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A lot of people have asked what Scotland was like. This is a tad long and
it is only one short day, but enjoy anyway...
Saturday morning.
I wake up with the Scottish news radio where they are talking about a
fiasco in the nearby Rowett Research facility - an ex-Hungarian researcher
talked about his research on genetically modified patatoes to the
public and got fired.
I don't have the time to listen though - I look at the clock and start
putting on layers on layers of clothes. It is 6:15 am.
Dave and Kordula will be coming to pick me up in 15 minutes and I have to
get ready. They are giving me a ride to Aboyne, about 45 minutes away, for
what will be my second trip up to the blue sky. At least I am hoping that
it will be blue.
The weather was quite variable the past week - snowed one day, rained the
other, cloudy one day and sunny the next. But the weather report says it
should be all right today.
Dave's car says that the outside temperature is -3C as I climb in. There
are few clouds. All is good. The only problem Dave foresees is that there
might be snow on the airfield - if it is too mushy we cannot fly today. On
the way, Kordula (an exchange student who is a certified pilot back in
Germany) gets out at the same spot in which she took a picture in the
fall. It takes her a while to find the exact same spot and Dave and I chat
about the taxi service in Aberdeen - he is a taxi driver when he is not
flying gliders - and also about how exact Kordula really has to be... She
comes back about 10 minutes later, after we make as if we are leaving
several times.
It is 0730 when we arrive and the sun is barely over the low ridge to the
south of the field. There are two tarmac strips laying east-west along the
valley through which the river Dee runs towards the North Sea (Aberdeen
is short for between Dee and Don. Don is another river that parallels
the Dee). The two low ridges to the north and south and hills to the west
make it a very good location for gliders because of the wind patterns.
Certain days of the year people from all over Britain drive in with their
gliders (they have special trailers for them) to use the field.
To our relief, when we drive through the gate of the Deeside Gliding Club
we find that the field is covered in white, but only with three hundred
or so sheep who have decided to graze on the airfield. Dave explains that
they belong to the landlord who owns most of the land around there
(including the airfield, which is rented by the Club). The sheep are
apparently not worth anything since noone wants the meat (Dave says they
are good for 25p each) but the landlord still keeps a total of 4000 or so
around his property because he gets 40 pounds a year for each sheep from
EU farmer support funds. But that also means that he can't be bothered to
look after them or hire enough people to do that for him. So the sheep
just range over the property, which includes the airfield.
The Club owns several gliders of their own. Most members have their
gliders there as well. There is a trailer park where all the glider
trailers are parked; there is also a recently laid down wire (not a fence,
the kind that just lays on the ground) so that they can keep the cattle
away.
We are immediately recruited for sheep clearence duty by the flight
officer, a tallish chap named Glen who has a creasy face and greying hair
along with a weird sense of humor.
We spread out and start driving the sheep away. Glen shouts at us to make
sure that we don't make them run. I learn the reason after we come back -
there is a letter from the landlord expressing his disappointment at a
member of the club using a Land Rover and a dog to chase his cattle off
the airfield, with one of the cattle breaking his leg in the ensuing
stampede. When the grieve complained, he got a rude reply from the
pilot-turned-cowboy.
The sheep are actually quite well behaved; they just walk unhurriedly
away from us as we approach. They seem to know where to go, which is a
field right next to the airfield. We are done in 15 minutes and head
over to the hangar. We watch as a Puchatz (meaning Owl in Polish) is
prepped for flight. The Puchatz is a two-seater, which are used to
train beginners, and is made in Poland by the PZL aircraft works.
It is quite beautiful: white, huge wingspan, sleek. The wings are
actually swept slighly towards the front of the aircraft. Its glide
ratio is 33:1, which means that you go forward 33 feet for each foot
travelled downward. The wingtips and the lettering are red. This one is
marked FYL; I will be flying it today, sitting in the front seat because
if there is a crash, I will be more cushioning for the instructor in the
back seat, according to Glen.
Soon, I am bent over the leading edge of FYL's wing, helping to push it
towards the strip and watching the frozen yellow tufts of grass and the
sheep shit pass by.
