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 Jim Swanson, the man himself BlogEurope Trip Part 2 - Day 41 As we journeyed further south through Italy, things got easier. People started smiling and laughed at our English scruffiness and ignorance of the minutiae of Italian etiquette. Instead of acting like some emperor who would have us squashed like worms, they are more insouciant, less worried that we might spill coffee on their uniforms. Meanwhile, in Sicily…a long time before Strictly Come Dancing.. “It’s so hot Demester, can we not put a rest to our work, find a spring..” “No, Taric, we must be complete by nightfall, with any luck our ship will be arriving tomorrow. They’ll drop off their cargo of marble, load the wine and in two days they’ll go back to Athens, with or without us.” “So could we not just..” “Taric! We are working for the priests, the site for this temple must be chosen. They have found the valley, it is up to us to find the spot, the exact spot where this great building will be placed – it has a place Taric.” “But it’s a hilltop, it’s going to be built on the top, job done.” “Taric, I, er.. Do you see that that theatre up there?” “Der, yeah, we built it, remember?” “Last night I had a dream. I’ve got to put the temple in the right place.” “It’s a big temple, this is a small plot, you can’t really cock it up.” “Last night, I had.. you’re going to laugh..” “You said it already, a dream, I’m not going to laugh, we’re friends!” “It was a vision, and the vision said..it said that I must not get the placing of this temple wrong. I’m sorry if..” Taric put his arm around his friend’s shoulder, suddenly realising the burden his master was labouring under. “Look, we can get other contracts..” “No!” shouted Demester, suddenly angry “you don’t understand, this dream – it had a machine that flew, a great bird thing, made of wax and metal, shouting across the sky like a small volcano, belching gas like Dionysus’ arsehole, a set of swords flailing above its head and within, four slack jawed monkeys – gazing at our temple, our unbuilt temple Taric! And the monkey in the forward part of the bird thing, he was waggling some metal stick, and moving the bird to his will – and I was in his his head Taric, it was awful! Such things as you would not believe, the things that rushed through his skull: nuns, necropoli, beer and always that shadow, that dark shadow that followed him! And the monkeys in the back, shouting at him all the time.. such words..” Demester sat down on the scrubby hillside, he let his chains, stick and stylus fall. “We must get it right.” “But why, for these monkeys? Is the temple not for Zeus?” Pointing Eastwards, Demester shuddered. “The bird will fly there, our temple must be..” he swung his arm to the West “..there..” “Or..?” “Or the Shadow will fall…the shot will be cocked up.” They got the temple built. It’s lovely, in a wide, green cypress-filled valley. It has no roof, but apart from that it’s all there, all Greek temple – somewhat, er, Spartan, one might say, in it’s lack of decoration, but all the more imposing perhaps. Especially impressive given that it’s been there for more than 2000 years. Almost as good was Salaris – named after celery, apparently; a town sacked by Hannibal before your Granddad was born. It’s all there still, all fallen down, but it’s as if it fell down in the mid-nineties, not all those years ago, when the Brit's were still trying work out what to do with that bumper crop of woad. Sicily’s scruffy – cursed by corruption, random planning and a celebration of litter not seen in civilised countries, but redeemed by gems like these. And apparently we haven’t seen the good bits yet. Stromboli, the volcano, was good, belching out dirty yellow clouds every fifteen minutes or so. We kept a respectful distance.. Before we left for Stromboli we were escorted through La Mezzia airport by the legendary Erika. You could call her a beautiful girl helicopter pilot heroine, but that would be like saying lager’s ‘okay’. She possesses some special beam, fired from some invisible weapon, that knocks all men in uniforms aside. In our dirty T-shirts and shorts we are immune to its effects and we scamper through airport security in her wake, before the magnetic doors shut. At her hangar, she drops salient comments about Stromboli’s volcanic timetable, while we all ignore her, wondering what it would be like to have a beautiful girl helicopter pilot heroine as a girlfriend. Richard ventures a tentative: “Do you have a boyfriend yet, Erika?” “I still looking for dog, Richard.” “Oh.” With a collective sigh, we start up and fly away, knowing what might have couldn’t. Ever. Never, ever. Tomorrow, if the weather’s right (and it’s been pretty damn dodgy these last few days), we’re going the furthest South we’ve been on this trip. After that we turn Northwards, towards home! All the best
