog on my phone soon anyway and with time to spare, why not now?
There’s nothing like breaking the ice by asking, ‘I know we’re stuck in a lift, but can you film me, please?’ As the Frenchman held my camera phone I started to chat away, explaining my experience of the leg from Canada to Iceland, only to have the lights in the lift shut off in mid speech. Very quickly and swiftly the French lady pulled out her phone, switched on the flash to create some impromptu stage lighting, her husband kept filming and I kept talking. I had only just met these people but we were a gun team!
The lift finally moved and I took in Reykjavik from above before risking my wellbeing in the lift once again. That evening I booked a back-to-back tour for the next day. I decided to take a trip to the Blue Lagoons hot spring and the popular Golden Circle. I went to bed at about eleven, and was surprised to see how light the sky still was. It was never really dark; the sky always had a glow about it.
Next morning I woke early, unpacked my carefully structured backpack and filled it with a towel and spare clothes. My camera was charged and the blogs, emails and updates had been done the night before. I walked into town and hopped on a bus. First stop was the Blue Lagoons, a hot spa located in the Grindavik lava field in southwestern Iceland. There were a few tourists who had come there in order to swim in the warm silica- and sulphur-enriched waters. I joined in the fun and spent an hour swimming around the volcanic rocks. Nearly two years before I had seen a ferry pilot’s blog describing his visit to the lagoon on the stopover in Iceland. Now here I was in the exact same situation, which was very cool.
Soon afterwards I was back on the bus and we arrived in the centre of Reykjavik after a drive through the countryside. I hopped off, grabbed something visibly safe to eat and jumped on another bus. We set off this time with a tour guide to the Golden Circle, a tourist route that extends 300 kilometres from Reykjavik into central Iceland and back. We stopped at a phenomenal waterfall, the Gullfoss, before watching geysers erupt from the geothermal ground. As well as looking between two meeting tectonic plates and towards a far-off glacier, I sat back and took in the history of Iceland from a very local tour guide. Wow. Iceland was a phenomenal place.
I arrived back into Reykjavik late, but while it had been a huge day it was worth it in every way. Whilst other people were being dropped at the door of their motels, I was let out at the front gate of the Reykjavik airport. Under my towel and camera was the handwritten flight plan for the following day, I had to drop into the FBO office and have the plan faxed through to an air traffic control centre. With this out of the way and the plan approved, I made my way to the unit to pack and head for bed.
Reykjavik is cold, even colder early in the morning. I was up early and busily packing the last of my clothes. The one-knee-on-my-bag manoeuvre hadn’t become any easier since the first time I tried it back in Wollongong, and the poor zipper was holding on for dear life. I phoned a cab driver and asked to be picked up, holding the address of the unit in my hand and proceeded to tell him where I was.
‘Spítalastígur Street, you know, Spit-a-lass-ss-ss-ss-tigger Street’. Nothing. The cab driver had no idea at all. I also had no idea and we couldn’t even piece together a normal conversation, let alone define a distinct position on planet Earth. I gave up. Even though it was very early in the morning I said thank you and decided to walk to a main road where I could hail a cab. Hopefully the ridiculous flight suit would then provide a hint as to where I needed to be.
I had a sleeping-bag-sized clothes bag, a flight bag, a backpack, the immersion suit and a bunch of other little things to carry. It took forty-five minutes to find a main road and besides my usual clothes and number of duffel bags, I had a bright orange suit draped over my back. I looked like the latest circus act to grace the shores of Iceland. Everything was heavy and for the first time in my life I wished I knew the local language. If I had, I could have been sitting patiently on the steps of my unit waiting for the cab to arrive.
I found a cab. The driver actually understood me, which was phenomenal, and in no time we were on our way to the airport. I hopped out, handed over the last of my kroners and headed to the aircraft. I had the weather forecast in hand, a folder full of all sorts of goodies and had spoken with the handler in detail as to the day’s flight. Although he wasn’t a pilot he had dealt with this type of flying a lot. He mentioned another light aircraft that would be departing for my next destination, Wick in Scotland, also. Not only would they be heading for the same destination but also be flying at a similar time. I recognised the registration. TAD was a little red aircraft on its way around the world. The two guys who were flying the plane had also been at the Oshkosh AirVenture show and though I hadn’t spoken with them directly I had naturally taken a keen interest in the aircraft and what they were attempting to do.
