The Flying Doctor

 

VULCAN! - 4/8/10

 

I grew up near RAF Finningley where we could see and hear all three V-Bombers parading their prowess during the 50s and 60s, and I have since found little more exciting than standing downstream from a Vulcan on a full-bore take-off or fly-through, and seen few planes more gracious than the Handley-Page Victor, but that is a bygone age. The wings on the Victors got stressed and fell off, the wheels on the economy got stressed and fell off, and our Nuclear deterrents went into the drink somewhere between here and Washington. They, too, are getting stressed and trying not to fall off. Perhaps the biggest joke of it all is that RAF Finningley, boasting enormous concrete runways, is now “Robin Hood Airport”. Sadly, I doubt if it boasts of doing what all Robin Hoods ought to do and give its accumulated wealth to the local poor. Not if its Accountants have any say in the matter!

 

When I told my Sister (who has always been mad about aeroplanes) that I was thinking of building a model of the Vulcan and powering it with an engine with pusher prop she became quite apoplectic and insisted that I put proper jets in it. She had no idea how that would be done, and I had only a vague idea, and so my Vulcan project got off to a shaky start. The Traplet 60” Vulcan plan had arrived via Santa Claus (I wonder how many times HE has been buzzed by a V-Bomber on his annual pilgrimages), and I began to realise just how difficult this project might be.

 

Traplet do advertise another plan, at 66”, and South Herts Models also do a plan and kit which makes up in to a really nice light final model. I have also heard of one enterprising modeller who enlarged plans and is building a 90” model out of blue foam! Spread the plans out on your spare bedroom floor, and you see how big this model really is. If you haven’t yet got the plans, cut out a triangle of newspaper 5 feet wide and 4 feet high, and then spread that out in the back of your estate car (or my little Corsa), and then add in the cost of a proper car to the potential cost of this model—maybe £30 grand for a decent Range Rover, or even a panel van. I have seen a Vulcan advertised in the BMFA site for about 2 years now, but no panel van is included in the sale, and it appears not to have sold yet. Clearly this plane needs a joint somewhere, but where? The South Herts model does have wing joints as an option making their fuselage 5 feet long and 18” wide, and they say it will fly with a .60 2stroke. I am not sure you could get 4 fans within the 18”, though.

 

Looking at these plans I could feel several worry lines developing on my sweaty brow. I wanted to fly this with EDF fans, which meant batteries, and I knew it would need plenty of power to fly. It was designed to have a .60 motor and fuel tank right at the back, so where would the C of G end up with fans placed in the middle of the wings and the batteries somewhere along the fuselage? I also had no experience of EDFs and batteries, which should have stopped me dead. But if others can fly EDFs, why can’t I learn? It can’t be a closed book, not really?? But I found that this book, like an instruction book for a kit which has been left out in a cold damp garage for too long, had pages which were difficult to separate and the print was difficult to read. I sought advice from wise counsel, and could have, should have, walked away. But I am not one to shy away from a challenge, so on I boldly went, where no-one had went before, in to the shadow of gloom.

 

One thing I couldn’t find out before starting the build was --- where would the C of G be on the complete model WITHOUT any power plant? Answer, almost where it was on the plan. There is a lot of nose and wing forward of the stated C 0f G and a lot of wing aft of same. So, the fans can fit in the deepest section of the wing, and the batteries can slide up and down the fuz to get the final balance, probably rearward.

 

The fuselage is a fairly simple tube with the wings stuck on either side. I made this first, having cut a 7cm square section out of the centre of the formers up to the cockpit. I lined this with balsa, thus making a square tube for the batteries and ESCs. This will strengthen the fuselage and make it more rigid. You can also use thinner balsa. If you want a turbine as your power plant you build it into the fuz and find somewhere in the wing roots for your bottles of jungle juice.

 

The wings raise a number of questions which need to be addressed before you build this model. Do you want jointed wings to aid storage and transport or one enormous delta? Do you want retracts? Are you going to use a pusher prop? Glo or electric? Do you want to fit EDFs? Do you want flaps as well as ailerons? If you use pusher props, the undercarriage must be longer than the props or they will hit the ground. This will make retracts difficult to fit. Perhaps mount the engine as high as possible above the fuselage? If you use 2 EDFs you will probably need to launch off a trolley with a big bungee. Four will be better, but that means four batteries and ESCs and extra weight. With EDFs you will have huge holes in the main wing web struts which will weaken the integrity of the wing, although it is a pretty big wing after all. And they will only fit in the wings at the maximum thickness, some way FORWARD of the C of G.

 

The depth of the wing is 70mm, the size of my fans, so I added 1/8” cap strips to the tops of the 2 inner wing ribs to ensure the fans were concealed in the wings. The wing ribs neatly define the jet tubes for each fan, from fromt to rear. I built the retracts in to the next outer bay, lifting the wheels forwards in to the deepest section of the wing. The outer panels were removable, secured by ally tubes glued in to the outer sections and pushing in to holes in the inner wing ribs. I tried with 4 EDFs, as the Vulcan had 4 jets, and there was just enough space in the wings for all four. BUT the spars needed repositioning as I felt they needed to be in front of and behind the fans to stop them moving about (these fans had no anchor points built in) and I felt I needed additional spars as there could be no spar web bracing. There is room for an additional top and bottom spar further forward just rear of the jet intakes, giving the wing a bit more rigidity, and one bottom spar rearward to add strength to the retracts.

 

The rear jet tubes were a problem. The minimum area for a fan exit is around 70% of its diameter, so a 70mm fan needs an exit tube around 55 mm minimum, which is a lot bigger that the scale 40mm plastic jet tubes you get with the plan. You also need to make the air inlet as big as possible, and the Vulcan plans give an inlet area about the same as the fans. Tescos sell cheap bottled water for pence, useful if Orkney gets stranded in a drought with no beer (we have several breweries making “skull splitter“ norse ales), and useful when cut down, rolled, and glued in to a tube 70mm at one end to fit round the fan, 60mm at the other exit end. Cider bottles serve much the same purpose, and are MUCH more pleasurable while being emptied, I can confirm! Whatever else you do with one of these bottles, NEVER let a hair-drier, hot air gun, or hot iron touch this plastic, or you will find it turns in to the weirdest of shapes in an instant! I don’t think these plastic tubes are very rigid, and they are difficult to fit in to the wing, so you may want to build up a balsa tube from narrow planks which can be glued firmly in to the wing and sanded to a nice finish. The flaps, retracts, and ailerons all act on the rear of the wing, and it needs to be rigid. The finish will be better with balsa. Bear in mind that you can’t put spars across the rear of the wing through the fan exits or they will interfere with the draught from those fans.

 

With the fans, ESCs and batteries provisionally fitted it was time to drive it round the garage, and it was exciting to hear the whistle of four fans at low revs. Finally I was ready to take her out and see what happened at full power. Sadly, I found, not much! Airport One is not billiard-smooth, the grass is quite thick and wiry despite cutting it at the shortest cut, and this plane just wasn’t going to get up enough speed to get airborne in the space I had. At full throttle it went to the bottom of the garden at a sedate running speed. And the fans and batteries didn’t even get warm. The nearest piece of tarmac was the arterial Highway linking Kirkwall to the ferry to Mainland Britain, and I felt that should remain off-limits. So, I am in the process of changing this experiment to Plan B, with a pusher engine or two. I think the error was to build this too robust and too heavy, and to jump in with EDF without enough experience. Will I never learn to walk before sprinting? I expect some of you tend to build “Robust” so your precious model will withstand various “Arrivals”, but it is really not a good idea, and I find it so difficult to think light, and build light. As one of the Greybeards at East Devon Radio Control Club so many years ago said to me,  “Build IN Lightness”. He was a former RAF pilot, and really did have a grey beard. I wish I had the confidence to follow his advice.

