Monday 8th June 2015
218km? You've got to be kidding me. I woke Monday morning to check forecasts and found Facebook blasted with the news that the British "declared goal" had been smashed the day before - a day that had always been looking like that it would deliver a good day, something that became all too apparent from the touch line of my youngest's football tournament. Hey ho, I would not have missed my lad firing a scorcher in to the top corner of the net. Moments like those are precious, and there will always be another flying day.
And Monday was teasing me in to thinking that perhaps, just perhaps I could have an early stab at making that British Record short lived. The only problem being that in a North Easterly airflow its difficult to find an appropriate launch site with the right amount of distance potential. Cue "Uffington White Horse", a hill south of Oxford where paragliders have been allowed to fly by the National Trust for some time, but only recently had permission been given for hang gliders. Up until last Monday it had never, to my knowledge, been flown by a hang glider.
Malcolm Beard, fellow Wills Wing pilot, and I agreed to meet up at the hill to "give it a go". A big risk on a good day but if it paid off we would encounter minimal airspace restrictions downwind, potentially all the way to Cornwall. Well, you have to aim high...
By 11am we were both rigged and ready to go, with a flight jointly declared of 230km. "Radio check". Silence. "Radio check". Silence. Fiddle with the PTT. "Radio check". Bugger, not again. Oh well, I would be able to hear Malcolm but not transmit, not too helpful when team flying.
Uffington is a small "technical" hill, rather like Frocester in Gloucestershire. With rotor inducing mounds out in front, and minimal, sloping landing fields at the bottom of the tree lined ridge, it's not for the inexperienced or faint hearted. Waiting patiently on launch just by the side of the White Horse we looked for signs of lift out front. A modeller was trying to locate the lift too, and feeding back any information he could. The kites and buzzard were not coming out to play, but the model was occasionally finding big areas of weak lift out from the hill. The sky was looking good, so there was only one thing for it....
A smooth take off. Good. Turn right over the tree lined ridge. Bubbling? No, just rough as old boots. Gain a bit. lose a bit. After ten minutes being thrown around just above the trees, it felt like a lift cycle was starting to come through. Slowly I worked the ridge, and saw Malcolm take off and glide in underneath. Soon we were both being sunk down on to the trees, carefully manoeuvring around each other to stay up. Lower and lower, I started sizing up the landing field. Really? I would rather stay up.
Malcolm started climbing again, so I flew in underneath and we both started climbing slowly, but drifting quite fast over the back. I banked in sharply in a strong surge to core the thermal, and unintentionally forced Malcolm out (something I found out later). I didnt fancy being sunk out on the hill again, so I committed low down to go over the back, while Malcolm pushed back to the ridge. As I glanced back at the hill, he seemed to be climbing again. Good.
My climb didn't mature in to anything and I ended up drifting a few hundred feet over the ground. Extending my search pattern out didn't deliver anything better so I headed off downwind towards a farm and ploughed fields, aware of an abundance of horse racing facilities on the Gallops. Best not land in one of those. Luckily the two large fields were kicking off some bubbling air but as soon as I drifted with it, the lift petered out. Push up wind again. There it is. Bubbling. Drift with it. Lost it. Push up wind...
After three attempts I realised I was not going to get anywhere so I headed SE towards a low ridge, hoping that it would be acting as a trigger. Which it was, but by the time I arrived there I probably only had two hundred feet to play with. I fought with some gnarly punch lift, desperately hanging on in there, maintaining the precious little height I had, but it was futile. Over the power lines in to the next big field next to a farm. Shit, crop. Aim for the tram lines. I flared hard just two feet away from them, the glider stopping perfectly, planting me down on my toes.
I carried the glider along the tracks to the edge of the field where there was a flattened piece of crop. A good de-rig area. Minimal impact on the field. Having packed everything up I knocked on the farmers door to apologise for landing in his crop. He hadn't noticed my landing but was keen to see the damage he presumed I had caused. He had in fact misheard me and thought I had landed a sailplane in his field! After a quick explanation and showing him my packed up glider, he was absolutely fine. Its never worth forgetting that our sport is so dependant on the goodwill of these landowners. Thank you Alistair.
Malcolm too was down. At the bottom of the hill. Safe and sound. No dramas. He would drive over to pick me up. I started walking the 13km back toward the hill via the roads. It had only been 7km straight distance from take off, but as I marched along the country lanes, I was rewarded with some lovely and interesting views. Well, every cloud had a silver lining.
Well, the British Record will just have to wait. And to fly a new site is always very rewarding. Ben The Pioneer Hang Glider Pilot. Yes, I like that.
218km? You've got to be kidding me. I woke Monday morning to check forecasts and found Facebook blasted with the news that the British "declared goal" had been smashed the day before - a day that had always been looking like that it would deliver a good day, something that became all too apparent from the touch line of my youngest's football tournament. Hey ho, I would not have missed my lad firing a scorcher in to the top corner of the net. Moments like those are precious, and there will always be another flying day.
 |
| Kit prepped and charging from the night before |
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| Me, Malc and a great looking sky |
By 11am we were both rigged and ready to go, with a flight jointly declared of 230km. "Radio check". Silence. "Radio check". Silence. Fiddle with the PTT. "Radio check". Bugger, not again. Oh well, I would be able to hear Malcolm but not transmit, not too helpful when team flying.
Uffington is a small "technical" hill, rather like Frocester in Gloucestershire. With rotor inducing mounds out in front, and minimal, sloping landing fields at the bottom of the tree lined ridge, it's not for the inexperienced or faint hearted. Waiting patiently on launch just by the side of the White Horse we looked for signs of lift out front. A modeller was trying to locate the lift too, and feeding back any information he could. The kites and buzzard were not coming out to play, but the model was occasionally finding big areas of weak lift out from the hill. The sky was looking good, so there was only one thing for it....
A smooth take off. Good. Turn right over the tree lined ridge. Bubbling? No, just rough as old boots. Gain a bit. lose a bit. After ten minutes being thrown around just above the trees, it felt like a lift cycle was starting to come through. Slowly I worked the ridge, and saw Malcolm take off and glide in underneath. Soon we were both being sunk down on to the trees, carefully manoeuvring around each other to stay up. Lower and lower, I started sizing up the landing field. Really? I would rather stay up.
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| Uffington Iron Age "Castle" and White Horse |
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| A low start to an XC |
After three attempts I realised I was not going to get anywhere so I headed SE towards a low ridge, hoping that it would be acting as a trigger. Which it was, but by the time I arrived there I probably only had two hundred feet to play with. I fought with some gnarly punch lift, desperately hanging on in there, maintaining the precious little height I had, but it was futile. Over the power lines in to the next big field next to a farm. Shit, crop. Aim for the tram lines. I flared hard just two feet away from them, the glider stopping perfectly, planting me down on my toes. I carried the glider along the tracks to the edge of the field where there was a flattened piece of crop. A good de-rig area. Minimal impact on the field. Having packed everything up I knocked on the farmers door to apologise for landing in his crop. He hadn't noticed my landing but was keen to see the damage he presumed I had caused. He had in fact misheard me and thought I had landed a sailplane in his field! After a quick explanation and showing him my packed up glider, he was absolutely fine. Its never worth forgetting that our sport is so dependant on the goodwill of these landowners. Thank you Alistair.
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| Strange looking cumulus |
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| An unusual view of the M4 |
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| Very "country" |
Well, the British Record will just have to wait. And to fly a new site is always very rewarding. Ben The Pioneer Hang Glider Pilot. Yes, I like that.
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