Five go to Brittany

Duncan Campbell and friends load up their Luscombes (and a Navion) and head across the Channel to France…

It was Nigel Barratt’s idea (I think…) to take a small group of Luscombes to Brittany in June. After some emailing to and fro we knew that our aerial party would consist of four Luscombe Silvaire 8s and a Navion. The broad intention was to spend time enjoying the places we visited, not just to aviate. With our departure set for Wednesday, Tom, based at Barton, plus Pete and Michelle, based at Haverfordwest, were planning to fly down to our strip, Kittyhawk Farm, the day before. I laid in a supply of mogas, on which our Continentals run very happily, and had arranged with our neighbour to put Tom up for the night. Michelle and Pete were going to stay with Deborah and me.

As I waited at the strip that evening, I don’t mind admitting that I felt a bit apprehensive. I knew all of our guests, but hadn’t seen them for some considerable time. Pete had restored a number of Luscombes over the years, but G-AGMI, our aeroplane, had been his first, and I wanted him to feel she had been well looked after. Our A/G crackled and there she was, G-BROO, all beautiful dark red with cream detail, descending over Glyndebourne into our downwind for 34. Though Mike India normally lives in the hangar, I had parked her up on the side of the taxiway to save unpacking the next day, and so we could have a trouble-free departure. Pete and Michelle taxied in and lined up neatly alongside. There was only one other person on the strip that evening… Jack, who is our unendingly helpful and friendly strip manager who always seems to have the right nut, bolt or tool somewhere in the hangar, and who also flies a Luscombe.

I could tell Jack was impressed, almost drooling over the immaculate paintwork as his eyes lingered admiringly over the stunning dark red and cream detail, just puzzling over why we would choose to go to France, where people ‘speak differently’ and ‘eat strange things’? Jack had left by the time Tom arrived in his beautifully self-restored, intense blue, G-AJKB. Everything fuelled, lined up beautifully – and secured – we drove home and enjoyed a good evening out.

High anxiety

Our route was to take us inland along the coast, overhead Lydd, crossing to Cap Gris Nez and then down to Le Touquet for customs. There are quicker routes, but this would be the shortest sea crossing. One of our passengers was very nervous about flying over the sea, which meant the wisest and most compassionate course of action was to reduce the over-the-sea journey, which would lessen the time spent in the cockpit, and consequently the element of high anxiety.

We took off line astern… at exactly the time indicated on our flight plans, which I think was a first for me! Though

I have flown in France on many occasions, delays have always seemed to creep in. Being that departure was from my neck of the woods, Deb and I led the flight in Mike India. Heading east, a little north of the coast, I checked that we were still in touch with each other. We changed to London Information and I requested that our flight plans be opened. Working out that we were travelling together, the controller suggested that we take the name ‘Luscombe Formation’, and assigned a squawk to me. It made everything so much simpler. Aware that we were on a busy frequency there was no chat between us, until a mildly exasperated voice pleaded that I go a little faster as he was, ‘falling out of the sky’. I obliged, but had more revs going than I usually did in the cruise. We were greeted as ‘Luscombe Formation’ at the FIR boundary, and the same again as we were picked up by Le Touquet. A mild glitch appeared when my transponder went on the blink and, for that last leg, at the request of the Le Touquet controller, Pete picked up the squawk and led us in, line astern.

On the ground Pete and Tom asked why I had been going so slow. “I wasn’t,” I said, “my ASI showed 110mph!”. When they’d stopped laughing, we exchanged more details about power settings and ASI readings, and it was very apparent, comparing my figures with theirs, which were the same, that my aeroplane was flying with an over-reading instrument and on much lower power settings.

Above Kittyhawk Farm line-up.

Below Dassault Flamant, one of five being restored at Alençon.