 

But I still have the plans, and if I were building this model again, I would build the wing and fuz complete as a unit and make a joint in the fuz near the wing roots so the nose is detachable, sliding in to the square battery box I mentioned. The nose wheel shouldn’t take too much stress as landings should be nose-up. . And I would build it ridiculously LIGHT! Maybe use carbon for spars. By building the wing as one unit you make sure it is accurate and you save weight and strength with joints. You can also incorporate retracts, and flaps if you want, in almost scale positions.

 

And if you want to buy my fans and batteries and ESCs, they are almost brand new.

 

I had a moment of excitement the other day. Playing with my trannie and a model in the garage, I was annoyed to find my trannie suddenly completely dead. Totally brainless. Now, this had nothing whatsoever to do with emptying one of those cider bottles for experimental purposes, not at all! Further enquiry with another trannie battery had my trannie working instantly. The original battery would not even charge and was obviously completely dead, The lead was not crimped or frayed, so perhaps a contact had broken down inside the battery. Very strange, but am I glad this happened when I was in the garage, and not out flying a model. That would have been a disaster! Is such a total battery failure common? Still, they do say, replace your equipment regularly!

 

There is a Vulcan on display at the North East Aircraft Museum in Sunderland, which once lived at RAF Finningley. They have a grand display of other stuff, too. There is something -- just -- terrific about seeing this plane standing there like an eagle guarding its prey. It made me feel glad that we were on the same side. I am not sure I would want to be on the receiving side of that beast and its payload. And, my camera developed a fault and I lost ALL my pics of this amazing machine! But, I’ll Be Back!

The Simmer Dim - 29/6/10 

Around this time of year sleeping can be a little difficult, unless you have really thick bedroom curtains. We have, but light still manages to sneak round and over and under the drapes. Twice recently I have been called out during the night, and was able to marvel at the bright sky. Travelling north towards Kirkwall about 1.00 am I saw both the dying embers of the sunset to the left, and the glimmer of the new dawn to the right. Behind me the sky looked much darker. Another night, at 5.00 am the sun was well up over the horizon, already over the fourth telegraph pole to the left of the House on the Hill. 

In Shetland, 100miles further north, they call this half-light, half way between dusk and dawn, the Simmer Dim. 300miles further north again, and the Sun doesn’t set at all at this time of year. It just dips down towards the horizon, then starts going back up again. We have passed Mid Summer Day, and the famed Midnight round of golf, if you really must, has been played at the Kirkwall club. 

We have a tame seagull who has come back to our garden for several years. After his return from the Algarve where he spent the winter, he was initially wary and sat on the bird table. Now he sits on the patio table and lets us approach quite close before flying away.  All Lesser Black-backed Gulls appear to look the same, but this one has a slightly damaged left wing with a distinctive gap between two feathers. He is recognisable at some distance. We assume he has a mate, and sometimes there is another identical bird sitting on the patio table, more frequently on the bird table. Sometimes he shares food with this bird. Mostly he hogs all the food for himself and gets in to fights with many other gulls who swoop down for scraps. They make such a fuss squawking at each other and don’t notice the jovial Rooks and Jackdaws who sidle up and snitch food from under their beaks. These seem to be much more intelligent birds, with their distinctive black furbelows. 

Sleep has been disturbed for another reason. Our pet gull has worked out that as soon as curtains are drawn he gets a Rich Tea Biscuit. He doesn’t do bread any more, unless it is soaked in gravy. So he stays on the patio table all night waiting for a sign of life in the morning. He was there when I went in to town at 5.00 am. If we ignore him he flaps down and sits on the window sill and taps his beak on the window till we give him his biscuit. He will try this at each window in turn till he gets his desserts. Window-tapping and slumber don’t mix! The Crows and Rooks and Jackdaws don’t yet do this. They seem well-fed and wary. 

We saw much less of Mrs Gull, possibly because she was on an egg or a chick. But in all the years we have been here we have never seen a chick. A friend tells me there have been lots of problems with all types of seabirds nesting and being unable to raise chicks. However, there is now a chick flying around here, although it is impossible to say who are the parents. We can’t even say whether he is a first-year, a herring gull,  or a lesser or greater black-backed gull Maybe this mystery chick will be trained to beg for biscuits before he migrates off to The Algarve in September. Apparently the problem with raising chicks is the amount of pesticides washing down in to the sea and getting filtered in to the small plankton which get in to the little fish, and then on in to the rest of the food chain. Mr and Mrs Seagull are near the top of the chain. 

You may ask why I write about seabirds and not aeroplanes. Firstly, seabirds are beautiful and gracious birds, and I would love to be able to fly my planes as they fly. I think I am getting a bit better. Secondly, I think this year has been even worse here than last year, and I haven’t had that much flying to write about. Midsummer day, and we still have the electric blanket on most nights, with the winter duvet. Yesterday was thick fog, only clearing when a cold wind sprang up from the north-west. Today is cold and cloudy. We haven’t had snow this June. Not yet. There is time yet for that on Orkney.

Bandits! - 9/6/10

A friend, who I bumped in to in town, asked if I had heard that they were coming. I hadn’t, and asked what sort of 'Bandit Watch' he had in mind. Armed with the facts, I went off to the airport to have a look for myself, only to find out that the bandit had run in to some trouble and the ambush would have to be delayed for a couple of hours at least. My friend later arrived and we agreed to set up our ambush where a side road ran near the end of the main runway, training our guns in to the distance. Finally, we heard that unmistakable growl of a Rolls-Royce Merlin and then picked out the shape that has thrilled millions of people for some 70 years.

 

The Spitfire came in towards the runway at an angle so he could see the tarmac past the enormous and powerful nose of the plane, and then straightened and touched down for the taxi towards the main apron in front of the passenger lounge. It must be a strange feeling to drive several million pounds worth of irreplaceable aeroplane when you can’t see in front of you because there is a huge engine in the way, but that is how you drive a Spitfire, blipping the throttle and waggling the rudder. Once in the air, however, it is a completely different story.

The guns, by the way, were a Canon EOS 400 D and a couple of Olympussies, all with long lenses.

Hearing that growl as PT462 passed overhead was for me a spine-tingling moment, and brought back memories of the battles I had watched at RAF Lindholme's Battle of Britain Open Days when I was a kid, with Spitfires and Hurricanes fighting Lancasters, and various war films where Spitfires did strafing runs at full speed with their Merlins working overtime. It sounded just like it should have done!

PT462 is a Mk 1Xe built in 1944, retrieved as a rusting hulk in 1984, and transformed into this beautiful flying machine with its second cockpit. I saw later that this second cockpit appeared identical to the first, with identical sets of instruments, and this is one of just six such Spitfires. The penalty comes in the fuel load it can carry, which is quite a bit less than a single cockpit version. But at around £2000 a fill, perhaps that is a blessing. She had come up from her home in North Wales, and I looked with pride on the Red Welsh Dragon emblazoned on the tail. They both roar, but 27 litres of Merlin aren’t quite the same as 80,000 voices at The Millenium Stadium.

