"Is that on your map, then?"

by Helen Krasner

When we planned it originally, it was to have been a trip to France or the Channel Islands. It had been my ambition to fly to France ever since I'd got my PPL (Private Pilots Licence) in 1998. But then I flew with a group to Paris earlier in the year, and Tricia unexpectedly flew to Alderney one weekend. So we decided on Ireland for our five-day flying holiday. I had been there some years earlier and loved it, and I thought that it would be even more wonderful from the air. And since neither of us had really done much flying overseas, we thought maybe it would be easier not having to cope with a foreign language for this first trip.

 Gloucester was to be our starting point, since we were hiring an aircraft (a 2-seater Cessna 152) from Staverton Flying School, where Tricia works part time as an instructor. They gave us a special rate for Monday to Friday, since they didn't really need all their aeroplanes except at weekends. So it really wasn't going to work out that expensive, since we'd only pay for the hours we flew, as is usual with hired aircraft. A little gadget in the cockpit records all the time that the engine is running, and you pay accordingly. And a couple of hours flying a day would be plenty.

We planned to fly first to Haverfordwest Airfield to re-fuel and clear customs, then over the Irish Sea to Waterford. After that we didn't know, and didn't really want to plan any further. Despite the fact that it was mid-summer and pre-booking accommodation might be wise, we both fancied going where the mood took us, being aerial wanderers, having the freedom that one's own aircraft gives you - at least in theory. In practice, the weather would decide much of what we did, and we knew that.

In fact, the weather meant that the trip almost didn't happen at all. A cold front was forecast for the Tuesday, meaning heavy rain and strong winds. A concerned Tricia phoned me at the end of the previous week, wondering if we should abandon the whole idea. But I had arranged the time off, and I wanted to fly to Ireland no matter what. Monday's weather forecast was good, and it looked as though at least one day later in the week would be good enough to enable us to come home. I would be happy, I said, even if we spent the whole time in Waterford, and Tricia agreed that this made some sort of sense. So on the Sunday I set off to drive to Gloucester.

The flight to Haverfordwest was enjoyable and uneventful, the route being fairly familiar to us both since we'd flown in that area before. We had lunch at the airfield, then put on life jackets for the trip across the Irish Sea to Waterford. I had been quite nervous beforehand, never having flown over the more than forty miles of water we had to cross. Flying over water can be quite tiring and disorientating, as you sometimes have no horizon and few visual references. But this time the weather was clear, with a good horizon all the way, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. The only slight problem came when we completely lost radio contact less than halfway across the Irish Sea. This was because there was a fair amount of low cloud around, so we were being forced to fly at 1500 feet, which wasn't high enough for them to hear us at that distance. Being over the sea in a single-engined aircraft without any radio contact didn't seem like a good idea at all, and made us both a bit nervous. But we made contact with Shannon in Ireland after a few minutes, so there was no real problem.

Soon we reached the Irish coast, and Shannon then asked us to report our arrival overhead some place we'd never heard of and couldn't find on our chart. We told them this, and the controller calmly asked us to report somewhere else, asking jokingly: "Is that on your map then?" The way he said it made it sound as though he thought we were foreigners with a strange little sketch map, but that he was quite happy to accommodate us all the same! This was an Air Traffic Controller at one of the largest airports in Ireland, the equivalent of Manchester or Birmingham, who we would not have expected to be so relaxed about two incompetent sounding foreign flyers. It was the first example we had of the generally laid back approach to flying in Ireland, but was not to be the last.

Waterford Airport was relaxed and uncrowded, not at all like a British regional airport. It seemed to be run by two or three people, who took our landing fee, opened the shop, served coffee, and a whole lot of other things too. Everyone seemed to rally round to help us, including phoning and booking accommodation, and then getting us a taxi. Again, we found this hospitality at airfields to be typical of Ireland. They found us a very comfortable B & B, where we ended up spending the next two nights! For the cold front arrived as predicted, and we woke up next day to torrential rain and howling winds. We joined the other tourists in Waterford at the famous crystal factory in the morning, and in the afternoon checked the weather hopefully. We were thankful to see that Wednesday was forecast to be better, since Waterford was hardly the most exciting place to spend a whole holiday.

