Sweden to Spamfield and back – in a DTA Voyageur 582 – by Anna Markey

Links> 1. Sweden to Spamfield | 2. Spamfield to Sweden | 3. Flight Summary

I had planned to do a ‘big trip’ ever since buying my DTA Voyageur trike two years ago. It has the look and feel of a trike that wants to go places … even with its 2-stroke engine. Spamfield 2006 seemed like a good target and I even had a co-pilot: student Paul McNamee who was keen to come along and do some serious cross country flying with me.

The planned route would take us through seven countries from central Sweden, across Denmark, then south westerly through Germany, Holland, across the Belgian coast into French airspace, Calais and across the Channel to England. There would be extensive areas of dense forest in Sweden and several water crossings to contend with: Swedish lakes, the Danish islands, Dutch coastal areas and of course the Channel crossing to Dover. We were equipped with life jackets and an ELT.

The starting point was Orsa Tallhed (ESNR) - my training airfield in Sweden - around 300 km north-west of Stockholm. We set off at 0730 on Thursday 8^th June. The aircraft had been prepared the night before, but there was the inevitable last-minute fiddling around with kit. The trike has no pod, so we only had the 2 panniers for storage: approximately half a pannier each for personal items and a whole pannier for equipment i.e. tools, 2-stroke oil, charts, etc.

We both wore Ozees but I also wore my ‘Norwegian fisherman’s’ oversuit, designed to keep one alive in a cold sea for about an hour. On top of this we wore our life jackets for most of the trip, partly because of the frequent water crossings, and partly because there was no room to pack them away. With all this clobber it took quite a while to get kitted up before any flight.

The first leg was a test-bed for the kit and equipment. I planned this to be fairly short, just 1.5 hours flying to Borlange, a microlight-friendly commercial airfield. An instructor-friend was there to meet us and top up our fuel. I took the opportunity to resolve a problem with the Garmin 296 so that we could read it more easily. It ended up on a strap which would hang around the rear-seated pilot’s neck, enabling him/her to view and adjust it as necessary. The pilot in the front seat had access to a Garmin III and of course the chart.

We had already noticed the water temperature gauge was consistently reading low, but there was no obvious cause or remedy at this point. Also, a newly fitted RPM gauge was reading anything between 4000 and 8000 rpm in the cruise. We had to accept these instrument aberrations and get used to listening to the engine revs.

Next stop was planned for Orebro, a commercial field in controlled airspace, where Swedish rules require a transponder. The Mode S transponder I had acquired for the trip was not operational but I obtained permission in advance by telephone. However, on approaching the zone we were unable to locate the entry point required by ATC and opted for a nearby intermediate field - much smaller and no certainty of getting fuel. There was a car on the apron so we decided to take our chances. Luckily, the car had an owner – a model aircraft pilot – who spoke hardly a word of English and tested my limited Swedish to the full. He called up a colleague who came to refuel us, and in the meantime shared his coffee and buns with us. The fuel bowser was found to be home to a bird’s nest and chicks – obviously they don’t refuel often here.

I was setting a fast pace for the trip, since I wanted to make the most of the existing good weather. The high pressure was set to last for several days but there was a new depression was already building in the Atlantic. I was on a mission to get as far as possible, as fast as possible. So after a hurried re-plan for the next leg we set off again, this time for Falkoping. This field is popular with glider pilots who are renowned for being helpful, friendly, sociable kind of people. They were out in force on what was becoming a very thermic day, so after a tricky mid-afternoon landing we got refuelled and managed to get a refill of 2-stroke oil. Then we were given a good tip for our next leg ... Varberg on the west coast of Sweden. We would arrive around 9 pm, but someone would be there to meet us and there was a caravan we could use overnight. Perfect.

Since Borlange, we had been flying over considerable areas of forest and emergency landing options were few and far between. The flying was therefore fairly nerve-wracking, with both of us flying ‘defensively’ by spotting emergency fields as we flew. Even so, many times we were out of gliding range of anything but forest and swamp.