The Merlin drinks fuel at only 50 gallons per hour cruising at 200mph, but this goes up to 150 gallons per hour flat out. I can’t imagine how many gallons per hour a crowd of Welsh Rugby fans could get through! The trip from Wales is almost 600 miles, or 2 hours as the Spit flies. The delay occurred because they had an alternator problem and had stopped at Blackpool for refreshments. Evidently they had been warned that there is no Halfords on Orkney.

Returning to the Airport Lounge we looked at her through the glass, and were envious of those who were privileged to go out and get up close and personal. One of those watching, John Moffat, flew the Swordfish which launched the torpedo which crippled the Bismarck. In his book “I sank the Bismarck” he tells of his experiences, and he strongly pointed out to me that he was just one of many who contributed to that day’s work. He is the sole survivor of those fliers. Another survivor of a similar vintage was a 1927 Sunbeam which arrived for a photo shoot with PT462. We have quite a number of vintage cars on Orkney

The cars departed, the high viz jackets disappeared, and the cockpits were filled with the two pilots. The huge propeller slowly turned, there was an eruption of blue smoke from twelve exhaust stacks, and the spine-tingling began all over again! But this time PT 462 was just taxiing round to a hangar for overnight protection. Tomorrow was to bring even more spine-tingling excitement.

The old RAF airfield at Skeabrae is some 20 miles from Kirkwall airport, and PT462 was to do some strafing runs and landing fly-throughs. Again, we heard her before we saw her, and this was made more difficult as a Cessna was wandering round looking for a few photos. It wasn’t easy for novices to tell the two sounds apart. But once PT462 arrived there was no further mistake, and I can understand how people would be either terrified or thrilled at the sound of a Merlin approaching fast and low. It was awesome.

There is another airfield a bit further north of Skeabrae, formerly used by the Royal Navy. It is near a village with a name that the editor would never allow printed in his magazine. The Top Gear team drove past on a recent race from Jersey to Birsay, but PT462 kept a safe distance away.

Later that evening PT462 did a display over Kirkwall Bay, starting with a fast approach from the sea, so low that I am sure the propwash ruffled the waves, going in to a victory roll, and demonstrating just what this plane can do. I was just 100m away and heard the note changing as she hurtled past many times, doing perfect loops and axial rolls, four-point rolls and all sorts. The noise changes when the throttle lever is pulled. A mere 400 horse power per inch of travel! And there were several inches of travel and noise. These were proper Rolls-Royce horse powers, not the modern brake horsey stuff.

Two other planes had also come up to join in. A replica SE5 did a beautiful display of loops and rolls and stall turns reminding of a long-gone era. But it all seemed a bit of an anticlimax when you know there's a Spitfire turning up in a few minutes. However, the SE5 was in the First World War to what the Hurricane was later on. A Pitts Special S2 had braved the crossing over the Pentland Firth and put on an excellent display of aerobatics too. Not quite Red Arrows stuff, but something which Orkney hasn’t seen in a very long time. It has encouraged me to improve my own flying till I, too, can make patterns in the sky like the ones we saw that evening. We'll see.

 

Lean Machine - 17/5/10

 

I had my little Cougar by the tail, and she was playing happily, but making a show of battling through the wind. I thought she was showing off, till I felt a sting on my left ear, followed by a sting on my right ear, and then lots more stings as the hail began to fly round my face. Time to land, as the cougar began to seem a little indistinct in the deteriorating weather. This is Orkney at its best. Four seasons in four minutes.

 

When I started this flight the weather seemed ok, and we had just had some nice sunshine. Perhaps I should have looked a bit more carefully upwind and I might have taken more notice of the dark ominous cloud on the horizon. It seemed remote enough when I last looked north, but the weather this whole year has been bizarre. This is the middle of May, the first day of summer is only five weeks away, and midsummer day is not six weeks away. The sleet pings off the wing covering like a mini machine gun, and it hurts my face as I walk back to the garage. This is NOT FUN!! Why does the weather have to be so nasty? Have I done something wrong? I think we should move to more clement climes. We have had snow four or five times since Easter!

 

There are things I can do in the garage where at least it is dry and draught-free. I have been trying to tune a petrol engine which ran well last time I flew it, but just will not run at all at present. It will start, and I can get the low run mixture about right, but the high- speed mixture is all over the place. It runs rich, then just dies a death, and gasps its last as if someone is strangulating it. And if it carries on playing tricks like this I will definitely strangle it. It splutters and belches like a cow just released in to a field of clover. It releases clouds of Frisian coloured smoke, and after a short time it makes that “Bleeaarrgh” noise of an engine being strangulated and gives up the ghost.

 

I think it must be the fuel pipe, I think it must be dirt in the carb, I think it must be the clunk is clogged, I think it must be time for a large tot of Strengthening Medicine, 40* proof. This battle goes on, and the hail shower drifts past. So, let’s apply a little logic. This is a new engine, the battery is charged, there is a proper petrol clunk, the right sort of fuel tube, and the fuel was filtered in to the tank. So all should be well.

 

But everything ain’t alls well, not at all! So I strap a spare fuel tank on the fuz, and start again, and I can get easy running right through the range. Good! Now I can swap these tanks over, and have some fun! That involves taking the wing off and all sorts of other capers. So I do all that, start her up, and “Bleeaarrgh”. Maybe the strengthening medicine is having an effect. Something needs to, as I am getting seriously fed up!

 

There are so few flying days, and, with or without hail, today has relatively little wind. I am itching to get out. I remove the tube from the tank to the carb. I had checked this before to see if it was blocked. It was not, and I could blow down it easily. But the engine was definitely running lean. Was there a hole in it? So I sucked down it blocking one end, and in came lots of air. Now, if I replace this, I might be able to fly. I do that and retune the engine, and BINGO!! She runs well right through the range, throttling well up and down.

 

This fuel pipe was, I believe, well-researched. Some of my fuel tanks have only two outlets, some have three. I have found out that if you put a tee-junction in the tank-to-carb pipe on a glo engine the fuel shoots up the pipe in to the carb and the engine floods (and you may bend the con-rod when starting the engine), while also filling the tank. So, NEVER put a tee junction in the fuel line for a glo engine. But, the carb on a petrol engine is quite different, and it should be possible to fill the petrol in to a tee junction in the fuel line, leaving one tube free to act as the breather for the tank. It worked fine last year, but these petrol lines seem to get hard in time, and this one was not sealing securely round the plug in the filler end of the tube, and this was where the air sucked in. One thing Walbro carbs are very good at is sucking. So, this line has been replaced, and there are two other tubes to the tank, one for filling, and one for a breather. This lesson I shall remember. In fact, I now think it would be best never to put any junction between the tank and the carb so you ensure there will be no leaks.

 

I have replaced my decrepit flight box with a Stanley tool chest, the sort with nice wheels and a handle to pull it around with, as one day soon I might move to a field near you. I have fitted it out with a nice car battery and a couple of half-gallon fuel cans, for glow and petrol, it has a tray for all the tools and glues and bits I will need for a trip to a flying field, and it has a couple of wire cradles slotting in to the top to hold a model in. It has probably got enough room for a spare ARTF if there are too many people already flying. There is even room for a small bottle of strengthening medicine if things get too distraught, those 'Black Bag Moments' we all seem to have. It is fairly heavy. Testing this little petrol engine on this chest showed that the chest began to wobble on its wheels, and the plane rocked forward and was about to take off across the garage when the throttle was barely half way open, so I think I have got the mixture about right. I have no other engines which will do that and have power to spare.

