Day Four: Defeated Again

Once again, the weather gods have farted in our general direction. It’s even worse than yesterday, so we’re going home on tarmac once again. My hopes for flying across the channel are dashed, and Martin’s Cub still can’t come home to Blighty.

At least the train works this time

As we’ve come to expect, the French aviation guys are terrific. Gerard, the tower controller, assures us that the Cub is welcome to hangar space. He’s embarrassed that he has to charge a landing fee because the airfield is owned by the chamber of commerce. It’s far cheaper than Britain, but he discounts it anyway.

As we sit dejected in the tunnel train (which works this time), we realise we can’t wait to get back to this fantastic country.

Trip three beckons us.

Episode Three: Invading Normandy by Jeep>>

Day Three: Dieppe to... Dieppe

I left the French doors (What do they call them I wonder?) onto the gallery open and I'm awoken by the dawn chorus. I'm absurdly warm and comfortable and watch the day develop through the frame of the curtain. Meanwhile Martin uses the single bath-full of hot water that the aging boiler can provide. My swimming-pool sized corner bath is to go unused. I sluice myself with an icy jet from the shower and seethe inwardly.

Like a bleaker version of Morecambe in February

The weather is appalling. The windsock is horizontal and the clouds are shouldering each other aside in their haste to dump icy rain down the backs of our necks. Flying today is as attractive a prospect as eating a spaghetti dinner with John Prescott.

We tinker with the Cub’s radio then put it away and prepare for a day’s R&R.

Lunchtime in Dieppe harbour, and we’re importuned by a restaurateur in a rococo shirt. It’s magnificent – a shiny turquoise-purple with swirls and arabesques of metallic thread. The collar points are half way down his chest. He assures us that our gastronomic perversion is no barrier and cooks us a great leek pie. A few glasses of vin de maison and we’re feeling gloriously relaxed. Martin doesn't drink so he qualifies automatically as nominated driver.

Another great meal. I love this country

Unfortunately the restaurant is closed tonight, and Le Clos Normand doesn’t serve dinner on Mondays. Monsieur avec le chemise magnifique offers to open it for us specially. He’s just flown in from the States and is seriously jet-lagged so we let him off. He recommends the Restaurant du Port.

After stooging around Dieppe for the afternoon we arrive at the Restaurant Du Port. Shirtman has phoned ahead to let them know we’re coming. If anyone ever criticises the French again in my hearing, I’ll hit them. Sadly, the meal is… bad. Adrian’s sea food platter looks impressive, but he reports that it tastes more Birds Eye than briny. Martin and I get some cold boiled vegetables and a plate of soggy chips. Ah well.

See the green phone box on the end? It's less inspiring than it looks

Planning for tomorrow includes the suggestion that Martin or Adrian drives the car so that I can get some time aloft. Now we’re talking.

Next Chapter

Day Two:Coulombiers to Dieppe

Dawn breaks over the Crewe Cruiser and Crew

It’s freezing cold, but clear and still. Looking good for the flight home. We load up the Bentley and take our leave of Le Centre de Poitou, knowing we’ll see it again someday.

It’s still early when we arrive at Niort and Martin and Adrian start layering up to withstand the cold.

Two old, cold pilots

Robert arrives, ever cheerful and unlocks the hangar. The Cub’s snug and safe, and Robert has had his mechanic change the oil and re-route a couple of HT cables that were in danger of chafing. He absolutely refuses payment for the service work or hangarage – un vrai gentilhomme.

Robert demonstrates true entente cordiale

We already know she can be a bitch to start. Today she really doesn’t want to get out of bed. After two hours of sweating, Adrian (by now christened Monsieur Vrai) concludes that fuel doesn’t flow uphill. He removes an inlet manifold and squirts some petrol up the pipe. The Cub starts second pull.

AHC (Monsieur Vrai), about to make another correct guess

They’re airborne and I’m allowed to get to know the Bentley without distraction. It’s lovely. There’s this gigantic, unhurried 6.7 litre V8 purring gently to itself up front. Back here on the bridge I’m surrounded by the finest cow wrappings, highlighted tastefully with polished rain forest. The chromed ventilator knobs slide home with an indecently tactile schluck. I find The Best of Fleetwood Mac in AHC’s CD changer and spend a happy 100 miles in duet with Stevie Nicks.