With no comparisons and an aeroplane that flies so beautifully, there had been nothing to indicate this. I could see how it had happened. We had replaced two cylinders and our ASI at the same time, and we naturally thought we were going faster because we’d given our engine a treat! As we rarely went straight from A to B in still air, flight times hadn’t really shown the discrepancy. Pete told me that, after rebuilding Mike India, he had flown her for some time and he used to cruise at 2,250rpm, sometimes 2,300.

The group that bought her from him dropped that to 2,150 and, in my time, we had dropped it still further, achieving a splendid 16 litres per hour. Over the trip, there was plenty of opportunity to check things against the three other Luscombes, and from Le Touquet onwards I used more revs and achieved greater airspeed, more cockpit noise and greater fuel consumption… but at least I was able to keep up! Have to do something about that ASI, though…

We filled up at Le Touquet, stopped only long enough for coffee and took off for Alençon. Shortly after take off we overflew Eu Mers Le Tréport. It is an intriguingly neat tarmac strip on top of the cliffs. I visited there in 2011 and learned from the clubs that operate it that it had previously been a satellite military strip but had been sold to them for one euro a few years before, on condition that it be kept in good repair. Such a contrast to the steady erosion of airfields we are witnessing in the UK.

Somewhere over northern France a buzzard appeared from nowhere a few feet ahead of us aiming straight for the cockpit. Our closing speed must have been something like 140mph. My immediate instinct was to bank away to avoid a bird strike but, that being overlapped by the chilling realisation that I had no idea exactly where Pete and Michelle, and Tom, were at that precise moment, I held the course and just blinked as the bird banked sharply to its right and skimmed past our port wingtip. Deborah gasped, and so did Tom, as the buzzard narrowly missed him. I think it was just trying to warn us off, but it could have been messy.

Replica Dewoitine 510

We landed at Alençon in an extended stream and were met by a very friendly man who was clearly delighted to see us and who enthused about our three Luscombes. We asked if we could refuel at the club pumps, and he agreed but first, he said, he wanted us to see something. He led us over to the hangar he had been working in and proudly showed us the full-size replica Dewoitine 510 on which he was working. There, on its own wheels stood the large, open cockpit, low-wing 1930s fighter he had built and was now restoring to flying condition. He told us he had lent it to a friend and it had come back bent. “Could we fuel now?”… “Yes, yes, yes... all in good time… I must show you something else…”. He moved on to the next hangar.

Outside was a silver light twin with two fins and French Air Force markings… a Dassault Flamant (Flamingo). These were transport and liaison aircraft built shortly after WWII.

I suppose they might have been the equivalent of the Anson, but they seemed bigger and had a tricycle undercarriage. He pointed across the taxiway at two others and then led us into the hangar to indicate yet two more in different states of repair. He beckoned down from his ladder the older man working on one of the Flamants, who was followed by his son from the inside of an immaculate Broussard that looked as if it had just rolled off the production line. He introduced us. They browsed over our Luscombes making contented noises and we refuelled, while Deb wandered off to the supermarket. It had been a charming, though slightly longer stop than we had envisaged. Still, there was plenty of time and, refuelled – aeroplanes and people – we took off for Saumur, our destination for the night.

Approaching the airfield, I blind-called our intentions. Downwind, we could clearly pick out the chunky mass of James and Catherine's Navion, as well as the more delicate shape of Nigel and Steph's silver Luscombe parked on the apron. They had coasted out at Swanage and come direct to Cherbourg and then to Saumur. Nigel had thoughtfully put a big notice inside his cockpit advising taxi numbers. We were tired and thirsty after our long flight and decided to leave refuelling until the following day and get straight on to ordering taxis. I dialled both numbers, getting automatic ‘out of order’ responses for both. Plan B (always have a plan B!) ... find a friendly human being and request help. There was no-one about on the apron but, trying the clubhouse door, I found someone inside, standing behind the bar. She was very willing to try for a taxi on her own phone and was immediately successful in arranging for a people carrier to collect us in about half an hour. I thanked her and asked, “I don’t suppose the bar’s open is it?”... “Of course…,” came the reply!