We made Varberg with the sun going down and joined overhead the airfield which was nicely positioned almost on the beach. The rather aggressive sea-birds in residence obviously felt they had right of way. We landed into wind and into sun, which with hindsight was a mistake, and would have been better off landing out of sun, given the light wind. Never mind, the ensuing bounce was only small, and not bad for our last landing of the first day. 

Sure enough we were met by an appointed local pilot and even taken into town to find a cash machine. Then we were given the run of the club overnight which included a good supply of food in the café - the first square meal of the day. I made use of the caravan, whilst Paul being a gentleman opted for the clubhouse sofa, at the end of a successful and interesting first day’s flying. Eight and a half hours logged on day one. We were shattered but thrilled at our progress.

Up at 0730 the next morning, refuelled by 0900, and we were away again, this time following the coast to our last stop in Sweden at Angelholm. Low cloud and drizzle at the outset gave me some cause for concern. However, the drizzle cleared up before Angelholm and we landed on the enormous runway there. I hadn’t realised it was such a large commercial field. At this point I had to file the first flightplan of the trip. I had not yet decided on which field to enter Denmark, having previously thought we could overfly the country in one flight, landing directly in Germany. However, our fuel-burn on the first day had made me realise this was impossible. 

The pilot briefing room was deserted. A chart, the AIP, and some flight plan forms sat on the desk. A red telephone with a number to dial sat on the wall opposite. I stared at the red telephone and it stared right back. There was a mild sense of panic. This simply would not do. I needed some local knowledge. The flying club for GA pilots seemed miles away, but I trudged across in the hope of getting some advice. Arriving there I was advised to use Roskilde in Denmark for their good facilities. A few minutes later my flight plan was filed by telephone ... how easy! 

I now bemoaned the considerable amount of time wasted on this exercise. I hustled to get us ready quickly and we were off, leaving Sweden and on our way to Roskilde. We took the short water crossing at Helsingborg and we were in Danish airspace: our first FIR crossing and a big milestone.  After that it was a straightforward leg passing northwest of Copenhagen to Roskilde.  Landing there, we were now getting into the routine and I briefed Paul for the quickest possible turnaround. Luckily, our ground-time here was kept to a minimum as the airport staff were incredibly efficient. Weather check, madam? Notams? – no problem. Flight plan to Germany? – here, I’ll file it for you. Great, we were on our way again, this time to Flensburg in northern Germany. But time was tight: the field closed at 8 pm sharp. 

The flight from Roskilde in Denmark to Germany involved several more water crossings, including the crossing of the ‘Storebaelt’ (Big Channel) following a long suspension bridge. I briefed Paul on activating the ELT, which was strapped to his flight suit. We also discussed the ditching procedure: mayday call, land near a boat, ready to jump out at touch down, etc. I wondered how close the reality would be to the plan, and hoped I would never find out.  Visibility had been poor all day and as we approached the ‘Storebaelt’ the bridge loomed into view through the mist … it was an unexpectedly eerie sight. It was also quite breath-taking and the sheer magic of the view took away a large part of my apprehension.

As we flew parallel with the bridge I mused whether it would be possible to land on the bridge itself in the event of an engine failure. Then I envisaged the ensuing photo and headlines on the front-cover of the following day’s newspapers: “flexwing crash causes carnage amidst multiple pile up of vehicles”. Better to take the sea and be done with.

We passed the bridge and continued en-route, over more flat-lands and then another water crossing at the ‘Lillebaelt’ (Little Channel), which seemed even longer, having no bridge to follow, but which in actual fact was far shorter. Finally we crossed the German border and called the airfield: inbound. We arrived with 10 minutes to spare. The fuel bowser was closed, and the controller was complaining about wanting to go home. Apparently there was no landing fee. We found the airfield bar which was open and thriving: the World Cup was on, and there was a great atmosphere. We had our first beer of the trip and I relaxed for the first time in two days. Accommodation was arranged just a short walk away. Elated at our success so far and almost halfway through the trip, I called up a flying friend at my home airfield Old Sarum. ‘You’ll be here by Sunday night at this rate’ I was told. But I was more cautious: I was still waiting for something to go wrong.