Sandra, as a first time member, gets to go first. She is understandably
nervous. Glen is cracking jokes about strapping her in and briefing her at
the same time. The Puchatz will be towed up by a single engine ex crop
duster plane (which the Club also owns). The pilot is walking down the
runway, knocking off pieces of ice here and there. After both Glen and
Sandra are in, we push the glider into position and hook it up. Someone
waves, the Pawnee revs its engine, and they are off. The sound of the
Pawnee's engine gets fainter and fainter but then suddenly I can hear it
again, coming reflected off the ridge to my left even though they are
right in front of me, pulling up and away to the right. They get smaller
and smaller as we watch. This will be a short flight so we wait on the
field rather than go into the warm clubhouse.
I look around - it's a very calm morning. Smoke rises from a large low
building off to the north. It is almost straight, bending only a little
towards the northeast. The ridges flanking us are a mixture of dry tree
grey and brown dirty white of old snow and resilient dark green of pines.
And that brilliant bright sun bathes everything with a lemon yellow. There
is no trace of red in this light.
Everything looks completely different from 3000 feet. I am lost
after a few minutes from take off after the tug made a few turns. Glen
from the back seat is pointing out landmarks upon my insistence while we
twist and turn, the pilot trying to find some rising air for us. As soon
as we disengage (a sinking feeling in the stoach as our speed suddenly
drops) we get into our routine. Making a turn, watch the horizon, look
over to the direction of the turn to make sure that there's no other
aircraft, back to the horizon, and turn. I realize that the controls are
very sensitive no need to yank on the stick and also that there is a lag
before FYL decides to obey my command. Glen has to take over control a few
times because I almost stall the thing by pulling back too much. In all
the excitement of trying to control the plane I forget to look around
before turning and am told so in no uncertain terms by the despot in the
back seat.
I am beginnig to wonder why there is no "eject back seat" button among my
instruments. Eventually, after a 27 minute flight, we land. I manage to
embrass myself one final time by asking where the field is right before we
land. "I hope it is right below us. Otherwise, we'll see about your
cushioning value" is the (uncessarily I think) sarsactic reply.
In the evening we have stovies - the Club has its own kitchen and all the
members help cook. As new members, we are allowed to run outside despite
my protestations of my cooking abilities I am told to "go look at the view
on top of the northern ridge". So Kordula and I trek up there and the view
is not really that much better from the one in the cockpit except that
this time I am not sweating and trying to "keep the damn horizon steady
(Glen's words)".
As we walk back in the rapidly receding light, we see a sheep caught in
the wire around the trailers. Both of its back legs are entwined. When it
sees us, it tries to run, is jerked back, but keeps trying to do so. I
take a quick peek at the wire and decide that I cannot untie it - it is
knotted around both of its legs. We go inside and inform the members who
do not show that much alarm - apparently this is not an infrequent
incident.
After going out there, with a knife we realize that even cutting the wire
may not free the legs (both hind legs are tied together). The grieve is
called and arrives in an amazingly short time. A little later the sheep
emerges from behind the trailers and starts making its crippled way
towards the herd, barely visible across the herd as whitish shapes in the
gloom of the evening light. It stops after every limping few steps and
looks around, its black face becoming a blot on the greyness as it turns
towards my direction. I lose sight of it in the going light after it is
halfway across the strip.
After the dinner, which is excellent, there is quiz night where teams of
two try to answer as many questions as possible during five rounds of 15
questions each. One of the members is the quizmaster - he went to the
trouble of making up the questions. Unfortunely, the theme for two of the
rounds is "weather" (I learn later that he is a meteorologist) and we get
our asses kicked, so to speak (What is the "buran"? What is the front
called when a cold front and a warm front meet? What is the "fata morgana"
and in which country does it happen?).
He actually made a tape of the music snippets for the music round but the
old tape player in the hut decides to eat the tape (we have to pull it out
and rewind it properly three times). Not deterred, someone drives their
car to the gate and everyone rushes out into the freeezing night. We try
to guess "the scheradze by korsky" while staring at the stars in the clear
night and teeth chattering. Needless to say; however, we kick ass on this
round.
We get back into town late at night. I wave the quizmaster goodbye (he
gave us the ride) and barely able to keep my eyes open as I get into bed,
I think to myself: So this is Scotland....
Aberdeen, winter 1999
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