 

I look outside, and the weather is better. I check the batteries for this now revitalised plane just itching for a buzz around The Bog. They are flat. And after all that, so am I. No more flying today, hail or shine.

 

 

Wind is something we have in excess in Orkney. We would be happy to have a lot less of it, and at present a lot less of the rain it seems to bring. It is May, and the garden is still squelchy, the daffodills are just about all open at last, and we are seeing the first glimpses of leaves on the willow trees now the catkins have blown away. There are also leaves on the dog-roses trying to establish themselves growing in and around the willows, and they are a different shade of green. There are even daisies growing in the grass which is yet another shade of green, different again from the grey-yellow-green of the bog.

I got really fed up of watching the wind ripple the grass, watching the willows doing their hula-hoops, so I got my little Cougar out for a fly and let her loose. There must be some saying about catching a cougar by the tail and watching out for the teeth. I was by now in flight deficit mode, and I think the teeth on this particular cougar weren't worrying me too much.

Wandering along a sea shore the other day on one of our remote Islands I was again amazed at how the seabirds use the wind as an advantage instead of always being defeated by it as we seem to be. Soon we will see the Arctic Terns arriving for their summer breeding, having just flown around the world from the Antarctic. These birds are not much bigger than a blackbird, yet fly 25,000 miles a year. We see lots of Fulmars here. They are related to the Albatross and Petrels, and spend most of their lives at sea. As I watched them, they flew and glided along the edge of the sand dunes using the lift as the wind blew along and over the dunes to propel them from one end to the other and back again. Their flight was effortless, their wings characteristically board-stiff, and only flapping as they turned sharply to return along the dunes time after time. As they passed and repassed me I could see their tails shifting slightly to turn in and out of the wind, I could see the shape of the wing alter a bit to gain lift. I could see the feathers ripple on their backs. I watched them deploy airbrakes and flaps as they dropped their legs and changed aspect to land. I have seen them use the wind across a coaming wave, balancing on what must be an invisible cushion of air as the wave races forward, rather as a surfer can race downhill along a wave as it build up before crashing near the beach. And these birds are naturals at it. They never crash their models, their batteries never need recharging. They look beautiful. I have seen gulls diving in to very strong winds and making real speed across the sea where I would have thought they would be blown far away, and I suppose that is how gliders work the air currents.

So, why can't my little cougar fly like them? The battery was charged, the MDS engine was running fairly well, for an MDS, so off we go. Gentle rise off the ground, not too much elevator till we have plenty of height, and I see we have not travelled very far over the ground. I am working all four sticks together trying to keep the wings horizontal, keep the plane on an even keel, and I am ready for a left-hand-down-a-bit. Try to keep the wings fairly flat or the wind catches her and blows her all sideways. She crabs sideways, and turns herself back in to face the wind. More left-hand-down-a-bit, more throttle, and the downwind leg doesn't take long. Turn again, and this takes a lot of effort as she pitches up and down, the invisible wind buffeting her about as I fight to keep her stable and steady, playing the throttle to bring her back across the pitch and fighting to keep her level. I am sure the wind is stronger and more turbulent as she gets higher. And as soon as the wind gets even slightly under the wing, she is jerked violently any which way, there is no saying whether she will shoot upwards or drive down towards the welcoming Bog. It is desperate porage-stirring exercises as I twiddle the sticks to keep her straight and level. A gull flies across and I follow him. He flaps lazily and swoops away.

This is really good fun, and so far no disasters. I see the similarities between my Cougar and the Fulmar. The Fulmar does what it wants, responds instantly to the wind, and does it expertly. I am doing what I want, and I am making my little plane respond to the wind, but I can only react when I see what the wind has already done to my plane, some seconds late. Trying to keep level and execute decent square turns in this weather is quite hard, when I know most people would have packed up and be in the pub. So I persevere, and after another two flights the battery is low and I can't really feel all my fingers. Time for some strengthening medicine.

There have been other occasions when I have tried to fly in windy conditions, and disaster has occurred. You don’t see people on the flight lines in gales. They are too sensible. But wind is an absolute requirement of flying, if it is properly controlled. We must have wind over the wings or we don’t get lift and speed. Our props or fans make a lot of wind, in the right time and place. The real problem with the wind we get here is it is so variable and unpredictable, and on take-off and landing it doesn’t help to get a sudden gust blasting you up or down and sideways, digging a wing in and cart wheeling, or bending the undercarriage and flipping a model.

Just one tip. Don't EVER get close and downwind to a Fulmar. They spit! And it is the most revolting evil-smelling stuff you ever saw or smelt. Don't even bother washing those clothes This stuff doesn't wash off. Just dump them in the nearest bin. Apparently this vomit is made up of wax esters which they feed to their chicks as an energy food. They also spit it at predators which renders their feathers permanently useless, and they may die. And the name Fulmar apparently comes from the Norse meaning Foul-Gull. How right they were! And if I can ever fly as well as one of those beautiful birds, all those crashes and hard work will have been worth it, after all.

Vulcanography - 20/4/10

HEY!!! I found an egg in the Great Easter Egg Hunt on our home page. But even more amazing was the story of Bert Prail’s unbelievable flight of his Reichard Sprinter which just happened to travel around 5,000 miles from here to Siberia, and land safely, and get found, and get returned to one happy owner. When I flew in East Devon at Woodbury Common there were always tales of what happened if you went down in the woods looking for somebody else’s lost aeroplane. There be bears and varmints lying in wait for hapless modellers in them there woods. One modeller lost his model high up in a tree. He could see it, but he could not get it down. One intrepid modeller on Orkney told me of his model which floated gracefully away on a breeze and turned up some weeks later on a neighbouring shoreline. He never could find out where it had spent the intervening weeks. But Bert Prail’s story is quite incredible, and says a lot for the quality of the model and its overall balance, both C of G and laterally, for it to have floated stable for so long on thermals and the Jet Stream. Vulcanography triumphs over Geography.

Just one thing nags at the back of my mind. David Ashby published the story up on April Fools Day, and Bert Prail looks like an anagram of April Fool. In the village of Loof? HO HO! Lets all Loof out loud! Try spelling that backwards? Are you sure you want us to believe you? Perhaps, maybe, Vulcan was being kind to little planes that week and Asterix was drinking his magic potion.

Standing in the middle of Coniston Village I once watched a strange bird fly high across the sky, being aggressively mobbed by two crows. It had small wings and a very big body, and I could not identify it as resembling anything I had ever seen. There was a lot of high-pitched screaming and cawing going on, until the big bird suddenly fell in half. The Peregrine Falcon flew off angrily, and the dead pigeon fell to earth and landed close to me. The crows flew off guffawing loudly. It seems so strange that the balance of nature can be affected by crows mobbing a falcon with no apparent benefit to either party, but I suppose people bully other people for very little benefit except that they can get away with it.

I wonder if there are similarities with mid-air collisions at the flying field. I am sure we all have rules about the number of planes up at any one time. But I have seen a couple of mid-air collisions and they generate mixed emotions. Of all the millions of cubic feet of air we play in, how could two fliers possibly get to the same place at the same time? And there may be some, like the two crows, who creep off guffawing loudly. But most will be really sorry for the two unfortunate modellers, and will help to pick up the bits, offer black bags and hankies, and a shoulder to cry on.