Paul and I met at 0730 for breakfast next morning but we were delayed getting away from the hotel and it put me in a bad mood. We had arrived at airfields the previous two evenings by the skin of our teeth, and even 15 minutes delay here and there could make a big difference.  I went around growling through clenched teeth until I realised that early morning fog would delay our departure anyway. We got fuelled up and the aircraft ready so that we could depart as soon as it became possible. I checked notams and the weather repeatedly.

A helpful computer screen in Ops showed when visibility turned to CAVOK along our route. Around 1030 it was clear enough, so we got kitted up and started to taxi out. Then the controller called us: would we come back and pay our parking fee? I was hopping mad. We had already delayed our departure, and it took at least 15 minutes to get our kit on and started up, and now we would have to stop again. All for the sake of a few euros. Why hadn’t they asked before? Obviously it had been omitted the previous evening due to our late arrival and the controller being in a hurry. As I was in the front seat I asked Paul to get out and deal with it. I needed to calm down: my impatience to get away and make good progress again today was getting the better of me.

On our way at last, we set out bound for Leer Papenburg, our second stop in Germany. This was a small but microlight-friendly airfield where we found some more oil to keep us going. We had a quick bite in the cafeteria and planned the next leg to Lelystad – Holland! Now it felt we were close to home.

We set off again, flying over even flatter countryside and big areas of mud flats on the northern coastline. Windmills and dykes were much in evidence. The Dutch landscape may be flat, but it was a picturesque sight from the DTA cockpit.

As usual, I had filed the flightplan with the word ‘Ultralight’ but omitted to mention ‘Flexwing’. After landing at Lelystad we taxied for fuel to be met by the ‘aviation police’. ‘Is this your aircraft madam? Can I see your licence?’ Apparently we had landed on the wrong runway. There was a separate grass strip on the other side of the airfield, with its own approach procedures keeping microlight aircraft separate from GA and commercial traffic. I confessed I had not known this, but pointed out I had put ‘Ultralight’ on the flight plan and had been allowed to continue approach. The official took note of my licence details and then left us to refuel. I was feeling belligerent: having flown a flexwing all this way I resented this ‘nitpicking’ about our arrival on the tarmac. We have landed on bigger and busier runways than this, I silently fumed. 

We wasted no further time at Lelystad and departed after a long take off roll. It must have been hot because it took ages to climb to a mere 1500 feet, the limit for microlights in Holland. Next stop was Midden Zeeland, still in Holland. We were running late, with a stronger head wind than anticipated. The flight itself was a delight, over many water ways, windmill farms and a glorious sunny evening, but progress was increasingly slow. We informed Rotterdam Info that we might not make our ETA and they helpfully liaised with MZ for us and informed us they would remain open. That was a relief since it would make accommodation for the night easier to arrange.

Finally we got to the field at 2040. I expected a huffy controller, but they were a delight. The field was still active with other late traffic. Midden Zeeland is a pretty grass airfield and I had visited it some years previously, during a business trip nearby. I was delighted to be there. Some parachutists at the field were having a post-jump beer, and they suggested a B&B nearby to stay for the night and even arranged a lift for us. Another successful day. Suddenly, Sarum by Sunday night seemed a real possibility.

I had to remind myself several times during the next 24 hours that we were not there yet. There were still several more legs - and the Channel crossing. This was the Big One as far as I was concerned. The forests in Sweden had been intimidating enough, and the water crossings in Denmark were sublimely scary, but it was the Channel that put terror into me, even the ‘short crossing’ to Dover. I filed the next flight plan direct to Lydd, but knowing that any headwind would require us to divert to Calais. It was windier than expected that morning and I was a bit concerned. I checked the weather with the parachutists and rang Calais who helpfully gave me 7 knts in Calais and 5 knts at Lydd.

We set off, across the ’Wester Schelde’ at Vlissingen and onwards down the coast towards Zeebrugge and Ostende. It was a hot, sunny Sunday, and the Belgian beaches below were full of prostrate bodies. It was odd to think of all these people sunbathing below and wondering if any one of them even noticed us flying overhead.

