Frankfurt to Madrid - part 2
DAY 4
3:34am
Was that a drip?
4:21am
Drip drip drip.
Shit, not again.
4:23am
Dad's up, dragging stuff out of the tent. Good thing we have the key to the Bergerac clubhouse. All our stuff goes inside, including that bloody hopeless tent. I go back to sleep doubled up on a small couch, eternally grateful for Gallic hospitality and the boundless trust of the international pilot fraternity.
In the morning, a visit to the Bergerac airport weatherman confirms that it's a sightseeing and admin day. Showers are forecast for the morning, and winds of up to 30 knots for the afternoon. I should phone my boss in Madrid and inform him that in truth it now looks increasingly unlikely that I will be at my post tomorrow morning, but somehow I keep postponing the call. We rent a car and go sightseeing around the winelands of Bergerac, and swing past a building supplier for plastic sheeting to cover the cockpit, and foam cushions for my increasingly sore arse. Slowly but surely, I am getting the hang of this touring thing.
Our lodgings - Chateau somewhat in need of renovation
In the winelands we come across an old chateau with a room for rent. Quite rustic ... antique furniture and a real wind-up gramophone complete with 78s, all covered in very old dust. A pink and green 1970s bathroom completes the picture - creaky but comfortable.
We pass the day watching the storms pass by and planning the route for the Pyrenees crossing - the last big hurdle before Spain. The mountains are mostly between 2000 and 2500m high, so unless cloudbase is unexpectedly good, we’ll have to cross over using a pass. Being a flatland flyer, this sounds dodgy and dangerous to me, but then that's why I craftily asked Mr 50-yrs Alpine Glider Pilot along for the ride :-)
Bergerac
Finally the Ipaq is loaded with the route. Dinner in a charming town square straight out of "Amelie" rounds off the day. (And have I mentioned the French wine?)
Unless the Pyrenees are completely blocked by storms, tomorrow Spain I do believe!
Unless the Pyrenees are completely blocked by storms, tomorrow Spain I do believe!
DAY 5
I wake up early, with a good feeling about the day. Outside the howling wind has stopped, only a few little non-threatening clouds remain, and all seems hunky dory. But apparently not for my father and travelling companion, ace glider pilot and navigator par excellence. When I exit from the gory green and pink bathroom, he is hunched over his Ipaq with a big black cu-nim building over his head, surrounded by maps and slips of paper, muttering nasty things in German and stabbing angrily at the screen with the little stylus thingie. It seems that somehow all the routes, maps and waypoints that he had meticulously prepared the night before, have disappeared off the temperamental little bugger of a machine. I’m all for braving it with map and sextant, but being an engineer by training, he's having none of that. No, that hapless little box of chips and transistors needs to be brought to heel, conquered, disciplined. I am reminded of Poland ... oh, let's not go there.
I wake up early, with a good feeling about the day. Outside the howling wind has stopped, only a few little non-threatening clouds remain, and all seems hunky dory. But apparently not for my father and travelling companion, ace glider pilot and navigator par excellence. When I exit from the gory green and pink bathroom, he is hunched over his Ipaq with a big black cu-nim building over his head, surrounded by maps and slips of paper, muttering nasty things in German and stabbing angrily at the screen with the little stylus thingie. It seems that somehow all the routes, maps and waypoints that he had meticulously prepared the night before, have disappeared off the temperamental little bugger of a machine. I’m all for braving it with map and sextant, but being an engineer by training, he's having none of that. No, that hapless little box of chips and transistors needs to be brought to heel, conquered, disciplined. I am reminded of Poland ... oh, let's not go there.
Off to the airfield. Because Ryanair now services Bergerac, there is a bizarre system in place where, in order to get from the Flying Club to the other side of the fence where your plane is parked, you are not allowed to use the perfectly good gate, but need to go through the whole shebang of metal detectors and international security control. So I arrive with my satchel, tent, sheepskins, plastic sheeting and raw foam cushions. Not to mention the 2 litre container of top-up oil. And my wet sandals in a plastic bag. All goes through the metal detector and passes with flying colours. I also have to show my license, the details of which are noted down diligently. Nice experience though, when the snooty security people want to see your boarding pass and ask you which flight you are on, to reply breezily: "Oh, no - it’s a private plane!"