The boys beat me to Le Mans, refuel, and press on north to Bernay. I programme the TomTom with Bernais and head determinedly south. It’s 20km before I realise my mistake, by which time I’m heading the wrong way down a toll road. I pull off, negotiate the péage booth, turn round and get back onto the same toll road, ready to pay again.

In an attempt to catch up, the Bentley and I violate French airspace at speeds somewhat in excess of the 130kph speed limit. I love driving in this country; the roads are uncrowded and the standard of driving puts our own lane-hogging pig-ignorance to shame.

Once again, the airborne bath chair has won the race. Martin and Adrian land in Dieppe a good half hour ahead of me, even after the illegal velocities.

TomTom doesn’t know where Dieppe airport is. I call Adrian who asks the locals at the aero club. I’m in Martin Eglise, about five miles away. They can’t give me directions from there as it’s too difficult. Later, they recommend an auberge in Martin Eglise, to which they give us detailed, concise directions. Am I the only one who can see the logical inconsistency here?

But I’m being churlish. Once again, we find the locals friendly, welcoming and accommodating. They volunteer hangarage for the Cub; We explain that we’ll be back tomorrow. They tell us that the club will be deserted - and give us the keys.

Auberge du Clos Normand

The president of the aero club recommended Auberge du Clos Normand. And he was right. It’s a beautiful old building, with the guest rooms in a separate galleried farm building. The chef-patron is welcoming and congenial, and once again, vegetism is no problem. The meal doesn’t quite soar to the gastronomic heights of yesterday, but it’s a damned close thing. I somehow bag the best room, with a gigantic corner bath, but we all have a view of the river and garden, and the birdsong is world-class.

Next Chapter>>

Cub Trip Two: The Bentley

Day One: Norfolk to Coulombiers

Engines, start your gentlemen

It’s 8.00am on Saturday, and a venerable Bentley crunches the gravel outside Martin’s house. It’s a 1993 Turbo R, lovingly preserved by Hall-Carpenter as part of his campaign to show what we British could build before the Germans finally conquered us. Adrian has added me to the insurance so that I can take charge of her. I’m flattered.

I like music, OK? So I need a lot of CDs. Adrian doesn’t understand why the six-stacker isn’t enough for the miles ahead. Hall-Carpet, you have no soul. He tells me that the 217 essential CDs I’ve pre-selected have to be reduced to avoid infringing import/export regulations. Does he think I’m that gullible? I’ll check when we get back…

The last time Adrian was ever wrong

This time we’re all travelling together. Adrian takes the con down to the Eurotunnel, then hands over to me. We’ve booked ahead to save time, but computer says no. The terminal’s on all systems crash and it’s every man for himself. In the confusion we somehow arrive at passport control before being issued with tickets and get turned back to the terminal. We all need food and caffeine by now, so I’m all for buying it at the terminal. Adrian is confident that there’ll be full facilities the other side of passport control. My contention that there weren’t any when I was here two weeks ago falls on deaf ears and, ticketed up, we head for customs. Again.

This time they search us out of revenge.

Tunnel-side there’s, of course, nothing. AHC finds a coffee machine, but this doesn’t qualify as refreshment facilities. This is significant – it’s the only time I’ve ever known him to be wrong. The relief to find he’s human after all is profound.

I’ve been extolling the virtues of the Eurotunnel. It’s slick , it’s reliable, it’s cheap…

It’s broken.

This is one tunnel that would have defeated Charles Bronson

After an hour and a half of minimal information delivered by a surly youth with more pimples than IQ we’re told we’re being “rotated”. What does that mean? The shrug may be Gallic, but the accompanying “Dunno mate” is pure Essex. Ah, how Europe has made cosmopolitans of us all!

It transpires that rotation means moving to a train that isn’t broken. We park for a further thirty minutes on the platform while Adrian does some telephone research and begins to explain the concept of customer service to Eurotunnel. Apparently their terms and conditions relieve them of any responsibility actually to convey anyone anywhere. The typing in the background sounds like an infinite number of monkeys preparing their next legal waiver of common sense.

With 100km to go before Niort we take to the back roads, once again in search of the elusive quaint auberge. This time, in Coulombiers, we find it. It’s called l’Auberge Centre de Poitou.

l'Auberge Centre de Poitou. Go there. Now.

First impressions of my room are favourable. It’s small and cosy, with comfortable sofas and homey décor. I open what I take to be the door to the bathroom. And find the rest of my suite. Vast, indecently comfortable bed, beautiful bathroom, separate bog. Nice.