Deborah, Tom, Pete and Michelle were busy cleaning flight grime and the insect collection off the fleet, when I told them the taxi would arrive in about 30 minutes. Tired resignation gave way to smiles at the realisation that cold beer was available in the clubhouse. As they crossed the apron, and I passed them on my way to unload Mike India, I reflected that functioning as the group interpreter could see me bringing up the rear quite a lot over the next few days. I did get my beer, though.

Saumur is a pretty town on the Loire. Sadly, some of us were to spend less time there than anywhere else on our trip, having had such a long flying day to get there. Once linked up with our fellow travellers at the hotel, we strolled around the town, loved the colourful display of hovering parasols above the high street and found L'Auberge St Pierre, a reasonably priced restaurant with a heaving outside terrace – always a good sign. I approached the serveuse who looked like she was overseeing proceedings and asked if she could accommodate nine of us. She looked doubtful. I said we were British aviators who had only just landed and I regretted that booking ahead hadn’t been possible. Immediately, extra tables and chairs were produced and put together to make a long banqueting table. The red wine lovers among us drank the local Saumur Champigny, which was plentiful and reasonably priced. As in many wine-producing areas in Europe, local vignerons, often small family businesses, cannot produce enough to meet the demand of big suppliers, so they sell direct to visitors or to the local co-operative or, as in this case, to the local restaurants. The mark-up is reasonable and the wine is fine. I should perhaps add, for the benefit of any concerned readers, that the issue of ‘bottle to throttle’ time was aired adequately. As we ate, a hot air balloon drifted slowly in the still air above the rooftops.

Below Two of the five Flamands being restored at Alencon. Bottom Street furniture at Saumur.

Lure of the Loire

As day dawned we met up downstairs, some heading for breakfast by the beautiful Loire, while others, still weary from the day before, were content to go no further than the hotel dining room. Our plan for the day had originally been to fly to the Ile d’Yeu and then, after exploring the island, to swing back to Les Sables D’Olonne, where we were already booked in for the night. The forecast and the skies above us suggested that it was to be one of those days when the weather could swing either way. Our destinations being coastal, we decided not to risk a night on the island (it may have an airfield but it’s not very big) but to head straight for Les Sables D’Olonne and keep Ile d’Yeu for the day after.

We had all agreed to fill up whenever the opportunity arose. Nigel was the first at the pump with BRUG. It was equipped to dispense fuel with a credit card as well as the ubiquitous Total card. Once filled, Nige pushed his aeroplane back and we rolled Mike India into place. I put in my own card. ‘Sorry’, said the message on the screen, ‘... this facility is no longer available’. Time to find a friendly local again. While we had been trying to refuel, a young man appeared and rolled out his Robin. He had already been diverted from his task by Pete, who had persuaded him to open the clubhouse and retrieve the hat he had left in the bar the night before. I explained our problem. He telephoned the pump engineer who told him that his remote monitoring system indicated that the credit card facility had malfunctioned but the pump would still dispense fuel using the club code. And so, we all refuelled, paying the club in cash for what we had received. By the time we took off, James and Catherine had still not appeared but they knew where we were going and would soon catch up in their powerful, Mustang-winged Navion.

From Le Touquet to Alençon and from there to Saumur, Tom, Pete and Michelle and Deborah and I had flown in uncontrolled airspace, adopting a loose cluster and, when necessary, communicated with each other on 118.00. We were to learn fairly quickly that this was not a good frequency to adopt, many local airfields using a frequency close to that with consequent bleed. I also monitored Auto Information 123.5, the French equivalent of our Safetycom, listening out for any possible conflict with local traffic. Our next leg, from Saumur to Les Sables D’Olonne, was again to be clear of controlled airspace. By now, we had found that 123.45 seemed to be a frequency that no-one else was using and, from then on, that became our in-flight communication channel.