 Next morning we were down at the airfield bright and early; we planned to fly to Bantry Bay and then Galway. I had seen a photo of the landing strip at Bantry, approximately 500 metres from deserted shore to deserted shore; it looked beautiful and I definitely wanted to go there. However, the IR20 landing fee seemed a bit exorbitant considering there were no facilities. But the conversation when I phoned for permission to land (compulsory at most airfields) made it clear why they charged so much.

"Yes, of course you can come. Now, do you know how to get here? And what time will you be coming? Will you be staying overnight now?"

The slow rural west of Ireland voice obviously had no intention of telling us anything quickly, and I remembered from previous holidays that they didn't know the meaning of the word "hurry" on the west coast of Ireland. I resignedly shoved more pound coins into the pay phone while I told him we could indeed find it, we wouldn't stay overnight, and we thought we'd arrive around 12.30 - 1.30 pm. But that wasn't precise enough for him. Apologetically he told me why.

 "Well, you see now, we have to leave work and come down from the factory three miles away to meet you. And I'll have to move the cows off the runway, and there's some people practising with their model aeroplanes for this competition, so I'll have to move them off the runway too you see".

Yes, I did see, and now I understood why he wanted an exact arrival time. He continued: "I think twenty pounds is far too much, but the Managing Director insists; it's because we have to leave work you see..." As I shoved in yet another pound coin I told him we'd try to be there at 1.00 pm.

The flight to Bantry was idyllic. We had planned to follow the coast, and hoped Shannon would allow this, as we had to tell them our route and this didn't sound very precise. As it was they told us to go that way without our asking, obviously assuming from experience that flying foreign tourists would want to do so. Small towns, inlets, cliffs, rivers; the renowned Irish coastline is probably even more beautiful from the air than it is on the ground, and despite a little low cloud the weather was almost perfect. Tricia flew while I navigated, though with a coastline to follow there really wasn't much navigation required, so I could look and enjoy and take photos.

We landed at Bantry a few minutes late, to be met by my laid back rural Irishman and his colleague. They seemed amazed to see us, and we gathered that women pilots were a bit of a rarity in western Ireland, or at least in Bantry. Shannon had earlier asked us to close our flight plan by phone on arrival, and our mobiles didn't work in Bantry, so we asked to use the airfield phone. Our new friends were happy to oblige, unlocked the hangar, and then produced an old-style phone with a circular dial, practically an antique. Unfortunately it didn't work! But we eventually managed to contact Shannon on a rather bad line on a borrowed mobile phone, and could communicate enough information to them to close the flight plan.

 We ate sandwiches in a delightful spot by the shore overlooking Bantry Bay, wishing we had longer than five days in all so that we could have spent more time there. We then asked the model aeroplaners to move their van for our take-off, the runway being so short that we were worried about hitting them otherwise. We had wanted to continue flying around the quite beautiful west coast, but realised that we were possibly going to be short of fuel if we did, as there had been no fuel at Bantry. So it had to be the direct route to Galway, with just a little detour to look at the famous cliffs of Moher. 

We arrived at Galway Airport in the late afternoon, and even though Galway is a popular tourist town we managed to book ourselves into another B & B. But now we had another slight problem. The oil our aircraft needed seemed to be unavailable anywhere in the area. The only place to get it turned out to be Connemara Airfield, just a short distance down the coast. Since we were really airfield hopping anyway, we decided to stop in there next day, and having sorted that out we headed into Galway City for the evening.

I had been in Galway nine years earlier, and loved it. It's now bigger, more crowded, but still a lively and friendly town with some good restaurants, and we spent a thoroughly enjoyable evening. We also checked the weather for the next couple of days. It didn't sound too good; the next day was due to be fine, but a warm front was expected on the Friday, bringing drizzle, low cloud, and possibly fog. What should we do? Would we have to start for home next day? We really didn't want to do that.

Eventually we phoned Staverton Flying School for advice, and were told to get back to near the East coast by the following evening, since it looked as though if we left early on the Friday we could get back to the UK before the front arrived. We therefore decided to leave early next morning for Connemara to get our oil, then land on the Aran Islands just across Galway Bay, then go up to Sligo, then across Ireland to Kilkenny for the night.