Something similar happened to me the other day, the only day we had when we could fly, (and this followed a weekend when the snow came in horizontal from “Fair Isle“) so I took my Cougar out for a spin. This is a colourful slim model, very light, with an MDS 40 at the front (which does actually run most of the time if you tune it very carefully!). It would do well with an electric motor and a nice Li-Po. It is good at ground loops but when running straight gets airborne in seconds. On low rates it is fun to fly, and will do all I ask of it. On high rates it does it all a lot quicker. But today we were on low rates, early in the season and just being a bit gentle and having a happy time, when there was a small BANG! And the wing separated from the fuselage and graciously fluttered away in the breeze pivoting on its long axis looking like a big yellow and purple oriental butterfly. The fuselage meanwhile pursued a path to Australia by the quickest route, engine still at half throttle, till the revs died down as tunnelling operations commenced. This looked like a sad end to flying for the day, and a sad end to the Cougar, so I trudged off to collect the bits. I knew the wing would be ok as it fluttered down so gracefully. The fuz came down like one of Vulcan’s thunderbolts. Amazingly, it was not too badly damaged, and I soon found out what had caused the crash. This wing is held on by rubber bands on to carbon fibre dowels, and the front dowel had cracked away from the fuselage. I found it about 40 mtr away from the fuse, which still had the rubber bands attached to the rear dowel. It has been mended, and has flown again, but with revised wing attachments!

But today as I write this the tiles are rattling on the roof and a storm is coming in from the Irish Sea. Mobile signals on our network are down all over the north of Scotland. Some Daffodils are still hiding in green cloaks, and daisies are barely visible in the grass. There are no leaves yet visible on the trees. Flying is abandoned, and that is definitely NOT an April Fool.

A fortnight later, the daffodils are still struggling, and we have no post, as this comes in by airmail. Iceland has yet again shown the world that it can rock the greatest economies, this time by spewing out a few million tonnes of volcanic ash into the Jet Stream for the weekend. Again, no April Fool!
 

The Ides March On - 6/4/10

It was Julius Caesar who was warned to “Beware the Ides of March” and the advice didn’t do him any good. Flak jackets weren’t invented then, and the sort of body armour then in use would have alerted any plotters that they had been tumbled. So 'The Ides' marked a sticky end for a once-great man. I find that 'The Ides' are the eighth day after 'The Nones' in the ancient Roman calendar, that is the 15th day of March, May, July, and October, and the thirteenth day of other months. Someone remind me to never to fly on 'The Ides' of any month, and definitely not on 'The Nones'. What a way to plan a date! “Hey, Honey, fancy the flicks on the Nones?” “No, lets wait till the Ides, the programmes will have changed”. Patricia suggests we try to sneak in and ide and pay nones.

The march of the seasons is fairly obvious here as we are so far north, on latitude 59-degrees. Newcastle is 55, Lands End is 50. Except in Norway I have never before noticed the sun shift through the year as it does here. There we were at latitude 60* north, the same as Shetland. We overlooked the junctions of three fjords about 20 miles north of Bergen and when it wasn’t raining we watched the sun rise over the mountains to the west. As winter approached the sun finally slid behind the shoulder of the big mountain and hid till 11am before sneaking out over the top of the mountain and traversing the southern sky and sneaking down behind the hills near the coast at around 3 pm. We saw some spectacular sunrises and sunsets, and on our travels some amazing scenery, like one-track tunnels through huge mountains with passing-places dug in to the rock and no light except your headlights. Don’t tangle with the big truckers, they take NO PRISONERS! In Tromso (lat 70-degrees) in June the sun just went round in a circle overhead, and I watched it slowly rise again at 2am. They were laying concrete in the roadway outside the Hotel all night, as it gets too cold to dig up roads from October to April.

We watch the sun rise and set here in a different place every week. I never cease to be amazed. There is a shift of 90-degrees between midsummer and midwinter, and a time shift of some 6 hours from 3am to after 9am. There are telegraph poles marching along from Kirkwall to our north all the way, along the crest of the hill to our east, till you get to the Pentland Firth at the very south, and they mark out regular distances like a giant on stilts. The poles stick out above the horizon and the sun shines through them as it wakes us up, and every week it is in a different place and at a different time. Now, I don’t set my alarm clock to check on the sun, but there are times when I am up and can watch this amazing sight. The House on the Hill is about in the middle, and the sun rises over it somewhere round the Nones of September or the Ides of March. Perhaps I had better warn them to beware. I am not sure they will be interested. They have a better view of Kirkwall Airport than we do, although we are under the flightpath of some southbound planes. During the summer we sometimes see a house on fire blazing wildly on the Isle of Shapinsay a few miles away. Closer inspection with binoculars reveals that this is a reflection of the setting sun on the windows of that house, and there aren’t that many sunsets where we see that.

The great grey shark still does full-flap wheels-down landing runs with full-bore take-offs. We have had other big planes in, and I was at the Airport one day when we were expecting a DC10 or a refuelling tanker to practice a landing fly-through. There was other passenger traffic around and he went off to play elsewhere. There were two items of flying news interest recently. One was that a couple of supersonic Russian nuclear bombers were “shadowed” by our boys in blue till they left British airspace somewhere to the left of Ireland, possibly on their way to say hello to the White House. Nice to see the system still works. More important, our Nimrods - these great gray sharks - will be phased out. One dropped by a couple of days ago, may be the last time we see them here. Their replacement - if it arrives - will turn up in a couple of years. Between times, I am your eyes and ears. I think I will hibernate for a while!

You will have gathered that we have an enviable climate here. I have just finished treading last year’s vintage grape harvest (I WISH!!). The Locals describe it as nine months of winter and three months of bad weather and it doesn’t make for good flying weather. It is almost always windy. I have felt that I should be able to master the wind and learn to fly in anything. But on the occasions when I have been rash I have regretted it and saw one model blown half a mile away, and a couple flipped violently in to the ground and wrecked, so I stick to quiet days now. And when it isn’t blowing it is often raining. This last November was the wettest on record, and the end of my garden near Bechers Brook has been awash with water for weeks. I leave water soaked clarty footprints when I walk down there, although the willows and dog roses and flowering currant bushes are just now beginning to put out little buds. Aero wheels sink out of sight so only the lightest of trainers can get airborne.

Yes, I think I deserve to fly at a field near you. So watch out! Here Ide come!

Viking, North Utsira, South Utsira - 23/3/10

There are times when I quite like to hear about North and South Utsira, and times like today when I definitely do NOT want to hear these names. They come in the weather forecasts, the bits no-one really listens to. There was a time I lived at the other end of Britain, but left there to move to Sunderland where I met my beautiful wife, and then, via Norway, to Orkney. In Devon I had an interest in sailing dinghies and listened to the local and national forecasts to work out what sort of sail we would get – like, Bermudas and sunglasses or oilies and sou-westers? There we were between Portland and Plymouth, with the dreaded Biscay just hull–down to the south. Then we moved to Tyne, my dinghy was gone, and we went for walks in the beautiful Northumbrian countryside. Emperor Hadrian had things to say about the weather in that neck of the woods while chatting with the Picts.

