COMBAT AND COMPETITION.pdf - Lakes Gliding Club

COMBAT AND COMPETITION
Then a wonderful, satisfying, kick in the pants. I cram on full
aileron and tramp hard on the rudder, trying to override the inertia,
skidding wildly into the turn. My love of Wessex is rooted in ancient
legend.....
"Stars wink beyond the downland barrows 12
where Alfred marched to meet the Danes
Far in advance offlinthead arrows
and unaware of aeroplanes."
.....and reaches across the centuries to modern times - a cradle of
aviation development in two world wars where the rolling chalky
uplands provide some of the finest thermal soaring in the kingdom.
And in sudden change of mood the skies above my beloved Wessex
are looking their brilliant best. Time for dolphin flying - into the lift
- pulling up straight ahead - sometimes a gentle weave to prolong the
climb - then on again. Hurry!... hurry!... hurry!...
4,000 ft and more below the familiar landmarks pass in swift
succession. Regimental badges in the chalk above the Nadder valley.
Old Sarum airfield. The radio telescope dish at Chilbolton.
A developing stubble fire and the Kestrel is swept upwards in a
violent cauldron of turbulence and ashes, blind in the smoke, on
instruments. A strong smell of burning and the cockpit is filled with the
smuts and bits of straw. The altimeter spins like a dervish and, when I
fall out of the top, my private cumulus cloud has pushed well above the
inversion.
On the way home, there is a marked change in conditions. More and
more fires - the harvest must be going great guns - adding volumes to
the acrid sooty curtains which hung rootless and inert above the
Berkshire Downs. Visibility was down to a few miles and a layer of
dirty decaying cloud spread out overhead, cutting off the sunshine.
A standard Cirrus emerges from the gloom. Together, in silence, we
ride the stagnant air, slowing down in the occasional patches of lift,
until Nympsfield is almost in range. Almost, but not quite, because there
is still the invasive sea air to come and a headwind on the final glide.
A grass airfield below, and with it a hint of brightness in the sky,
but I need more height to get home. A sudden hubbub of landing calls
on the radio as the failing conditions take their toll. The Cirrus forges
on. But I hang back and run into a darker patch of murk which seems
to be working. The lift is weak, but sufficent to give a long slow climb
on instruments until Nympsfield is in the bag.
The Cirrus must be miles in front. Had I been too cautious taking
246