Formation flying

We took off in an extended, staggered line astern, and Nigel and Steph took the lead. I was ‘tailend Charlie’. This was to be my introduction to holding formation over an extended period (not close formation, I hasten to add!). In the past I had unsuccessfully sought an introduction to formation flying with my then excellent taildragger instructor but it is not easy to assemble instructors, similar aircraft, a like-minded pilot and the weather to be in the same place at the same time. The planets just never aligned… (and before anyone suggests it, I no longer have the funding to take myself off to one of the excellent training organisations dedicated to such learning). We formed up in a starboard echelon and I worked hard at holding position, to the right and slightly above Tom, very visible in his bright blue Luscombe. Inevitably, given the gusty conditions and the thermals (cloud base was low and we were rarely above 2,000ft) I watched my three colleagues going up and down ahead of me, awaited my turn and learned a lot about how much wake turbulence can be created by three Luscombes! Our formation skirted several towns, strips and places to avoid, passing them on the left. This often meant that, being on the far right, I had to cut across to the left to avoid overflying, letting Tom know I had changed position and advising him when I was back in formation. It is perhaps worth saying at this point that the French regulations require powered aircraft to be 3,300ft above quite small towns. The charts show such towns in bright yellow and define them as being between 1,200 metres and 3,600 metres in width – and that’s not very big at all. Somewhere south of Cholet, James tried to find us and, not doing so, continued on alone to Les Sables D’Olonne.

A wide berth

Shortly before our destination, our direct route would have taken us overhead the airfield at La Roche Sur Yon. The chart showed that gliding, parachuting and aerobatics all took place there, so we would either have had to give it a very wide berth indeed – or negotiate. I called Nigel and suggested that I talk to its information service and request transit... and possibly a low pass along its 1,500 metres of hard runway? He agreed. The man in the tower also agreed without hesitation and was clearly enthusiastic about four UK aircraft doing such a thing but was unsure what type we were. I explained, and he was very keen, advising us to make our pass along Runway 28 and asked that we give him two minutes’ notice of our arrival. We passed at about 50ft above the runway in a shallow echelon, not far off line abreast, a wonderful experience. Not sure what it looked like from the outside, but he thanked us warmly for our visit.

Refuelling facilities

Landing at Les Sables D’Olonne we were more than ready for a light lunch at the restaurant by the entrance to the airfield before heading into town. James and Catherine had already arrived and were standing somewhat disconsolately outside the faded facade of a restaurant that had clearly been deserted for some months. The others summoned two taxis while I went in search of refuelling facilities. There was a pump, but no-one to talk to, so I made a note of the telephone number on the wall outside the Aeroclub and resolved to call after the extended lunch period. The two taxis arrived, each fitted out to seat four people. The problem was that we were nine. The cost of taxis in France being significantly greater than in the UK we didn’t really want to request a third. The taxi drivers explained that it could cost them their licence if the police clocked that they were overloaded but, after some negotiation, they allowed Steph who, in the nicest possible way was the least substantial member of our party, to lie horizontally across the laps of the rear seat passengers. In this interestingly unconventional manner, we arrived at our hotel.

Help on hand

As we strolled into town, I called the number I’d noted down and a very hospitable man offered to drop everything and shoot up to the airfield immediately to refuel us. As we had already left we agreed to meet the following day at the airfield between 1030 and 1100 when he would help us with refuelling. We found a café with tables and chairs grouped on the square outside the Hotel de Ville and ordered coffee, excellent crêpes and beer. Deb wandered off to find a cashpoint and to explore the shops. She had been finding the 1940s door fitting in Mike India slightly lacking in the draught-exclusion department and she came back with a bright blue number that did the job well –and looked great. We all wandered off in different directions to check out the town and seek out restaurants that might suit, having agreed to meet up back at the hotel before heading out for the evening. Nigel had found what turned out to be a very good family run Italian restaurant and, after a pre-prandial beverage or two, we dined magnificently.

