| Flight details: | No, I don't think it's because of my frequent bomb-outs, my struggle to understand tephigrams, my propensity to be out-thermalled by crisp packets, my unwillingness to fly anything hotter than an EN B, or my inability to last more than about three hours without a cup of tea. I think it's because I'm so sodding slow.
RASP was calling it a one-star day, and cleverer pilots than me got on with their DIY instead. But with a van loaded with Jaffa cakes and books, I thought Combe Gibbet would be a nice place to spend the day. On the drive there I saw several kites beginning to climb, and at the hill itself, where Artur was already clipped in, kites and buzzards were to be seen playing at various heights.
Helen B and Ian P turned up, but in the lightest of winds were in no hurry to get ready. When Artur launched into a sudden waft, I followed him, and we were soon climbing up to 2,600 ASL in a light drift varying from NNE to NNW. I decided that was too low, and it was too early, to go barred back to the hill and out front, but found nothing.
Short hops followed, until Artur did the same, chased by Simon Goddard. I tried to follow but failed, slope landing low while Ian and Helen found climbs of their own. Cursing myself for missing the bus, I unzipped my jacket and took the heat packs out of my gloves while I slogged up the slope.
Launching again into a strong gust, I almost caught Helen, but she outclimbed me comprehensively. But then I managed to get enough height to pimp off Ian and Malcolm on his hang glider below me. I climbed out steadily with Malcolm marking the best lift below. I'd reached 3,500 when Malcolm headed back north, having triangular plans (which he carried out). As Artur bombed out at the wind turbine, I was now happy to be committed, and set off towards Andover, conscious that the direction didn't favour the long dreamed-of 100k to Devil's Dyke. A sailplane coming the other way gave me a friendly wing-wobble. The encounter made me conscious |
