Well, while the steel glanded Circus where pelting their way across stormy seas to Midden Zeeland (or so they told us), myself and Pete joined the Andrewsfield fly out to Abbeville.

Lots of form filling, which fortunately Mike is marshalling because Abbeville has no standing customs, and waiving goodbye to the Jabiru jokers and then we are on our way ourselves. The weather does not look too promising and we are fully expecting to be back at Andrewsfield along with the rest of the circus in a couple of hours. But it remains acceptable and after we coast out from Dover it is only a few minutes before we can see the other side.

Dover. France, I think

Surprisingly Lille Information are talking to VFR flights today. Pete wants to change to Le Touquet, but Lille want him stay with them. Past Le Touquet, and this is the furthest I've ventured into France by Cherokee (or Cessna). Down to the Baie de la Somme, and turn in land. Change the radio to Unicom and it all goes strange.

Suddenly there are conversations happening in French, English and of course Franglais, from all over the place. We get to Abbeville, but where's the wind-sock? What runway do we use? Is anybody there? A voice calls downwind for 20, but we can't see anyone. Oh well, sounds a good choice. A rather uneventful landing ensues.

Le Touquet. Found the wind-sock! (A day late)

So we check in, and join Pete Watkinson for a walk into town. Why is it people all ways ask me directions when I'm abroad? The magic word does the trick though: "Anglais!". It's further than we thought and an hour later, and our attempt to get directions, and we are sitting outside a cafe enjoying a Pelforth or two.

A taxi back seems the best option, by which time the rest of the Andrewsfield troupe have arrived and are keeping the barman busy. A brush up and dinner, which is superb. Only in France can a non-descript motel produce such pleasures. This is followed by, yes, more beer and ultimately bed.

Up early the next morning. I manage to beat the shower hose in a wrestling match and go for a wander. A few other locals are uncovering their aircraft. A Robin does some circuits and then disappears. The sky looks moody, but is clearing. What's this? Abbeville has a Mystere too! However, their's is mounted on sticks. Mike gets an earful of "when you going to put ours on a stick?". Is too early for witty comebacks apparently, he makes do with a glare.

Mystere on stick. Yer actual basic aircraft, like.

So, time to go. Off to Le Touquet for lunch and the obligatory bike ride. The sky starts to cloud over and yes! by the time we get back to the airfield it is raining. We sit in the aircraft waiting for the shower to pass and scramble.

At Cap Gris Nez we head out to Dover. Lille Information ask us to confirm we heading for Dover. "Affirm". "Bon Chance!" - eh! It doesn't look that bad at all! In fact a minute out and we can see the White Cliffs. Away to the West though is a different matter, but the weather is blowing that way.

Baie de la Somme. Le Touquet bird life.

Soon we are home. Nick is in the bar and we recount the tales of drunkenness and jollity. In fact it was damn fine, and though we would both have liked to go to Midden Zeeland as well, that can wait. It was an experience and one not to be missed.