Above left Steph at Les Sables D’Olonne (Nigel’s en route dry cleaning method plain to see).

Above right A very contented and refreshed Tom at Les Sables D’Olonne.

Below Tom in KB, and Pete and Michelle heading up the coast to Île-d’Yeu.

Arriving at the airfield the next morning, a number of local flyers were there, all keen to look at our aeroplanes and help us refuel. ‘Mmm… train classique’ nodded one, approvingly. An aeroplane that was not a Luscombe taxied out and roared overhead, circling to come back down the runway at speed and low level. In the Aeroclub office, some grunted approval while others looked less than impressed. I cautiously suggested that we also might like to do a low run in formation after take-off, but only if they were OK with it. They were, but, unlike the recently departed aircraft, only if we genned up on the bird sanctuary and noise sensitive areas and scrupulously avoided them. Nigel, who would lead us, checked the plates in the office and we took off, circled, returned at low level past the waiting cameras and, as we pulled up and away, were rewarded by sincere thanks and ‘Bon voyage’ over the radio.

Salt on the tyres…

It wasn’t far to the Île-d’Yeu, and the sea crossing part is about the same as crossing the Solent to the Isle of Wight… but the Île-d’Yeu is a lot smaller, about five nautical miles long and two wide. We circumnavigated its beautiful rocky shores. Oscar Oscar and Kilo Bravo went on ahead, and Nigel and Steph dived down to take a closer look at the geology and get salt on their tyres, while Deb and I kept a safe distance above them.

Nigel had thought that it may be possible to rent bicycles at the airfield to get down to town but, as we parked and wandered over to the tower, there seemed to be no-one around and the bicycles were all locked up. I went exploring the buildings around the base of the tower and found a charming gentleman, probably in his ninth decade of life, in a small but well-equipped lounge. He was delighted to see us. He said that he was about to go down to town and could give three of us a lift, but only three as he had a small car. I’d noticed a bus stop adjacent to the tower and asked if buses ran today. Yes, he explained, the 1130 (an hour previous) and it would be back at 1700. The bicycles were all already committed. He assured us that the town was only about three kilometres away, well probably four although, come to think of it, it was more like five. There was only the one road down so we couldn’t go wrong and, anyway, here on the Île everyone who lived here stopped if they saw somebody thumbing – it’s just what they did here. Learning that we were coming back and flying out the same day, he gave me a guided tour of the lounge, and then the fridge, pointing out the milk, the tea, the coffee, the various soft drinks, the price list and the honesty box on the wall. Oh, he paused, pointing at a single pipe rising from the sink and topped by two taps… this left-hand tap is cold water and this, gesturing to the right-hand one… is cold draught beer. For good measure he sprung the tap to prove he spoke the truth. He said he would leave it all open for us so we could get some refreshment after our six kilometre walk back and before we took off.

Above Deb and me in the venerable old lady of the fleet (1941) over Île-d’Yeu.

Below left Walking to Port Joinville (L-R Nigel, Steph, Pete, Tom, Michelle, Deb).

Below right Ice-cream contentment in Port Joinville.

Pleasure craft

We set off and found the town, Port Joinville, where we bought ice-creams and sat on a huge beam, slurping our ices and gazing at the shuttle ferry and pleasure craft in the harbour. It was at this point that Nigel announced that he thought we should take off for Quiberon in about an hour. As it had taken us the best part of an hour to get down the hill to the town the best bet seemed to be to find a taxi to get at least some of us back. I crossed the road and asked the girl who shortly before had sold us the ice creams. Starting with, “There aren’t any…”, she remembered she had a local services pamphlet and found the numbers for two taxis which ply their trade on the island. I phoned. Both were in Paris…

‘Lost’… in France

We started walking, thumbing as we went. The walk gave ample opportunity to look at the scenery. The whitewashed shape of the houses recalled Greek villages and the proliferation of Breton names made it seem that we were somewhere other than France. Inevitably, our group stretched out and then fragmented into smaller groups no longer in sight of one another. The solitary road that had led down to the town seemed to have acquired a number of junctions on the way back and Deb and I soon found ourselves isolated.