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 37 Does your aerial production need spicing up? Are you tired of all those dull, flat images; with scene upon scene of homogenous exposure? You need some contrast in your life, you need some sudden surprises! You need the help of the shadowmeister. Appearing across every major town in Italy, right now – Tony ‘The Shadow’ Gray is leaving his mark. At at a guaranteed two stops underexposed, his trace will certainly liven up your shoot! No more plain old rooflines, out with that even illumination on that piazza – here he comes: the shark of shadow, that inexorable darkness moving in perfect union with the frame, entering flawlessly from the right or the left, but always in the middle. By prior arrangement, Tony can also occult upwards through the frame and can also arrange Jack-a-noddies (weather dependent, please check website for additional costs). We also have special offers on the following: Richard ‘Flycatcher’ Mervyn, for those close up insect shots and Jimbo ‘the Wobble’ Swanson – wide shots a speciality. All three of the commodities mentioned above are currently appearing at Venice, Vincenza, Verona, Padua, Mantua, Parma and most other well known venues in Northern Italy. Palladian villas are this month’s special, closely followed by thronging piazzas. Tomorrow the show goes through Modena, Bologna and Ravenna and numerous other sites North of the Appennini. PS Venice looks great from the air, all the clichés and more – could have stayed for hours, but air-traffic would have got very, very grumpy with us, not to mention 1000s of tourists. Riva boats, goosing gondoliers, smelly canals and sighing bridges. PPS Never, ever go to Verona airport. I’m sure the ground staff are lovely, but admin and air traffic are truly incompetent and a vacuum of professionalism. Harumph. Tomorrow we get to the coast, Pescara, here we come. If Tony falls asleep, we end up in Albania! All the best.
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 36 It’s wearing, all this. The back of the helicopter’s small. The front of the helicopter’s small. It’s like being in a Ford Mondeo, going away for a holiday. The boot’s full and some luggage has to be stuck on the back seat beside you – that’s the Cineflex auxiliary box, an important bit we couldn’t really do without.. You’ve got DVD screens built into the back of the grown-ups’ seats, but they’re enormous and bang into your knees. All around you are scattered cassettes or maps. Every morning you squeeze yourself into this space and set up, either operating or note taking and focussing. You take-off, and when you’re comfortable, a fly hits the lens and you have to land, get out and clean the lens, making sure there are no Italians with shotguns (or bulls, in Spain). You get back in and carry on. I tend to think about lunch, it has a quietly uplifting effect on me. To communicate you have to shot at each other through crackly headsets, which by the end of the day are pretty sticky with sweat. We do our best to maintain our own personal fauna within and not share. In Italy, the air-traffic controllers insist on shouting, loudly, across the airwaves. In his turn, and not wanting to let ground-control think he wasn’t up to it, Massimo the pilot shouts back. This is incredibly annoying, and short-circuits the temper of the crew in the helicopter and we soon start shouting at each other. Luckily, sooner or later (usually because of radio hardware problems) Tony has to talk to the tower and he starts to use the kind of voice he’d use if he was trying to entice a particularly shy nun into the peculiar world of Tony-love. Not that we’ve met any nuns on this trip mind, I’m just supposing, and at the same time demonstrating just how, er, oily his diplomatic voice can be. Whatever, it works as a balm against the staccato word farms and keeps them quiet for a few seconds. The view from the helicopter is unkempt. We have blinds installed in the rear side windows to stop the sun falling across the monitors and so obscuring the image, but this kind of stops you seeing