The flight to Connemara was only twenty minutes, and we picked up our oil safely. Apparently it was the only place in Ireland where one can get this particular type of oil, or so they said. We then took off for Inisheer, smallest of the Aran Islands. We had been warned that landing on the islands was not for novices; it could be difficult due to turbulence and windsheer, so I asked the pilot of one of the aircraft taking passengers to the islands if there was anything I should know. He shrugged. "If you were OK landing here you should be fine", he said. Well, it was actually Tricia with her 2000 flying hours who had landed at Connemara, but it hadn't looked too hard, so I wasn't really worried. But it turned out to be one of the few times on the trip that Tricia's greater experience and instructor's rating was very useful, and when she asked if I wanted any help, as I turned final in a strong crosswind, with only about 400 metres of runway ahead of me with water at either end, I gratefully accepted.

Inisheer airfield was windswept and deserted; we ate our lunch feeling like aerial pioneers - unusual in this day and age. But now came a very real problem: would we be able to take off again? The runway was short and the conditions were far from ideal, and being able to land doesn't necessarily mean one can take off again safely! There was now an even stronger crosswind, at exactly right angles to the runway. And the runway itself sloped very definitely in both directions. So we would be taking off uphill, without a headwind to help us. We both paced it out carefully, walking from one end to the other, deciding on the best direction to use and at what point to abort the take-off if necessary i.e. the last point at which we could stop safely if we didn't have enough airspeed to take off. If that happened, we would have to wait for the wind to change direction. At least it would be a nice place to stay, even if a bit isolated, I thought to myself. But we managed it safely with room to spare, though it was the first time that I've known Tricia to remark that a take-off was exciting. And we set off across Galway Bay, and then the strange watery landscape of Connemara, towards Sligo.

We had yet another example of the informality of flying in Ireland when we called up Sligo Airport on the radio, from about 20 miles away, to ask for arrival instructions. Sligo is another regional airport, and large airports in Britain will give you detailed instructions, telling you when they want you to call them again, what other traffic is in the area, and exactly how they would like you to join their circuit and land. All Sligo said was: "No known traffic to affect your flight. Report final". Now I really can't see Birmingham or Manchester ever doing that!

Sligo was almost deserted; this was beginning to seem normal for Irish airports, even big ones. The young female Air Traffic Controller invited us up to the tower for a chat, and seemed disappointed that we couldn't stay longer. But we had a relatively long flight if we were to reach Kilkenny and find somewhere to stay that night. So we finally left the beautiful west coast of Ireland, heading straight across the middle of the country. Kilkenny had a grass runway with no obvious markings, and was as difficult to find as such strips often can be. But we landed there safely, found a place to stay, and had a meal in one of the town's 34 restaurants (according to the guide book).

We were back at the airfield early the next day, but we were already too late. The expected warm front had arrived early, and it was already raining at Waterford, just down the coast. We waited, checked weather forecasts, phoned Staverton Flying School and tried to decide what to do. Finally Staverton phoned us back. After extensive enquiries, it seemed that the weather was not going to change quickly, but although there was cloud and rain it would be safe to fly through it. Or rather, Tricia could fly through it, as she was qualified and experienced enough to do so, while I would do the radio and navigation. And Gloucester at the other end was in bright sunshine, so finding the airfield and landing would not be a problem.

It wasn't the trip back we would have hoped for, but it certainly wasn't difficult. A few miles from the Irish coast we flew into cloud, and we emerged from it about 20 miles from Gloucester. We kept in radio contact with Shannon and then "London Information", and we weren't at all amused by the fact that the south of England and the English Channel obviously had bright sunshine, with loads of aircraft flying and enjoying the scenery. But that's British weather for you.

We arrived back at Gloucester in bright sunshine, thanked our little Cessna for behaving so well, and put her to bed in the hangar. It's amazing how attached one becomes to even a hired aircraft after such a long trip. It had been an absolutely wonderful holiday and we can't wait to do another long distance flying trip. Hopefully it'll be next summer, and we fancy the Highlands and Islands of Scotland. Barra, in the Outer Hebrides, has its airfield on the beach, with tidal sand runways. Now that would be a first for both of us.

First published in VISA issue 45 (spring 2002)