Dad is still locked in mortal combat with waypoints and arrows, so I do the daily squashing and tying routine with our baggage. There is an inspection hatch under the normal Motorfalke baggage shelf, so there is a useful space above the wing spars where you can stuff in flexible items like sleeping bags and tents, of course tying them down well so that they don’t go wandering around the tail section.
Outflanked and overpowered, the stroppy Ipaq finally surrenders and does what it is told, and we can strap ourselves into the snug cockpit, just after 11, along with the following essential items: 1 x big bag of maps. 2 x sheepskins, sleeping bags, & foam cushions (all under the bum). 1 x small plastic bottle with cold tea. 1 x tupperware with biltong (there are some basics one can not do without, even in France). 1 x chastened Ipaq. We’re all strapped in, all checks done. I hit the starter button and ... nothing. Some clever person apparently forgot to turn off the master switch in all the excitement of unexpectedly encountering the scrumptious Flying Club dinner 2 nights ago. Well, another interesting lesson learnt. Unstrap. Fortunately KCAO seems to take to hand starting really well. Restrap. Finally, we can taxi out. Bergerac tower clears our takeoff and bids us "bon courage" as we wing our way across the winelands.
First view of the Pyrenees
It’s a fast and low (because of military airspace) run towards the Spanish border. At one stage, we have to scoot around some small showers, but by now it feels like old hat to me. On the horizon, I can make out the first signs of the Pyrenees in the distance. Cloudbase is not particularly high yet - we’ll have to see what it’s like when we get closer.
Flying west along the mountains
We quickly reach the foot of the mountains. It’s an interesting range - at least on the French side, there seems to be no real transition. One moment you’re in the flatlands, the next you’re flying along 2000m mountains whose tops disappear into the clouds. We turn right and head west along the range for half an hour, towards the gap with the mountain pass we had selected as a suitable potential crossing point (always dependent on the weather). The pass is at around 1700m, with much higher peaks all around, so we know we want to be up at at least 1900m to cross over with a healthy safety margin. There are no storms forecast until later in the day, but cloudbase is a concern. As we are flying along the range, base even drops from 1800 down to 1600m - not ideal, but we are hoping that it will be higher in the mountains. The overall meteo wind is along the range, not up against it from one side or another, so there is a reasonable chance that the peaks will not be clagged in with cloud. But I will confess to being nervous at the thought of flying into an area surrounded by mountains and with at least partial cloud cover. Not only am I a confirmed flatlands pilot, I also read the accident reports, and I am well aware how people die. Alone, I would have chickened out round about now, and waited for a week (or a month if needs be) for a totally clear day. But I do trust the old man and his 8000 hours, so on we go.
Entering the pass
Before long we make out our pass, and the landing strip 2 km out in the valley that we will return to if the pass is blocked by clouds. A 90 deg left turn and we’re heading south up the valley into the mountains - we are going to give it a try, always keeping the back door open in case it closes up. As we fly up the steep valley I can only see mountains up ahead. We are surrounded by sharp peaks, scraps of cloud and bits of melting grey snow. But I can also see that the sky is much clearer the further in we go, and base has lifted several hundred metres. So far, we are looking good!
The top of the pass. Up ahead, the kink to the right which leads down into Spain.
Much quicker than expected, the mountain pass road appears up ahead and slightly below us. The clouds are still way up above, and for the first time I start to relax and enjoy the experience. We easily clear the pass and suddenly, after a 45 deg turn to the right, I can see the clear path down towards the dry, yellow fields of Spain. We’ve made it!!