After another painstaking pre-flight, I somehow squeezed into my favourite immersion suit and took to the clear blue sky. Although it was cold it was clear; the risk of icing at this point was nil. All I was required to do was take in the view, and what a spectacular view it proved to be. As I passed 5000 feet on my climb to 9000 feet, I tracked directly overhead a glacier, an unforgettable sight, a solid layer of ice extending in a circular shape and extending miles ahead of the aircraft. I remember asking myself the question we were taught to ask ourselves from the beginning of our flight training: ‘Where would I land the plane if I had an engine failure right now?’ I had asked myself that question thousands of times before, but I had never had the answer of, ‘Oh, that glacier over there will do.’
I overheard TAD speaking with air traffic control, quickly said hello and asked to speak with them on the frequency 123.45, a ‘common chatter’ radio station where the strict structure of aviation radio was left behind. They had departed from Reykjavik just behind me and had also begun the flight to Scotland. We spoke about my journey in comparison to theirs and even exchanged contact details as we flew. I did have to have a chuckle to myself; networking above Iceland between two single-engine aircraft is not your usual social interaction. They sounded like great guys, I let them go as I began to transfer fuel, wished them well and thought that maybe we would see each other in Wick.
When I levelled off at 9000 feet the sky was clear and I was smiling. Yes I was over the North Atlantic in a light aircraft, a place where swimming was highly frowned upon, but it was completely different to the previous leg.
The tailwinds pushed me towards Scotland and I kept thinking about the land mass known as Europe. Once I was in Scotland I wouldn’t have to look at this much water for quite some time, and that was a nice thought. A wisp of cloud appeared ahead but it was so thin it was nearly transparent. The Cirrus skipped through it but within a fraction of a second the leading edge of the wing had become extremely frosty. That was a little wake-up call, a reminder of where I was and the need to keep my wits about me.
I was handed over to the air traffic controllers in the UK and started my descent into what had become a warmer yet very cloudy sky, a scene typical of UK weather. I entered cloud and stayed there for quite some time, mostly speaking with a lady in the control tower at Wick airport located in far northeastern Scotland and up against the water’s edge. I broke visual and descended quickly to avoid having to fly an approach using the instruments through the cloud. Just as I was clear I looked down to see patchwork-quilt-like fields with a small castle in the centre. Yep, I had found Scotland.
After the five-hour flight I landed in very gusty conditions, taxied from the runway and around in circles for five minutes while trying to sort out where to park. Although I was tired I was actually more relieved than anything. I had crossed the North Atlantic Ocean and I never had to do it again.
I met my handler Andrew and for an hour we shuffled around paperwork in a very basic-looking building. It was a tiny airport and the Customs requirements for my entry into Europe were nowhere near as strict as I had imagined. The most strenuous question I was asked was whether I wanted a cup of tea. Considering this would be the only Customs engagement until leaving Greece, I had to say I was surprised at how casual it was, but I was cool with that.
We pushed the Cirrus into a humungous old hangar. It was so big you could have almost flown the plane inside it. It was old all right but they told me it was safe, after all it had to become old somehow. As I undressed, or rather awkwardly fell out of the immersion suit, an elderly couple wandered up to say hello, carrying a picture of me and one of their relatives from Australia. They had heard about the flight and wanted to pop by and say hello, not only from Scotland but from those back at home.
Jumping into a car that finally had the steering wheel located on the proper side, I was driven to a little motel where I would spend just a night before setting off flying once again, the only planned back-to-back flying on the trip. There was a little daylight left and I had taken in the narrow Scottish streets and old buildings on the drive from the airport, so once settled I decided to walk through the main area of town just to say I had seen a little of Wick. I wandered in and out of a few stores before finding a bakery that looked like something from back at home so I zipped inside to try and find something for dinner.