Downstairs in the restaurant we broach the subject of vegetarianism. Pas de problème m’sieur! We leave it to the chef as suggested. Madame brings us a huge basket of fresh truffles to sniff. The wine list is distinguished, service is cheerful and attentive. This is good. We like this. The food is just glorious. My starter is delicately herbed scrambled egg, with generous shavings of fresh truffles. Martin declares his vegetable soup to be the best he’s ever tasted, while Adrian earns charlatan Brit points by requesting Tabasco with his oysters.

The main course for the cranky veggies is an astonishing assiette de légumes. It’s made up of individual delights like warm pickled red cabbage with chestnuts, unbelievably light and crisp potato slivers and an astounding creation of leek strips with more truffles. All this accompanied by a lovely, light, cherry-flavoured red Sancerre (A little too light for AHC - he likes wine that congeals. I suspect that he fears sunlight). Adrian’s lamb and foie gras folded inside a cabbage leaf comes close to challenging the principles of les vegetablistes.

Food, wine and service of this quality are rarer than steak tartare and we begin to fear the bill. They've seen the Bentley haven't they?

L'addition comes to 300 euros, which seems eminently reasonable for food of this quality. Then we realise it includes the rooms and breakfast.

This place is very special. It's one of those hotels that you look forward to visiting again. And again.

Next Chapter>>

Day Five: Dunkirk Again

This is double-plus ungood. The weather has closed down and we wake up to landscape as grey as John Major’s maiden speech. Drizzling, chilling rain, biting wind and scudding leaden clouds. Manchester would look sub-tropical by comparison.

Sky the colour of a church roof - not ideal

Flying today is out of the question. The only high spot is Robert’s kindness. Of course the Cub can stay in his hangar – he’ll get his mechanic to look it over to make sure it’s in good shape for when we return. A dejected trio piles into the car and we start the retreat. Dunkirk lives again – the Brits are defeated.

But we’ll be back.

Episode Two: Going Gently in the Bentley>>

Day Four: Berdoues to Niort

Oh, but look how pretty...

The head’s feeling a little battered this morning. The boys were righteously abstinent last night, so they’re well fettled for the flight. Jean and Adrian continue the argument they started last night about continental navigation. If this was a school playground, we’d be marking the height of the urine stains on the wall.

As a diversion we wheel the Cub out into the chill February air. Time for detailed pre-flight checks. No need to check for condensation says Jean, there isn’t any in his hangar. Adrian does a discreet fuel check anyway. Old pilots, bold pilots…

Loose struts aren't a problem. On the ground

We find a loose jury strut. Not actually as big a problem as it might sound, but much nicer to discover with your feet on tarmac.

The Cub was built in 1943, so she’s looking pretty good for an old lady. Ully Shuhmacher has looked after her with devotion and there’s a definite un-Teutonic wetness to his eyes as he watches the preparations. Ully is a great John Cleese fan and keeps mentioning the war. Anyone who says Germans have no sense of humour has never heard Herr S in full spate. I laugh until my head hurts (even more).

Ully Shuhmacher mentions the war

This is an L4 Cub, the military variant of the J3, so it has much more glazing in the cockpit than the civil version. It was used extensively in WW2 for artillery spotting. This involved flying very slowly and predictably above enemy anti-aircraft guns. Heroism is far too small a word. It’s widely acknowledged as one of the world’s sweetest-flying aircraft, with an honest simplicity that’s hard to resist.

747s have more dials than this. So does my watch

The last dogfight in WW2 was won by a Piper Cub! Nicknamed Miss Me, it was an unarmed L4 whose two-man crew attacked a German Storch with pistols. They forced the enemy plane to crash-land, landed alongside and took its crew prisoner. Nowadays, when someone rescues a trapped kitten, we call them a hero…

Healthy morning exercise, Piper style

Herr Shuhmacher admits sheepishly that she can be “a bit of a bitch to start” An hour later, when everyone’s arms are aching from swinging the prop, we’re all too knackered to hit him.

Finally, the old girl decides we’ve suffered enough and deigns to give a stately cough, a discreet belch and the daintiest of farts. A puff of white smoke marks the transition from lifeless metal to 65hp of unbridled muscle. That’s about the same power output you get from a Nissan Micra. Or a Flymo.

A slow grin spreads across Martin’s face, Ully’s head emerges from his collar, and Jean explains that we should have listened to him from the start.