I stopped to look at a sign on a post and it clarified that, sure enough, there was a system in place on the island whereby residents could apply for a free card that guaranteed their moral rectitude, and thumb a lift from any other resident.

The fly in the ointment was that, in the summer, the island is populated by holiday makers in rented vehicles either unaware or nervous of this system. We heard the faltering note of a not-very-well vehicle approaching. I stuck out my thumb. A faded, battered car drew to a halt beside us and a young builder swept aside the tools on the seats and willingly agreed to give us a lift to the airfield. We were the first to arrive.

As our friendly gentleman had said, the door to the lounge was open and we poured out glasses of cold water and sat in the sun waiting for the arrival of the rest of our aeronautical family.

Aviation museum

Our flight to Quiberon took us by St Nazaire and over some spectacularly flooded areas. Beyond La Baule, the coastal plain is given over to the cultivation of something in well-ordered beds, but there was also evidence of flooding beyond that. Later, at Quiberon, a family friend of James’ confirmed that there had been a lot of rain and consequent flooding in the area. Preparing to write this account, I learned that La Baule Aeroport, which we passed by on our journey, is the home of an aviation museum and that the town and beaches have much to offer. Perhaps a fine destination to explore another time?

English? Please stay…

The unmistakably muscular profile of James’ and Catherine’s Navion was already evident when we arrived. They were in the clubhouse and we all refreshed before heading off to our lodgings for the night, the gloriously appropriately named Hotel Albatros. We seemed to have acquired a post-landing routine by now. A quick freshen up, then a walk to take in the air, scout for a suitable restaurant, a convivial bar, then food. We sat down at some outside tables overlooking the beach, where preparations were ongoing for some big sporting event on Saturday. The serveur approached and, in French, asked if we would like some menus. I replied that we were just in the mood for drinks and he said that the tables were reserved for diners and politely asked us to vacate. I was explaining this to the others when, again in his mother tongue, he questioned whether we were English. As I confirmed that most of us were, but two were Welsh, he said that, in that case, we must stay in our seats. Now, whether this was because he was an Anglophile or because his experience had been that Brits spend vast amounts of money on alcohol while eschewing French cuisine I will never know, but it was a fine spot in which to relax. The restaurant we had chosen was, overall, nothing particularly special, but the beef I had chosen was beautifully tender, and the wine was good.

The following morning, Tom, Deborah and I sat on the hotel balcony eating breakfast and watching Nigel, Steph, Pete and Michelle sitting by the beach munching pastries.

It began to lightly rain, but enough to drive them to shelter. We continued to munch contentedly and perhaps, I confess, a trifle smugly. We weren’t planning to book out too early as we only had one leg to our final stop in France, when we would leave Brittany for Avranches in Lower Normandy. Later, we strolled into the main square, where a market was in the final stages of setting up. For Deborah, street markets are as powerful as a magnet is to iron filings. She dragged me over in her wake and, though she always seems to me to be hell bent on emptying the joint bank account single-handed, I have to admit I bought a Breton fisherman's long sleeved t-shirt for me. Of course, that’s different though…

Above The spectacular water beds near St Nazaire.

Below The distinctive machismo of our big brother Navion, flown by James and Catherine, owners of Farway Common.