They had pies! The sign said ‘Meat pies’. This was amazing.
‘So can you tell me what’s in your meat pies?’ I asked. ‘Just mince,’ she said.
‘I’ll take one with sauce, please.’
Although I was keen for an Aussie meat pie, a form of food that I had not seen anywhere else in the world, I can assure you that this was as far from an Aussie meat pie as you can get. In Scotland ‘mince’ means absolutely anything presumed once living and now found concealed within an envelope of pastry. The pie had the consistency of Spam and a perfect geometrical shape, as if it had been shaped with a circular cookie cutter. I took one bite and made a beeline for the rubbish bin, then another beeline to the pub where I ordered a chicken schnitzel. Not even Scotland could ruin a chicken schnitzel.
I carefully folded the used, battered, note-covered flight plan and filed it away in a container along with the other legs already completed. I then removed a fresh white envelope with ‘Scotland to England’ on the front. Each flight-plan envelope had been carefully put together well before I left Australia, so I needed only an hour or so of study to refresh my knowledge of the next flight. Half of my flight plan envelopes were now tattered and used, but the Telstra online tracker had made a turn and was now tracking ‘back down’ from Iceland towards Australia. I had passed the halfway point. Progress.
Because the flying was so constant and the preparation had been non-stop I had little time to look in detail at all the different locations I would be flying over. So when a Facebook follower asked whether my journey included Newcastle in the UK because he wanted to photograph me as I flew over his home town, I had absolutely no idea. After a little research I let the guy know that I would be passing over Newcastle at around 5,000 feet.
I left Scotland after an uneventful morning preparing the aircraft, entered into cloud and intercepted my flight-planned track whilst climbing to 5,000 feet above the ocean. I watched the patchwork-quilt-like countryside pass underneath and although the thick cloud dissipated slightly it was still far from a clear blue-sky day. Having not refuelled the ferry tank in Wick, I used the leg to England to pump the last remaining drops into the wing and ensure the tank was again bone dry. It was only four or five hours from the northernmost point of the UK to its southernmost point: amazing when you think how far a four-hour flight will get you in Australia.
Flying in the UK seemed quite straightforward, although I had doubts about the way air traffic control handed me onto the next controller ‘down the line’. No details of the aircraft or flight path were passed on, and I had to explain it all to the new controller from scratch. By the end of the day, I had a very clear idea about who I was.
I found it was possible to choose what ‘type’ of surveillance or services I wanted: in other words, how much advice air traffic control would give about the whereabouts of other traffic and other airspace issues. I was stumped when they first asked; I had absolutely no idea what was on offer and had never heard of this approach before. When I queried my options the controller went on to explain, but he talked so fast I struggled to keep up. All I understood was that cost varied among the different options. I didn’t know the finer details so I went with the most expensive one, figuring this was not the time to cut costs when dealing with something I didn’t really understand, and in an unfamiliar country too. I decided I would rather skip dinner that night than breach London’s airspace or see the whites of the eyes of another pilot. If I could have paid someone to bring me an inflight meal and a movie, I would have.
The eastern coastline of the UK sat off my left wing while each town zipped under the aircraft. My plan was to fly south until I reached the coast, tracking straight for the White Cliffs of Dover, then once I had overflown the cliffs I would turn right and follow the coast to the day’s final destination, Lydd.
I had decided to stop at Lydd for a very good reason. Fred and Linda Rankin from the Frogs Hollow Aero Club spent half the year living in England and the other half in Australia. They had UK backgrounds and broad English accents, but they also had the good idea of escaping the English winter and fleeing to the warm Sapphire Coast of New South Wales, one of the greatest places on earth.
Fred and Linda had heard about a potential stopover in England while I was planning the route, and I had decided to spend two nights at Lydd before moving on to France. Fred had wanted to plan a little gathering at a local English pub and although the chances of delays and diversions were high we decided to go ahead and take our chances.
