The White Cliffs of Dover...
Well, that or a white and blue PA28...
There's something deeply moving and poignant about being able to fly over the White Cliffs of Dover, especially seeing the wonderful Battle of Britain Memorial as you coast out. It's the privilege that we live in a part of the world where we have the freedom to see that sight and know that it has seen some tragic dogfights that ultimately won us the Second World War. Knowing that I'm looking at a view that would have been seen by both German and English pilots during the Second World War and wondering what emotions were experienced by both and what thoughts were going through the minds of each pilot I encounter something bittersweet. From where I am looking in this photo we are flying away from the coast of England towards Boulogne and the coast of France. In fact our destination - Abbeville - was a key airfield during the German occupation of France where the infamous Messerschmit 109s were based. As a British pilot this view could have been the last glimpse they had of their home country before perishing over the continental soil. As a German pilot this sight could have been met with great relief as though on the home run, having completed their mission and now heading for home. So many mixed emotions - fear and anxiety to relief and exuberance.
Of course, today we were enjoying the novelty of being able to take a light aircraft to visit another airfield in the continent, have lunch there and soak up the experience; a huge contrast to the scenario 67 years ago. We enjoy peace and merriment - but this came at a price, and I feel it is only right to honour and appreciate the liberties we have today. It was such a wonderful experience though. I've flown across to France in a light aircraft before, visiting Le Touquet in a Cessna 172. The adventure never diminishes. And as for the cuisine - well that's worth the trip in itself. I would like to return by car some day and explore the area at greater length. You can't beat flying in, but we were in a huge crowd of British aviators and it almost didn't feel like France once on the ground, aside from the french menus, waiting staff and the occasional french aviator. But what a day... Abbeville itself is some km's away so the airfield was kind of remote, but it was a very peaceful, quaint little place with much gliding activity and a lot of campers. We entered what must've been the clubhouse first and tried to communicate with the locals. They didn't speak English but assured us (in French) that they spoke wonderful French, which I thought was hilarious. I wished I could've communicated in French to demonstrate that we aren't complete xenophobic philistines...
But we found the appropriate building shortly afterwards only to discover that the official was away for lunch. I love the French. So laissez faire... It seemed almost pointless to have brought our passports. No-one was remotely interested in seeing them. So we headed off to the restaurant for lunch and bypassed the office on our return to the aircraft. They also didn't talk to us on the radio. It's funny because it's not unwelcoming but more a sort of "do as you please".
On our return flight we were routing back to Boulogne again and I noticed that every time my pilot reached across to the right to adjust the transponder he allowed the aircraft to turn right. He corrected this the first time, but failed to the second time. He then wondered why the radio aids seem to indicate that we needed to turn left in order to be pointing in the right direction for Boulogne. I also wondered why he hadn't noticed that the compass was indicating that we were heading Northeast. My instincts were telling me that we needed to be heading North if not North-northwest. So it was no surprise when the kindly french air traffic controller (one that finally decided to talk to us) informed us that if we were routing to Boulogne this was at our 9 o'clock position (i.e. to our left). After correcting our heading the pilot mentioned that the wind must've been stronger up here than he'd anticipated. True enough. Admittedly he was doing his PLOG while airborne which would account for most of the errors. But we coasted out in the vicinity of Boulogne and the rest was pretty basic visual reference points. Once over the British coast we needed to descend from 5500ft to 2000ft so we pulled the engine back to idle and just floated down, warming the engine from time to time, occasionally sideslipping to kill more altitude faster (well that's one way of doing it). Everyone I fly with seems to enjoy putting the aircraft into a sideslip... Romey did it on final approach last Monday (which was hilarious!) and Aiden did it to descend today. It can be a dangerous manoeuvre but both seemed to know what they were doing, and it's also pretty exciting so I didn't mind.
Seeing Ashford then Headcorn and hearing the airfield over the radio was so welcoming. I loved the journey but always in the back of my mind there is a little fear of the unknown, and of the potential risks involved. Being on the home-run felt somewhat akin to what the wartime pilots must have felt, only probably more relieved having been a little more rattled. Knowing that Headcorn (or Lashenden) is a wartime airfield also adds to the novelty.
Such a great day, such a beautiful flight.
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