Now we are in Fair Isle. Can you ever imagine a more ridiculous misnomer for a weather station. It never rains but it pours, it never blows but it hurricanes, it never snows but it blizzards. People don’t come to Fair Isle to cure themselves of consumption, they are more likely to catch it in this climate. Just for completeness, Fair Isle includes Orkney, Shetland, and in between is the diminutive Fair Isle. I bet there was a real scrap between Shetland and Orkney over who would get to name this bit of water, so someone chose the tiny Fair Isle to keep the peace.

Next to the left is Faeroes, then Iceland! Next to the right is Viking, then North and South Utsira (named after another small Island off the west coast of Norway on the same latitude as Orkney). North of us is a great blank area on the map with no name, probably because no people in their right minds would sail in it as it stretches to the polar ice cap, with another island, Spitzbergen, somewhere in the middle. But polar explorers sailed there, whalers went there, and the brave Arctic convoys through the last war sailed there and the U-boats hunted there. Orkney featured in all these exploits. There is a well-known well in Stromness where whalers and explorers revictualled before and after venturing out in to that great sea, often taking Orcadian sailors with them. Scapa Flow was the premiere safe anchorage for our great navy, and the final resting place for the German Grand Fleet. The first major casualty of WWII, the Royal Oak battleship, rests in peace in those cold and murky waters.

I am fed up with the weather. We seem to have had almost no decent flying for many months now, and the only days I have seen were when I was busy, or away. So many times I have watched the weather forecast after the news, from a hotel bedroom, and seen some attractive damsel point out pretty yellow geraniums on her map (SUN!!) and gentle winds of 2-5 mph, knowing that I was hundreds of miles away and couldn’t play. The return flight is bumpy, I get back and find the clouds crowding in around us, and I don’t bother to sneak off in to the garage.

A few days ago I saw a serious – even stern – man show us his map of Britain with white blobs of wind with small figures in. That means double figures, and I don’t even bother to strain my eyes. I will save them for more important things later in the day. But then in the local forecast a pretty lass shows a number 3 with the arrow pointing a different way and I rush out to charge up some batteries. Why is it that from time immoral we have been seduced by presentation, or spin, or what we WANT to believe, rather than search out the truth?

For me, I miss flying, and I want to believe that I can get some flying in today, no matter who tells me the news. Later that day I see the slender willows are doing gentle aerobics, just a bit of arm-waving, nothing too strenuous, so I sally forth and prepare for aviation. For some reason this engine isn’t running well. It ran very well on the bench before but it doesn’t want to run in the plane, so several attempts to get airborne don’t work. Finally, I try again and put the plane on the grass, holding it with my left hand, and trannie in my right. Is everything still working? and --- OOPS!! --- the wings lift off the grass and the plane nearly flips over. I secure it, and look around. I see the grass ripple in waves towards The Bog, and the willows have finished their aerobics and are in to serious hula hooping with arms waving excitedly and trunks swaying in a way the Girl With Geranium never did. Her single figure white blob was for this morning. The double digit stern figure was for this afternoon, it seems.

So The Serious Man and Geranium Girl were both right, and I STILL haven’t got a flight this year! Interestingly, I find the weather forecasts seem quite accurate for here, and the discrepancies are often because of a time difference. The UK forecast may be for 9 am, the Scottish one may be for 4 pm. And today they got it right again. There were strong white arrows all across the north of Scotland from Rockall and Bailey right through Hebrides and out in to Viking and The Place With No Name which meant rain and STRONG wind.

Looking at the Met Office map I see winds in these areas from gale force 8 to severe gale force 9 to storm force 10, but not yet violent storm force 11 or hurricane force 12. I will wait for TV Burp force 13. The sea is half a mile from this house, the other side of a ridge of land. The windows are covered with a grimy salty mist blown off the sea. The ferries aren’t sailing, the planes aren’t flying, the sun isn’t shining, and I am not flying my planes. My anemo-gismo reads 40+mph, and we are in a valley of sorts. God help those on the sea in boats. I am not the only one with serious Fedupitis.

All Long Johns have a Silver Lining - 3/3/10 

Yes, it’s Official! This has been the coldest winter on record since the last coldest winter on record. And I for one have no doubt about the truth of that statement. I expect some politician has already accused the winter of being the real cause behind their flagging ratings with Joe Public. Statisticians are rejoicing at having some positive news to fling at a public bewildered by unrealistic opinion polls, a Public not the least interested in whether it was the worst winter, but rather how can they pay their energy bills, how they can put food on the table and how they can fly R/C more often.  

I know it has been a bad winter because my attempts at gluing things with white glue resulted in disaster when all I found the following morning when I removed the clamps was a splodge of white powder around the joints and two separate bits of wood. This happened several times as the glue froze overnight in the extreme cold that blew in from the Arctic. And I was prevented from working in the garage for too long because it was just too painful to stay out for much more than an hour or two; my fan heater taking the temperature up from 'deadly freezing' to 'extremely freezing'. It just buzzes away to itself in the corner and has fought a losing battle with the daddy of all winters. It would be really bad when my glow fuel freezes but not quite yet!  

Last summer was the wettest on record, and Airport One was awash with water and mud such that flying was difficult even for light planes. December was breezy, and the only nice flying days occurred when we were away for Christmas. The snow arrived shortly after we came back, with extra wind, and when the snow melted the ground was soaked, with little squelchy puddles following in my footsteps wherever I walked around the garden. And extra wind, which I occasionally checked with my anemomo- wostit at up to 30 mph. 

As I write I look over a snow-clad field to the road, and the Postie has just delivered our post. So, the main and side roads are passable in his little van. I didn’t see his cat. Planes are again flying overhead so airports must be functioning again. I have had to do some big aeroplane flying recently, with some odd experiences. Returning from Glasgow there was some fog and our flight to Kirkwall was delayed. We found out later that the inbound flight I think from Benbecula couldn’t see the airport runway because of the fog and circled for two hours before landing. They must have felt dizzy! At our take-off the Pilot assured us the fog was only 150 mtr deep and sure enough after a couple of minutes we could see snow-clad peaks right to the far north horizon with no clouds till we reached Kirkwall. It just needs a small patch of fog somewhere to throw the entire timetable out of kilter. And we gripe about a five-minute delay to our own departure schedule. And thinking of the Vulcan, we were only a quarter the height that would have flown at. His external temperature at 65000ft high would have been about -50. Glow fuel would have frozen, kerosene would be a bit sluggish and even Spock would have been glad of his Long Johns, silver lining included. 

So, after all that, I haven’t really been able to do any decent flying for several months, and the weather has been so cold that any attempt at building has not been fruitful either. It is the Gulf Stream which keeps Orkney as warm as it is and it's been missing. I've just been watching the film 'The Day After Tomorrow' - if that all comes to pass then we'll be able to drive over the Pentland Firth in our Ice Road Trucks!

