Flight

Rendezvous. A word, taken from the French, for 'meeting'. At a rendezvous, one expects other people, somehow. A few phone calls revealed that my loneliness wasn't me, but the Southern Slackers taking their name somewhat too literally. All were lying in various beds spread out over the country, Ho hum. An hour later, Smurf and myself head off towards sheep country, with John Porter going there independently. 500+ members, and we raise half a team. Dismal.

The competition was at Fforest Farm, aka Tremaen, aka lots of other names, north of Builth Wells. Think Devil's Dyke, but ten times as big, with tens times fewer pilots on launch.

I launch straight into a 'ride 'em cowboy' 5-up, and think 'bye bye hill', but it peters out about 1100 above, and I go forwards for another. This time a 2 or 3 up takes me over the back, rough as old boots, but drifting across the Welsh countryside. The first climb eventually ends up around 4700 ft, and it's relatively easy to stay up high, getting the odd uneven 1 or 2-up to stay high. 10km out, a gradient joins me, and we drift together. Suddenly, the previously overcast sky turns blue, and the other pilot shouts at me 'Where do you want to go?' Uh? I have no idea where I am, let alone where I want to go. I aim at a likely thermal source, and am rewarded with sink of the horrendous variety. the obvious place works, but I get a right royal thrashing, while my company glides overhead and climbs out again. &*(�$%! I end up landing out, having had several low saves of the vicious sort. A brief walk reveals Talybont close by, a village I've been to a few times now, and I find the pub, and chill out with a beer. A 10 minute walk down the road towards Brecon, looking for a bus, suddenly reveals the Wessex retrieve van, and I get a lucky lift back to Fforest Farm.  John P flops over the back for 7K, and Smurf, er, doesn't.