We walked back to the airport and I went up to the control tower to pay my landing fee from the day before, and to negotiate fuel for us all. The €10 landing fee seemed reasonable, but there was an additional €10 to pay for overnight parking. Still not bad, I thought. The very helpful woman locked the control tower (it was now closed for lunch) and we wheeled our aeroplanes over to the pumps. Refuelling completed, we followed her back up the external spiral staircase to the door of the control tower. There then followed a scene that would have been worthy of a Jacques Tati Monsieur Hulot film. The key turned uselessly in the lock. One by one, the massed testosterone on the staircase behind her moved up to have a go… to no avail. We had to go so we moved back downstairs to the bar where we paid cash for our fuel. As we prepared to leave, our helpful controller was wondering how she was going to manage the anticipated Saturday afternoon rush with just a handheld and no board on which to keep track of movements. As we climbed away, she called on her handheld to wish us well. It was only later I realised that, in her consternation, she had completely forgotten to ask my colleagues for landing or parking fees.

Mont Saint-Michel

You can spot Avranches from a great distance, marked as it is by the mass of Mont Saint-Michel arising out of the estuary. It really is the most stunning sight and though I was at Avranches last year, I never had the opportunity to fly around it. It does have its own exclusion zone, occupying a radius of about one-and-a-half nautical miles and not below 3,000ft, but that still gives the opportunity to circle and get some splendid photographs. Tom and I did just that, while the others landed. James and Catherine, in our friendly Navion, were no longer with us, having gone on to the Channel Islands.

The clubhouse was open and Madame, who has been there for longer than anyone can remember, was happy to serve us cold beers.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry signs in…

We were in no rush and sat, chilling in the sun (can one chill in the sun?) and chatting. Madame wanted us to fill out the visitors book and admire the old entries. The book is old and a little tatty, but since its first entries were made in the 1930s, this is hardly surprising. A few pages in is an entry by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry recording his arrival at Avranches on the 20th August 1937. Many people who have no interest at all in aviation will know his book, The Little Prince, translated into many languages and popular with children across the world. He also wrote, Wind, Sand and Stars, Night Flight and, Flight to Arras, all wonderful books detailing his life between the wars flying in France, Argentina and North Africa in very challenging conditions and, when flying the mail, often for lengthy duration. He won a number of literary awards and, in my very insignificant personal view, even after all this time, his books about flying remain among the best. He had joined the Armée de l’Air before WWII broke out and, when France declared an armistice with Germany, joined the Free French Air Force in North Africa. In 1944, flying a P-38 Lightning on a reconnaissance mission, he disappeared over the Mediterranean. His ID bracelet was found by a fisherman in 1998 off Marseille and the remains of the aircraft believed to be his subsequently found and retrieved. With the occupation of France, the Avranches visitors book was spirited away and hidden, because it could have identified qualified pilots who might be fighting with the Free French, and thus their local families. The book shows no further entries until cessation of hostilities. I sat for some while trying to interpret the handwriting that indicated what type of aeroplane Antoine de Saint-Exupéry had been flying.

Sherman tank

When we were ready to leave, I enquired about taxi numbers and began to work my way through them. Either no pick-up at all, or a polite, ‘I’m in Paris on a job’… One of the flying club members stopped me and said he would drop us off at the hotel. Then a second stepped forward and made the same offer. Hotel Patton, was situated mere metres from the memorial to the Normandy landings, on a roundabout, and easily identifiable by the Sherman tank in the middle. As we drew to a halt, our driver said he would be happy to pick us up at when we wished the following day and take us to the airfield. He said that local taxi drivers were simply not interested in the short trip to and from the local airfield and that it was a pleasure to help.

Hanging ivy – and more!

We scrubbed up and set off for a bar that Nigel knew, scouting on the way for suitable restaurants. We found the low doorway to the ground floor of L’anticario, further encumbered by plants and curtains. The menu outside was handwritten in an old school exercise book. It looked good. We bent down past the hanging ivy and entered the gloom. There seemed to be only two or three small tables there, all vacant. Suddenly a head cocked sideways appeared through a waist-high serving hatch in the wall and said, “Yes?”