Beam me up, Scottie! - 23/2/10

I finally twigged why Patricia had been acting – perhaps – a little oddly. It was since our rather stressful visit to my Elder Sister after Christmas and our discussions about Vulcans, and the discovery of a set of plans for a 60” wingspan model of this great plane on our return to the tropical climate of Orkney. That in itself is enough to turn even the strongest of minds. Slowly the missing pieces of the jigsaw came in to place. Talking tropical, there is one Vulcan at the bottom of the Bermuda Triangle. Bond – James Bond – found it there when Smersh or Blofeld or that little pussy cat tried to Save the World by pinching a few nukes. But that wasn’t one of the missing pieces. No, it seemed that Patricia was paying particular attention to my ears. For some, this might be a way to a man’s heart, but I am a Scientist and therefore I am immune to such ruses. I also wash them regularly and keep them Shrek-free of wax. But she persisted, and there is something rather endearing in having your ears caressed frequently during the day. It was not till she tried measuring them with a tape measure that I got suspicious, and then the Truth tumbled out. All this talk of Vulcans had made her think that I might be turning in to Spock and the ears were, of course, the real give-away. She had even taken trips out to the garage in the wind and snow to see if I had changed in to a slinky blue Leotard with or without ear-protectors. Well, she was almost right. I HAD changed in to a blue costume but it was the thick woolly fleece liner for my sailing Dry-Suit to keep me warm in the icicle zone I was working in, and it was fat and furry and I looked more like Santa in Blue than Spock. So, I am still mortal, and no Vulcan, and I did have a 007 telephone number once. That is a different story. 

There is another reason why I know I am no Vulcan. There are occasions when I am a little bit clumsy and cut myself with one of my modelling knives, and it is genuine red blood that seeps out (or sometimes gushes depending on how hard I am trying to cut things or if I have indulged myself with a new blade recently), it tastes salty when I lick my wounds, and leaves tell-tale drips on the floor. It also often leaves crimson and scarlet splashes on the balsa which are there for the life of the model even though they turn black with age. I think I read somewhere (was it Treasure Island?) that pirates would tip someone “The Black Spot” when their number came up, rather like being offered a loving kiss by your favourite Mafia boss. Fortunately no-one has yet tipped me any black spots even though some of my models behave as if they have a death-wish. And no matter how carefully I wrap the cut up with tissue, old tea cloths or balsa chippings, no matter how carefully I secure it with bits of fuel tubing or flesh-coloured insulating tape, Patricia ALWAYS knows what I have done when I next come in from the garage, and then redresses it properly and puts on a proper plaster, and takes good care of me. But at least I was able to play a little longer till the gore really stopped flowing. 

The Avro Vulcan was named after that great God of War and thunder. Anyone who stands near a Vulcan at full throttle knows very well how loud and threatening this bomber really is. I am not so sure about the Spock Vulcan. He sounds calm and measured, and not prone to throwing thunderbolts at those who are “not logical”. Although I, too, am calm and measured there is one other way I know I am not a Vulcan. The weather here has been very cold indeed, and for once in our lives we have been marginally less affected than all you who live further south. Our snow was deep, but not as deep as some of the bigger drifts. Spock may be able to work in sub-zero temperatures for hours on end. His planet may ever be in the ice ages. I can’t, and so my modelling has been curtailed in recent weeks to an hour or two between warming cups of chocolate and strengthening medicine. When I found the nice white glue had set to a powdery mess with ice crystals growing out of it I felt that it was time to call it a day and leave the garage for those with green Vulcan blood. 

And if your life is particularly glum, get someone to nibble your ears. It can be very romantic. There is no knowing what might happen - unless, of course, you are a Vulcan and extremely logical! 

Sold as Scrap - 5/2/10 

And that doesn’t apply to all my models, or the engines I have, or the servos and bits of wire, as all these bits tend to get recycled. Nor does it (yet) apply to various Christmas presents given or received because this is what you are supposed to do at Christmas and you can’t really tell Aunt Maud that all you really think of her is worth a card (saved from last year) and a Mars Bar. I am sure you all have foolproof ways of getting rid of a dozen pairs of sox, assorted hankies, several hundredweight of shortbread, and sticky toffee guaranteed to pull your all fillings out.

No, this title was stimulated by the present that did NOT arrive. Santa was just too busy, maybe The Bog was just a bit too radio-active, maybe Rudolph had had too much gin mixed with his oats, but this present did not arrive before we left these Nordic latitudes for warmer climes and visits to Family. And we were not at all pleased. I had heard a whisper that Santa might bring me a plan of the AVRO Vulcan. In the end, the Postie brought a box round AFTER we had returned from our Family wanderings, so that will be my spare time sorted for the next few snowy nights. 

I don’t need to tell you that of almost 100 Vulcans built there is only one flying survivor, and precious few static relics. The saddest part of that excellent book by Tim Laming was the chapter titled “Vulcan Production, Service, and Disposals.” Time after time the entry ends – “Sold as scrap”. A few crashed – and were then sold as scrap. And during their glorious life the only time - fortunately! - they were used in anger was when they were brought out of almost retirement and flew half way round the World and back to bomb Port Stanley airport in The Falkland Islands. One of them ran out of fuel and had a holiday in Brazil. 

In perspective, a Boeing 737 is about as long as the Vulcan, has approximately the same wingspan, has engines with approximately the same static thrust (but only two), is as common as muck, and appears to have no character whatsoever. It is an offence against an awesome legend even to think of them at the same time. But if we were to think of Concorde we would find it was almost twice as long, with only 75% of the Vulcan’s enormous wingspan and each of its 4 engines produced twice as much power as the most powerful Olympus 301 engines in the Vulcan, from which they were developed. It, too, was a heavy drinker, averaging around 17miles per gallon per passenger. Maybe, just maybe, you could think of those two in the same second.

Tin Lizzie II - 7/1/10

Languishing in the garage waiting for a better day doesn’t suit a feisty old granny who can’t do her corsets up, and Tin Lizzie was itching to be up and doing, but something was wrong, and she wasn’t behaving well. The mixture on this ASP engine wasn’t right, so I thought, and I haven’t used it for some time, so I changed the engine for an SC .91FS. I like four-strokes, they sound so much healthier. The weather was better so off we go, and there is wind under the wheels and we are away---and the engine cuts. Try again, alarm bells ringing somewhere in the back of my head, and again she cuts to idle. Back in the garage she can run on full throttle for half a minute with her nose pointing towards the rafters, and shift easily from full throttle to idle and back without faltering. Put her back on the cradle, stop the engine, and think about things. I had inadvertently left the trannie and receiver on, and I hear a servo chatter. The throttle moves. Is there interference from the throttle linkage? Shift the receiver as far back in the model as it can go (huge problems with the inaccessible servos and leads), and try again, with exactly the same result. This time, change the receiver, and instant success! Tin Lizzie flies, but she has traversed the length of the garden to get airborne and definitely will not fly over the hedge, so cut the throttle and glide towards—yes—the thickest of the willow hedge! Safe landing and no damage. The next flight had the flaps at half-mast and she took off in a shorter distance and just cleared the hedge and made a slow and wobbly circuit at something a bit over stalling speed before landing. Safe, but not inspiring.

Going to retrieve Tin Lizzie I was amazed to find what looks like a single mole hill in the middle of the garden. Just one, with no others near. I have never seen molehills in Orkney, and I think moles don’t exist here. We are, after all, ten miles north of the top of Scotland, separated by the Pentland Firth with the most fearsome tide rips around Britain. The earth was thrown out from a small hole as if by some busy small animal. Too big for a vole, too small for a rabbit, and too wet for a mole. A strange mystery. Maybe it is a transmogrification of The Great Black Were-Rabbit come back to get my latest model. Weird!