Descending down into Spain
Still lower than the mountains around us, we descend through this gap into a bright, hot, dry day in the Aragon province. Santa Celia de Jaca is a big gliding airfield in the foothills of the mountains, and our next refuelling stop. Within 15 minutes we are in the circuit, touching down on a short tar runway next to an immaculately organised and spanking clean centre with admin office, a buzzing bar and restaurant, clean toilets and a pool. No wonder this is a popular destination for sailplane comps for people from all over Europe. I purchase 25 litres of Avgas and 2 ice-cold cokes. Now we only have 300km to go to Madrid, and for the first time I actually start believing that I am going to sleep in my own bed tonight.
Refuelling in Santa Cilia de Jaca
The last stretch is an easy cruise - a pretty sky, no storms or headwinds, just the wide open landscape beneath us. It’s thermic as well, and picking the good lines under the clouds rewards us with up to 5m/s climbs. What a pity we are now running against the clock, otherwise this would have been a good day to finally shut down the motor and glide for a stretch. One thing you really notice is the complete absence of airfields in Spain. Maybe due to the fact that until a generation ago, this country was dirt poor, aviation is just not really on the map here - certainly compared to France or Germany. Flying in Spain is still something quite exotic that very few people pursue (and many of them foreigners to boot). So apart from one small Microlight strip that does not have fuel, there is nothing on our route to Madrid. Fortunately Madrid is well within reach on a tankful.
I have decided to aim for the Robledillo strip on the eastern side of Madrid - for a start, it’s closer and obviates the need to also cross the Guadarrama range and fly all the way to the north-western side of Madrid. It’s also the only place I was able to get reasonably priced hangarage close enough to the city to make it a viable proposition. In the course of the summer, I’ll try to move to one of the big gliding airfields north of Madrid, where there is less airspace and less complicated flying.
For now, we start weaving our way through the various airspaces and D and R zones. In another sign of a not particularly GA-friendly country, Madrid airport has been allocated gigantic airspace. Together with the various military no-fly zones and restricted areas, you really need to keep your wits about you when flying here to stay out of trouble. The last 30km towards Robledillo we fly along a corridor about 2km wide, with an upper limit of 4000 feet and the rugged, hilly ground at over 3000. Very little to play with, and an engine-out would be tricky, to say the least.
We finally touch down on the 1000m Robledillo tar strip. It is 7pm, but the sun is still high in the sky and there are nearly 3 hours of daylight left. But for us, that’s enough flying for now. CAO has found a new home in a gigantic, slightly dusty ex-military hangar, in the company of a small gyrocopter and a dozen Microlights of all descriptions. The plane has behaved impeccably all the way, and apart from the water-in-cockpit saga, I think it has fulfilled its role admirably well, considering its sprightly 39 years.
For now, we start weaving our way through the various airspaces and D and R zones. In another sign of a not particularly GA-friendly country, Madrid airport has been allocated gigantic airspace. Together with the various military no-fly zones and restricted areas, you really need to keep your wits about you when flying here to stay out of trouble. The last 30km towards Robledillo we fly along a corridor about 2km wide, with an upper limit of 4000 feet and the rugged, hilly ground at over 3000. Very little to play with, and an engine-out would be tricky, to say the least.
We finally touch down on the 1000m Robledillo tar strip. It is 7pm, but the sun is still high in the sky and there are nearly 3 hours of daylight left. But for us, that’s enough flying for now. CAO has found a new home in a gigantic, slightly dusty ex-military hangar, in the company of a small gyrocopter and a dozen Microlights of all descriptions. The plane has behaved impeccably all the way, and apart from the water-in-cockpit saga, I think it has fulfilled its role admirably well, considering its sprightly 39 years.
The stats: about 1600km direct (Pohlheim - Robledillo), 6 flights with a total of 14:07 flying hours, 140 litres of fuel. Collateral damage: 1 somewhat dented wallet (within reason), 2 sore bums, 4 ringing ears, and one grumpy boss. The intense flying hours have substantially boosted my confidence in handling the glider in unfamiliar situations. I have learnt huge amounts, flying in a variety of conditions, and landing at a string of unfamiliar airfields. Having access to my own motorglider promises to be a fabulous (if possibly expensive) experience, and I look forward to exploring more of Spain and Portugal this summer. I also know what the next item on my shopping list is: the most expensive seat cushions money can buy!