“Do you have a table for seven?” Back came the affirmative reply. A hand appeared and pointed at the ceiling and then over to a corner, then hand and head disappeared. In the darkness we made out the first step of the tightest winding spiral staircase you’ve ever seen. Upstairs other diners were busy eating and chatting and we found the perfectly sized long table and made ourselves comfortable. In fairly short order our hatch man appeared and handed out more exercise books. He was of medium height with sparkling eyes and straggly, dark hair, not unlike photographs I have seen of Rasputin. The food was excellent and, having settled up, we went to leave.

Our host was having none of it and encouraged us down the tight spiral staircase to the basement. At the bottom was yet another dining area. As our eyes became accustomed to the dark, we could first see diners at the tables and then the hundreds of bras hanging from the ceiling, draped over the tables and chair backs. Our host produced a bottle of scotch, filled glasses and we drank to each others’ health before heading back to the hotel.

Sea crossings

Sunday morning, the day planned for our departure back home was not particularly good weather wise. Deborah has never been a natural flyer, disliking both sea crossings and bumpy, turbulent flights over land. We decided we would stay another day. Pete and Michelle, who had to factor in their extended journey up to Haverfordwest also decided to stay on. We bid farewell to Nigel, Steph and Tom who arrived at their respective destinations having experienced weather that was perhaps marginally better, rather than worse, than that forecast.

Our extra day enabled us to walk the town, explore the Jardin des Plantes (tranquil and beautiful), cathedral and, by chance, find another excellent restaurant – La Table du Thé, where we ate another superb meal.

The following morning looked equally as gloomy but we took a taxi to the airfield and sat and waited. We had decided we would take the longer sea crossing, coasting out from Cherbourg. A microlight arrived from the direction we were going in. Yes it wasn’t bad, maybe about 1,000ft overcast cloud base. The problem was that he hadn’t come far and the TAFs showed this all the way to Cherbourg, and there were some 700ft high spots on the way. We waited. The microlight pilot had come in to do a Baptême de l’Air (maiden flight) with someone and he and his family all sat at a table discussing the flight. Eventually, they all packed up and went home. We thought about eating but no food was served at the clubhouse. The TAFs progressively improved marginally but not enough… but they, and the Metars, all seemed to be automatic, so I telephoned Cherbourg Tower. The reality was much better so, with a plan B in the pocket, we headed for Cherbourg. We were certain that we would be welcomed by Luc and Edith at Le Coucou and dine well before heading back across the Channel.

Cherbourg was quiet. The restaurant was shut because Luc and Edith had gone to the UK to visit their daughter and new granddaughter. We were refuelled by a Sapeur Pompier (a bit more than a fireman), passed through the empty Douanes control point (the small team now covers a huge area, policing seaports and airports, and pops in from time to time), and paid our landing fees to the same Sapeur Pompier. Incidentally, at €2.08 Euros a litre, this was the cheapest avgas we had encountered, nicely countering the 2.44 per litre we had paid at Le Touquet! Two young pilots who had arrived in a Cessna told me that they had come expressly to eat at Le Coucou. They asked me if I knew of any other places serving food nearby. I didn’t, but offered to ask our friendly Sapeur Pompier. He advised that a taxi trip to Cherbourg at around €30-40 was the only other option… but that they would be delighted to offer us tea or coffee on the house. He locked up and we repaired to the hospitality suite.

Isle of Wight looms large

Our flight back to the UK went rapidly. We had a tailwind and, after parting company with Pete and Michelle mid-Channel, I was surprised when the white cliffs of the Isle of Wight appeared so soon.

We landed at Goodwood, closed our flight plan and starving by now, headed to the restaurant. It was closed. We took off for Kittyhawk and, with a stonking crosswind, threw away two landings before making it safely down. We cleaned Mike India and headed for The Ram at Firle. There we ate for the first time in 12 hours.

Below The bra bar!

Bottom The South Downs approaching Kittyhawk Farm.

Pete and Michelle spent a further two days at Oaksey Park waiting for the weather to clear enough for them to return to Wales.

It had, indeed, been a splendid few days! ■