Besides, Mum and Dad would be there too. They wanted to meet me wherever possible, but because the flight’s budget was beyond tight, their options were limited. Besides they had contributed to the flight in any way possible already. That said, after being in the USA for Air Venture, it was only a short hop across the pond to England (that is in their highly advanced, temperature controlled, jet powered, food and alcohol equipped travelling machine… not a Cirrus). This meant that for one of the final times on my trip, there would be a bunch of familiar faces waiting to say hello when I touched down in England. I was looking forward very much to seeing Fred and Linda and Mum and Dad, and on the way there was one thing I had to do: take in the White Cliffs of Dover.
Whilst I was speaking with the Lydd control tower I peered over the nose of the Cirrus. The English Channel was clearly visible, but I could see nothing that resembled the White Cliffs of Dover. I knew what to do, however. I had the cameras at the ready and as I crossed the coast I banked hard to the right. The green patchwork fields had ended abruptly, and there, underneath me, were enormous, perfectly pure white cliffs. I was blown away. and as I looked back towards the north I truly understood just what the White Cliffs of Dover were – a picturesque foreground to a history-filled landmass, one that we only wish could tell stories. I had spent hours watching, reading and learning about the young pilots who flew over these iconic cliffs during World War II. Though there are still a few of these heroes left, for someone my age the war remains part of history, something with which I have absolutely no direct connection, except for my imagination and what I have read or seen on TV or film. I stared at the White Cliffs in awe, and also took in the nearby harbour at Dover, something I had seen a thousand times in a textbook, on TV or during a movie. I couldn’t believe I was really here.
I looked back over the wing at the disappearing white coastline before focusing on a landing. I joined a long final approach and descended towards the English countryside, touching down and coming to a stop just clear of the runway. The controller explained to me where to taxi and when I looked carefully I could see a marshal in front of a large crowd of people over by the terminal. I parked the Cirrus, shut down, clambered out and began to say hello.
I was excited. It had been a relaxing flight with a lot to see, a little to learn and not too much to stress about. I had just seen something indescribable and now was on the ground saying hello to Mum and Dad, the manager of the airport and a group of media who had been patiently waiting. After a few quick conversations I walked across to thirty or forty people standing behind the security fence. I was so glad they had taken an interest. I looked into the crowd, looked away and then looked back immediately, recognising some familiar faces from the Frogs Hollow Aero Club, people I had never expected to see in England.
Debbie Keys and her daughter Georgie had been visiting the UK and had told me they would come by the airport to say hello. Just behind them stood, Col and Bev Hazel. No one had mentioned that they would be stopping by. It was great to see them all, a wonderful surprise.
I left the aircraft where it was and spent an hour talking with all sorts of people inside the terminal. There was even an elderly Sri Lankan man who gave me a handful of Sri Lankan currency – he wanted to shout me lunch when I finally arrived in Colombo. There was so much support for the flight and so much excitement to see the Cirrus arrive in Lydd, it was simply a great afternoon.
We packed away the plane and before long we were standing at the doors of the Queen’s Head in Icklesham, East Sussex. We’d come from the thought of a ‘potential gathering’ at the Frogs Hollow Aero Club to a real English pub, and it was surreal to finally be there. We had managed to dodge several vehicles on the ridiculously narrow and winding lanes to get there: I was discovering that the narrower the roads, the faster English people seemed to drive. They must find that kind of thing fun. Luckily the drive ended at a pub.
We spent the evening chatting away and I was asked many questions about the flight so far and where I was headed after leaving England. The room was buzzing – unlike me when I had my first pint of Guinness – but silence quickly fell when a story about my flight popped up on the nightly news. It’s hard to describe what it feels like to be in an English pub with a group of people who have gathered because of a flight you have made, and then to see your own face on an English TV channel. It was strange but exciting to have an evening away from my racing mind that seemed to be stressing about something at every waking moment. When the night was over and I was more than ready for bed, we checked into the Ship Inn in nearby Rye and I went to sleep.
