Clatter Off into the Wild Blue Yonder

By John William Jones

This book shares the adventures and experiences of a middle-aged private pilot and his friends. These collections of autobiographical memoirs are an open door into a somewhat exclusive but less than perfect fraternity, with thousands of funny and not so funny stories to tell. An uncomplicated first-hand insight for those with only a passing interest in aviation or those who are unable to or are not bold enough to physically enter into the real world of flying. An entertaining read that will satisfy your intrigue, jangle the nerves and make you chuckle in equal quantities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528997232

John William Jones

John William Jones in the north east of England in 1949, from where he draws inspiration for characters and story lines. He has had a lifelong affinity with aviation and is an accomplished light aircraft pilot.

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Victims

About the Author

The author has had a lifelong career in architecture and construction project management. Having been born and raised in a Northumberland mining village within earshot of Woolsington aerodrome, he developed a passionate interest in aviation from childhood. He realised his dream to become a pilot at the age of 40 when the bug to tour in light aircraft took hold. At the age of 70, he is now an accomplished artist and still leads a very active retirement.

Dedication

To:

My wife, Angela, who was bold enough to follow me

into my dream.

John and Janet for their fun and friendship.

CFI John Corlett, who taught and encouraged me all the way.

Copyright Information ©

John William Jones (2021)

The right of John William Jones to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528997225 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528997232 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Chapter One

Blowing a Hooley

This is not the beginning, but should you leave terra firma higher than you can jump, it could very well be the end.

The flight plan had been lodged the night before with Newcastle International Airport air traffic control and as protocol required the call made to ‘Special Branch’ with details of the four souls on board, passport numbers, reason for travel and aircraft registration, in a way it did make you feel a bit special and that probably is why it’s called special branch and little to do with the ‘troubles’ in the Irish part of the UK.

Newtownards airfield, County Down Northern Ireland, was our intended destination in what is affectionately known as ‘Charlie India’. The big problem was it was blowing a hooley, in old money bordering gale force at maybe six or seven on the shipping forecast, great for yachting by old seasoned sea dogs but not for flying in a Cessna Hawk XP with an all-up weight of around 2500 lbs, a worrying 280 lbs of which is high octane low lead aero fuel (no less than an enormous petrol bomb). Together with 600 lbs of skin, bone and other wobbly fleshy bits controlled by four organs called brains that cannot be entirely relied upon, the remainder of this all-up weight is made up of an internal combustion aero engine bolted on to lots of alloy and a myriad of other components and paraphernalia a mere mortal could never hope to fully understand in two life times, let alone the sixty five hours or so it takes to achieve a Private Pilot’s Licence, with a few add on ‘quallies’ such as an IMC and a night rating that afford some additional UK Civil Aviation privileges, if you want to call them that, basically flying out of sight of the ground and reduced visibility air traffic control clearances.

The maximum advisory full cross-wind landing for Charlie India and most other similar light aircraft types is 17 knots (just short of 20 mph); it may not sound or feel like much standing on the ground but even a big jet would be a bit of a handful to a four-ring captain at the yoke on final approach at a level when the ground effect starts to disturb the airflow into turbulence and wind shear. With wind speeds, especially gusts of 30 mph and above, things get exponentially very serious; a bit like the Richter scale for earthquakes.

Luckily (clear the throat), the hooley today was more or less straight down, runway two six being its orientation on a compass bearing of 260 degrees, hence 26 at about 28 knots, gusting into the mid-thirties from an almost Westerly direction—great for getting up there but definitely sphincter-clenching, should you need to come down again; the one certainty is at some point you have to come down as gravity dictates, there’s no choice about that.

Eshott aerodrome in Northumberland, apart from the four of us, was totally deserted as we sat in the clubhouse staring outside at the trees being thrashed to death and the day-glow windsock situated about 800 metres away at the intersection of the Northerly and Westerly runways; even at that distance we could see it was horizontal and tight as a drum; it had been that way for at least the two hours we had been sat there. The decision to depart and clatter off into the wild blue yonder should always be made on the old adage: ‘If in doubt, the decision not to go is already made.’ Believe me, there was plenty of doubt and we should have gone back home or to the pub a very long time ago.

In the corner next to the windows of the wooden boarded clubhouse was the airfield ‘control tower’, comprising of an office desk, an aircraft movements book (with no entries for that day), a desk top microphone linked to an air band radio transmitter and a wall mounted anemometer with the needle steady from the west and the LED digits hardly fluctuating between 30 to 35 knots. During the 9 am to 7 pm operational hours, the air band radio is usually kept on receive mode so that when the airfield is unmanned, pilots manoeuvring on the ground or in the air could transmit blind to alert anyone else on the airfield’s specific frequency; other than that, the eyeballs in the cockpit are the only means of contact with anything. There hadn’t been a squeak that day on the air-band as far as we were aware, which more than suggested that all other slightly off-their-trolley aviators were either in bed or at the Metro Centre with the in-laws.

One of my tips for life is to ‘seek exhilaration’ without of course bungee jumping, skydiving, parachuting, mountain climbing and maybe a thousand other things as even my love of flying does not conquer that dreadful feeling of negative G’s, I just could not bring myself to do aerobatics. I will never forget on a type rating session for a Cherokee Six with a 10,000 hour training pilot who literally stopped the aircraft in mid-air at 5000 feet in a 90 degree yawing bank, the aircraft