Still without the transponder I was at the mercy of ATC, who had been fantastically helpful and accommodating in every country. Ostende tower advised me specifically to remain on the right of the coastline at 1500 ft and keep a good lookout for other noted traffic. At one point they asked if we could ‘speed up’ and I replied negative. Passing the extended centre line of Ostende airport – practically on the beach – the controller called me up: ‘Miss’, he said rather pointedly, ‘it would have been better if you had told us you were a Deltaplane (sic). Deltaplanes are not allowed in Ostende airspace and especially without a transponder.’ I called him back with my profound apologies, but with a tinge of undisguised glee in my voice. Catching my tone, he called me back again: ‘Miss,’ – he said severely – ‘you owe me one’. I told him I would remember it on the way back. I felt as though I was getting away with murder.

The head wind was not cooperating and it became clear we would not make it in one hop to Lydd. After several determined attempts I got through to Lille Information and requested the diversion to Calais. In searing midday heat and still wearing 2 flight suits and my lifejacket I waddled around Calais airfield to get fuel and a new flight plan sorted in record time. No time for food or loo breaks here – I wanted to get the Channel Crossing over with.

The vis was a little hazy, but blue sky and sunshine always makes the sea less threatening. We climbed slowly to our planned height and checked the instruments. One of the EGT needles had long since joined the other faulty instruments by pointing idly at the ground and we were forced to ignore it along with the others. We would have nothing left working at this rate.  I held my breath as we commenced the crossing at ‘Point Whisky’ at 5000 feet. Any higher and I would have been more scared of the height than the possibility of ditching.

At mid-channel we changed to London Information. It was a busy Sunday with a constant stream of traffic calling up. Funny how we didn’t see any of them. The white cliffs were looming closer and suddenly we were in gliding distance. Then we were across and en route for Lydd. After landing here we were practically mobbed by plane-spotters. They were having a field-day with the SE-registration. After all the flying and airfields we had visited, arrival in England was a complete anti-climax. The ‘arrivals hall’ at Lydd was confusing and I wandered around the corridors in a daze.  Paul thrust a coffee into my hand and someone invited me to sit down and relax for a few minutes, but I declined. Relax?!  I wanted only one thing – to move on again as fast as possible. One more leg to go before Old Sarum and then we could have a break for a few days. I simply could not wait.

The flight from Lydd was uneventful and it was wonderful now to be flying over English countryside again, after all the forests, lakes, seas, flat rectangular fields and windmills farms of the continent. Inside the circuit at Old Sarum I just about held myself together as elation and exhaustion threatened to cock up my landing completely. Somehow I managed a greaser and various flying friends were awaiting our arrival and hauled us away for well-earned beers.

Our fast progress, assisted by great weather, gave me the unexpected luxury of a few days’ rest in Salisbury while Paul was picked up by his wife and went home for a few days before returning to Old Sarum to complete the trip to Sandown on the morning of Saturday 17^th June.

Given the good weather forecast, I expected there to be a ‘scrum’ arriving at the airfield by mid-morning. To avoid this I suggested we prepared early and left Old Sarum by 0900. We departed in the morning haze and approaching Bournemouth Zone I had my first opportunity to try out the Mode S transponder, which had now been properly encoded. 

We took the ‘short crossing’ from Milford on Sea to Yarmouth, which was laughable, given the large amounts of water we had already traversed to get here. We had a nice view of the Needles and flew onwards past the two masts. I was all eyes and ears for other traffic but the radio calls were few. In the end, the expected scrum did not take place: they had arrived in droves on Friday evening instead.

We touched down at Sandown and there was a further sense of ‘goal achieved’. We had not only made England but also Spamfield. Taxied to get fuel early and then find a nice parking spot close to the wind sock for a day of relaxation. It seemed strange to fly for only one hour.

That evening, Paul went off to a B&B whereas I had opted to spend the one and only night underneath my wing. The expected early start meant missing out on the raucous party underway in the beer tent. It was a dubious pleasure - lying awake with the music blaring – but in any case I hadn’t expected to get much sleep: the nerves were getting frayed again in anticipation of the return trip.

Links> 1. Sweden to Spamfield | 2. Spamfield to Sweden | 3. Flight Summary