The engine warms and settles to a steady, well-maintained beat. Ully steps forward to pat the Cub’s tailfeathers affectionately as she taxis gently out to the airstrip.

And zero she flies as the morning sighs (with thanks to Al Stewart)

The Cub’s not a rocket ship climber when solo, and with Adrian’s six feet four crammed into the back seat (he actually can’t get into the front at all), plus fuel, maps and hand luggage, the climb-out is decidedly leisurely. AHC gives us a laconic wave as Martin settles down to get the feel of his new baby.

I’m trapped for another hour by Jean and Mary’s fantastic hospitality. Last night’s urinary competition reappears when Jean insists that the guys were lost from the moment they took off. They followed the wrong river, he insists. I nod stickily through the home-made marmalade and perfect coffee.

As it turns out, the wrong river leads to the right destination, and I get a call from Adrian to say that they’ve reached Ste Foy Le Grande while I’m still driving out of Berdoues.

It’s Sunday. I’m in rural France and low on fuel. This slowly turns from a worry into a problem. Then it pales into insignificance as last night’s minestrone, basil and garlic make a bid for freedom.

Dites en français: There are few petrol stations; there are no public toilets.

Suddenly sunlight breaks through my mental thunderhead: Kaz’s survival kit! Andrex to the rescue! A lay-by with a hedge and… there is a corner of some foreign field that is forever England.

Feeling more complaisant by far I find a petrol station that, through some oversight, is open. I roll in as the final fumes are sucked through the injectors. As I fill up I remember the fifteen gallons of gas in the jerry cans in the boot.

I’m now well behind and the guys arrive at Niort over an hour ahead of me. This is to be our overnight stop. Jean has called ahead to his friend Robert who kindly finds us space for the Cub in his hangar.

Robert kindly finds the Cub a room for the night

Another publicity photo - an hotel as characterful as a community centre

Time, once again, to find the elusive characterful auberge. The Hotel les Ruralies comes highly recommended so we book in from the airfield. If concrete has character, then this place has plenty of it. It has three stars, but then, so did Game For A Laugh. It also has the similarity that no sane person would ever spend a night with any of them.

We go in search of vegetarian food. Adrian is ready to eat road kill. We eventually find a pizzeria with fantastic three cheese pizza. Martin and I trough two each. A modicum of vin is consumed and it’s back to the hotel and bed by 9.30. Such party animals.

Next Chapter>>

Day Three: Paris to Berdoues

A word about Vauxhall Vectras. Ignore Clarkson, they’re an underrated gem. This one is the 3.2 GSi and it’s long-legged, comfortable, quiet and just plain sorted. So yah boo to you, you self-opinionated, pube-haired, nicotine-marinated Munster (says one of your biggest fans). Even after an uneasy night on a Formule 1 shelf there’s a pleasant absence of NBS (numb bum syndrome) as I pull, scratching at suspicious bite-like lumps, into Bergerac International Airport, comfortably on time to meet the boys.

A modernised arrivals hall is planned. In an even bigger tent

Bergerac is an international airport in the same way that a Shepherds Bush flat is surprisingly spacious. If it were a garden, the estate agents would describe it as easily maintained. Watching a RyanAir 737 braking on a runway shorter than my front drive is a spectacle to be viewed from outside the aeroplane. There’s a slight delay when it gets caught at the traffic lights in a nearby village.

Rare shot of a pilot praying to the great god Ferodo

Apart from minor whiplash injuries, Mart and Adrian have had a comfortable flight. Their last for some time I suspect. A couple of hours’ gentle cruising along French by-roads and we meet Jean - who owns the Cub’s home hangar - opposite the church in Berdoues. He leads us to his superb house on a private air park. Here we meet up with Ully Schuhmacher, the Cub’s current owner, and Jean’s wife Mary.

A candlelit one-course dinner

Mary has diction from Brief Encounter and vocabulary from The Commitments. She doesn’t completely approve of Martin’s and my choice of diet, “Oh my God, you f****ng vegetarians, what the f*** do you eat?” Adrian’s pleas of dietary conformity don’t do the job, and he’s condemned to joining us.

The first course is an exceptional home-made minestrone. This is accompanied by a mélange of basil and garlic. Magnificent. What was she worrying about? Can’t wait for the main course…

You just ate it. Several bottles of wine later I go to bed and eat the duvet.

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