I woke next morning to the knowledge that once again I had one day to prepare the aircraft. I had to fill the ferry tank and it was time to wipe the oil from the underbelly of the Cirrus. I was also up against another issue. The plane was nearing a required fifty-hourly oil change, originally planned for France. I needed to buy and take fresh oil and an oil filter from England. It was all very heavy, not what I wanted to carry anywhere, but we had had trouble sourcing it in France. I spent an hour calling ahead to try and secure a hangar in Cannes because I needed somewhere clean and tidy to change the oil, but that turned out to be harder than I thought.
With little luck organising anything in France I decided to look at my options. Maybe it could be done in England instead? I crunched a few numbers. Each service had to be completed at a certain time: there was a little leeway but no exceptions. Apart from that, I needed to know whether a service in England would leave me with enough hours to fly back to Australia before the next one. If I didn’t think this through I could end up in Indonesia with a grounded aircraft. I didn’t think there would be too many Cirrus-certified engineers in Indonesia.
After a while I decided it was all possible, phoned a local engineering company and explained the situation: ‘Would there be any chance you could give a Cirrus a fifty-hourly service? When? Ahhh, would now be okay?’ All of a sudden the Cirrus was towed from its hangar and a local company was hard at work on the plane. They cheerfully told me not to worry, just to take in the sights and let them do the hard work.
The service meant an extra day in England and one less in France. This didn’t worry me too much as both were countries within Europe meaning no Customs rescheduling or issues with paperwork. All I really needed was liaison with Mike Gray from White Rose Aviation. A key component in the flight’s success, he had been working with me to organise all the overflight and landing clearances for each country.
With a day now up my sleeve I made a last-minute decision to see London really quickly, and so Mum, Dad and I hopped on a fast train that took us to the centre of the city. Once off the train we walked from the Underground and into the bustling streets, jumped on a red double-decker bus and took photos as famous buildings and locations zipped by. I ran from place to place, took a photo in front of Buckingham Palace, poked my head into the Tower of London, drove across London Bridge and gazed upwards at the London Eye before buying a new stuffed toy, a bear guardsman, to add to the ever-growing flight crew.
After only a few hours and with sore feet we took to the Underground and hopped back on the fast train. As we travelled to Rye I reflected that I had just seen London in record time. I had completed a round of the Monopoly board for real.
When the morning sun began shining through the window of the Ship Inn I got up and quickly headed for the airfield. Just down the road, through complete coincidence, was the Eastbourne Airshow, a phenomenal display of flying by the beach. I had only been told about it the day before, although I had a big day ahead to finalise the maintenance and prepare the aircraft I had decided to sacrifice a sleep-in to see one thing in particular – the Red Arrows.
We stood on a typical rocky British beach amongst thousands of other spectators and watched a Spitfire and a Lancaster bomber, two of the most iconic British aircraft, take to the skies over their very own home. Soon after a fleet of red aircraft arrived as the star attraction of the show. The Red Arrows are the British Air Force Aerobatic Team, a world-famous group of red Hawk jet aircraft that trail thick blue, white and red smoke while they perform breathtaking aerobatics. As the Red Arrows disappeared over the horizon it was back into the car and off to the airport.
The Cirrus was pulled from the maintenance hangar complete with new oil and paperwork confirming that it had been inspected. We filled the ferry tank and double-checked all we could, I spent hours looking through paperwork, finishing up blogs and responding to emails. I had also withdrawn a large quantity of US dollars, having heard what the countries towards which I was now headed would and wouldn’t accept as payment, and I knew plenty of US cash was vital.
Although the last few days had been far from planned, the jobs were nearly complete. I was almost ready to fly on to France and I had been rested and revived up to a point. To be able to spend time with familiar people in a comfortable environment was worth every moment. It was now up to me to fly through a further seven countries and back into Australia, only then, when the flight was over, would I be able to catch up with family and friends again.
As the busy few days in England came to an end I finished packing and casually read through the posts and conversations on social media. A photo caught my eye. It was an aircraft overflying Newcastle in the UK at approximately 5000 feet. A perfect shot of the aircraft’s underbelly, an oily white Cirrus tracking from the north to the south.
I was now glad we had wiped most of the oil from the belly of the plane, but how on earth did he take that photo?