So, why did my Tin Lizzie not fly as well as yours? Part of the reason was probably because I got fed up with her at an early stage in the build. I experimented a bit with the plans, and built her a bit too heavy with ply fuz formers thicker than advised. That was all I had in the garage and there is no thinner available in Orkney. I must get some decent thinner stuff if I can find a model shop when we are south during Christmas. The wings, with every rib different from the others, were a builder’s dream, or in my case a nightmare with balsa dust getting everywhere including up my nose and making me sneeze. I hadn’t planned the build well, and fitted two servos under the wing mountings where they were almost inaccessible. I had to pay for this at a later stage. ALWAYS fit your servos where you can easily get at them and adjust them. If you want, get one of those servo centring gismos so you can set them up well and accurately. Carefully plan your snake routes so they don’t bind or twist or flex and are well-supported every 10 cm or so. Make CERTAIN that they run free. Make sure all hinges are free, or consider cutting them out and refitting them. Think about where the receiver antenna will go. Will it incur interference from other control rods? Battery? My funny receiver will be on its way to the tip shortly. All these things make a difference between success and failure, and we all want success of some sort. Make sure your clevises are new(ish) and up to the job, and secured with bits of fuel tubing or proper keepers. And, of course, the plans we use were designed and drawn by experts. Mess with them at your peril, and if there are no instructions, sit down and plan carefully just how you will dovetail every part of this plan together so it will come in on/under weight, it will be strong enough to fly safely, and, even, to arrive.

There is a saying “To travel hopefully is better than to Arrive”. Evidently not written by a Model Aviator for whom “Arrivals” have a very different meaning. But the Rebel in me feels that a little bit of peril makes life so much more fun.

The Sun is rising around 0930hr, above the 5th telegraph pole to the right of the house on the hill, and there have been a few spectacular sunrises over the last few weeks. Come Midsummer day, the Sun will have traversed through exactly 90-degrees further north and will rise over the fourth telegraph pole to the left of the house on the hill. Amazing!!

We have just returned from a trip south to see Family for Christmas, and find we have snow blizzards blocking the A9 in at least 4 places, and many other roads in Scotland. It seems the worst of the weather is blowing over Orkney and hitting Scotland harder. Bread and milk will be in short supply for the next week or so!

Tin Lizzie - 15/12/09

Tony Nijhuis has done us proud with his recent Lysander design and produced an exquisite plan and wood pack of an exciting, challenging, remarkable model with an outstanding service record. He is to be congratulated, and he also suggested that his plans were a lot less complicated than many other Lysander plans you could get hold of. I am sure he is right, and I for one won’t be trying to find out. I cannot understand why, but I didn’t like this model, and began to get irritated with it at a fairly early stage in the build, such that when I finally decided that it stood a chance of flying I began looking for a windy day in the off-chance that a certain severe mishap might befall it.

Even this fun nearly turned to disaster. My fuel pump chose this of all days to run slow, scream, jam, and register a protest. It is on its way to the recycle bin. Does anyone have a hand one they want to send to a good cause? I would be really nice to it, and call it Oscar.

Since that day the weather has returned to normal. I must dig out my genuine Norwegian thermal winterwear and padded boiler suit and the Biggles fur hat with ear muffs, find my thermal gloves and check out the trusty snow shovel. Or maybe we could just book a winter break somewhere warm.

Grumpy Old Men - 23/11/09

No. I am definitely NOT one of the Grumpy Old Men, although I might sometimes feel that I am not quite in the prime of life. I suppose I might feel that my trips in to The Bog are more sedate than when I first started racing after lost models some five years ago, but perhaps now I don’t need to do so much chasing as I used to do. The weather seems to have been awful this last summer, and the one before that. And to prove a point, some days in the last few weeks have had only gentle winds, so much quieter than usual that one might contemplate flying. But one day had a Moto GP in the middle of it. Other days had other things I needed to do, like work, and other days had some degree of vertical rain rather than the more usual violent horizontal variety. I stand and stare out of the window and twiddle my thumbs in frustration.

Looking out over the garden the other day I saw something strange sticking out of the lawn. Closer inspection found a couple of firework rockets impaled in the splodge, their shafts blackened by the flames. Yes, these cheap spruce sticks might just make nice main spars for another model. Something else I noticed was that my footsteps were visible right across the garden with big indents and water rapidly filling the footprints. Why is it that life has to be so hard? If I try to take off or land on this wet turf, I know full well that the wheels will dig in and the plane will come to a sad end. On deeper reflection I realise that a wing made with cheap spruce spars that have already been half way to the Moon and back, and are already half burnt through, is hardly likely to turn in to a successful model. I don’t need to persecute myself with this, do I? And the grass is fractionally too long to fly, and it is far too wet to cut, and it will stay like this till April, I expect.

Maybe I will move to a site near you! Then I could chat to real modellers and be less experimental, and fly with less wind and rain, where Airport One is not sitting on a sheet of clay with pools of water draining nowhere, grass growing at a mile a minute. That might be nice. I could begin to think fondly of retirement, taking life gently, getting an allotment, socialising with Wurzel Gummage and going to the local Pub. In fact, all the things those grumpy Old Men seem to do. Except I am NOT a GOM.

I have been experimenting with real aircraft recently. My work has taken me off to London Airport. Now, why on earth should our glorious leaders send me off to London Airport unless it was with a one-way-ticket? And which of the several London Airports should I turn up at? This is a little bit like Alice in Wonderland and Magic Mushrooms. Will I turn up at London Heathrow, London City, London Gatwick, London Stanstead? Were they thinking of London Prestwick? London Ontario? Well, actually, they were thinking of London Airport on the Isle of Eday, (try Googling THAT!) and they had booked me on the only flight, every Wednesday, for some weeks. So I get to fly in an 8 seater high wing Islander with a Lycoming petrol engine bolted on to each wing, rather like a converted VW beach buggy (and they can and do land and take off on the beach sometimes), and with landing gear eight feet tall. I can look over the Pilot’s shoulder and see the altimeter rising and dropping as we hit air pockets, see the Horizon swaying, watch the airspeed indicator swing round the dial as the flaps go down, and watch the fuel gauges go down towards zero as we fly in to fog and clouds. Yes, this is the essence of flying! Why can’t we get such readouts on our own little model transmitters. I am sure the technology is all there, but I was born with only two functioning eyes and I use both of them for tracking my model, at all times. I do NOT want to finish up like a chameleon and look in different directions with different eyes! Just don’t ask me to squint at my trannie to see what speed I am going at. It is bad enough to hear the Stall Alarm go off when we are just on finals on a remote Island where you are the only Doctor for miles around and you are on this plane. No, just give me an ordinary transmitter, and also a fine windless day, and I will be very happy.

Strangely, I had never even heard of London Airport until I had been travelling there for a couple of weeks. We had to send a patient off to hospital and I took a call from the air ambulance to say that their helicopter would be arriving at “London Airport” in half an hour, and could we please be ready to receive them. I was a bit flummoxed, and wondered if they were the ones on the magic mushrooms till they kindly explained that that was the proper name. And sure enough, when I went home that afternoon I saw the sign on the tiny airport reception lounge (incorporating a loo, a garage for the fire Land Rover, and a weighing scales) stating to all the world, “London Airport, Eday”. That also probably explains why the baggage code for Eday is EOL, and why all the Island airports do in fact have proper names and baggage codes so the Air Ambulance and Coastguards know where to go. So, you learn something new every day, if you’re not too careful.

You can get the plans for the Islander from RCM&E shop. It is an 84” high wing monoplane twin for either i.c. or electric, and should be an ideal build for a gale bound Islander like myself. Did you hear that, Santa?