outside. Looking towards the front, all you see is the back of Tony’s head (Grey hedgehog) or the back of Massimo’s head (shaved billiard ball with packet of plastic explosive embedded in rear skull). Both are topped with gaily coloured baseball caps. Usually when we orbit a subject it’s on the wrong side of the helicopter from me (though I’m sure Richard would say the same) so I can’t really see what’s going on. When we are filming, we’re trying to think about the end of the shot, so we can move on elegantly to the next one, which is already half-formed. All the time, the rest of the crew are trying to spot the next shot and telling you about it over the shoutstorm of air-traffic, when you haven’t even started this one. It’s fair enough, their ideas are the meat and drink of the shoot, except for Tony, who unerringly spots the biggest cemetery in town. Of course the weather’s conspiring against us. If you were on the ground you’d say it was perfect – pure blue skies, and it’s the sort of weather we want – stable, no rain, no nasty winds – but it’s so stable that a thick haze has built up. It’s filmable, yes, and definitely nothing to stop a shoot, but it’s directional, and good shots often change a certain vowel when they become backlit. And waiting’s come back. We don’t really know why. I guess it’s something to do with the sheer numbers of people the Italian authorities ship out to work at airfields. Perhaps it’s where they put all the people who just can’t fit into a normal workplace – care in the community, if you will. Scores of unshaven policemen with gelled hair fondle their guns as they sullenly watch the x-ray machines. Grumpy gun girls pick at their epaulettes as you grub your small change from the corner of the tray. Sometimes they whiz that circular magnet thing all over you, but it’s too Italian to be bothered to utter a beep. They wave you onto another misanthrope, who waits by the sliding doors, herding you with their radio until the bus arrives to take you back out on the apron. Wordlessly, the driver, this diplomat of the tarmac takes you through tortuous routes far around the perimeter of the field, as opposed to the 200m straight line, just in case the four o’clock Ryanair’s going to come in seven hours early and bump into you. His surly expression makes it mutely evident that you’re personally depriving him of that sixteenth espresso, and the perfect moment to do that trick with the cigarette and the napkin dispenser that’ll make sure the waitress marries him and not Mario, in spite of his uniform, and his gun, and that hat.. does he have a fluorescent tabard? Well, does he? How’s he going to cope in the winter fog? Cazzo. “Ciao, grazie!” Anyway. It’s all made worthwhile when you get back to the hotel and inject that beer and you enjoy a few moments of serenity before someone says: “Where are we going to refuel tomorrow?” Apologies to any Italians who don’t work in airports (or hotels), it’s just that these are the only ones we’ve met, and they’re universally grumpy. I’m sure when we end up in prison, we’ll meet some jolly prison staff who’ll make us smile. And why will we go to prison? Because we lingered long enough over Maranello (the Ferrari factory) for them to break into the local air frequency (more shouting) and demand what we were doing there. Nervously, Massimo gave out phone numbers over the air. At each subsequent fuel stop we expected to see even more uniforms and perhaps a small tank or two to drag us away for further questioning. Luckily, so far at least, nothing has happened. We’ve got to Pescara and everything’s okay. What’s the Italian for ‘Can you put your truncheon away please?’ All the best
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 35 Well, after another extended sojourn in Barcelona, well Sabadell actually – Barcelona’s Slough, while waiting for another bit for our helicopter, we eventually managed to get going towards Italy. A bit of work up the Costa Brava (you should hear Tony talking to air-traffic when we want to route past ‘Tossa’..) and a pop up over the Pyrenees and we’re in France. We refuelled in Beziers, and it was all a bit too much really. In the space of what seemed like five minutes, we’d heard the following: “..authorized to land; yes, of course we take visa; ‘ave a nice flight; please squawk 7000 (ATC speak for goodbye)”. We were gob-smacked, such was the speed and efficiency of the country that we hardly had time to wee behind a bush before we were marching onwards, fighting the sunset to get to Cannes, which we actually got to in the dark, but the French don’t mind, because they’re reasonably sensible. They wanted to shut the airport though, so we rushed around wrapping the helicopter very speedily, as the airport van waited with pursed lips. Next it was Sunday, off to Italy. It started off well, Monaco looked great in the sun, and so did the beginning of Italy (Benvenuti) – but then we turned left into a great big bank of cloud that contained, Tony wittily put it: ..’some cumulo-granite.’ Not wanting to bang into this, we turned tail and landed at a little coastal airport called Albenga. We called Massimo, our new pilot (not our brilliant archivist/style manager/cyclist) and he promised to reposition from Cuneo to Albenga as quickly as possible. He turned up during lunch. First thing Tony said was ‘Ah, about 65kg, excellent.’ Typical pilot, always thinking about his fuel loads… After a bit of re-planning, we turned South, then East towards Brescia, where we eventually ended up for the night, but not before going North to film the sun going down on Lake Maggiore. We were quite overcome, and want to hire seaplanes and holiday here. Better start buying those lottery tickets.. All the best
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 27 “Quick, quick, quick, the donkey ladies are after me!” It was Richard, leaning out of a taxi. We were on the steps of the hotel, teaching Raul how to smoke. Richard hadn’t turned up at breakfast, and we were worried – now it appeared our fears were justified. “I was doing quite well actually,” he explained, as we rushed away towards the airport “I’d helped put the hindquarters back on three donkeys when I noticed the aspect ratio wasn’t right on their plasma screen and I just had to point out that..” “Senor,” the taxi driver interrupted, gruffly, “the arrangement.” “Ah, yes.” He remained mute for the rest of the trip. We headed North-west across Ibiza, from San Antonio, up along the rugged coast and then out towards Majorca. It is forbidden to film over Palma de Mallorca so we pointed our camera subtly away as we approached San Bonet airfield for our refuel. The beautiful North Coast of Majorca was our next target, ending up at Cabo Formentor for our exit to Menorca. Menorca’s, in my opinion, the best of the Balearics. A southern coastline stitched with little-cliffed coves, the coves filled with golden beaches and topped with resorts that aren’t actually that bad. One of the beaches featured Hayley, our pilot’s daughter, who waved enthusiastically at the helicopter which had been filming the beaches in search of her. After that we were second in line at the airport to a squadron of Spanish helicopters who got refuelled before us, thus making us about an hour behind schedule, but we filmed their exciting arrival, which was a bonus. We rushed back to Majorca for our next refuel, but the sun was getting too low in the sky, and Spain forbids all non-instrument flying after sunset, so we were stuck in Majorca, where hotels with availability, it turns out are rare. So it was the next morning, we appeared back in Ibiza, looking all bleary-eyed and unwashed – feeling like the the clubbers who were going direct to breakfast, but without the happy memories… We carried on across the Med back to Spain. We saw a whale on the way, and tried to film it, but it was camera-shy and dived before we could even descend, so we didn’t bother it further. Back on the mainland we worked up the coast to Valencia, and up to Castellon, filming a fast train on the way. We all laughed heartily as we filmed Peniscola – which is beautiful, by the way, and then we moved inland, for yet another facet of ever-changing Spain. This time it was high-rolling hills and dry valleys – so high, in fact, that we filmed Spain’s highest village. The day ended with the high plains leading to Madrid. The next day’s weather seemed awful. News reporters were going bonkers about hailstones the size of golfballs and pets getting washed down drains – but we had to film Madrid. We were very lucky. Air traffic gave us a permission to fly over the city so low that we could have landed on skyscrapers. It was a chance we couldn’t have again, so we shot in between the rain showers. We then took a gamble and headed North West, assuming the bad weather was still in the South. It paid off, apart from Salamanca, which stood resolutely on the plain, in a great grey column of rain, looking like an illustration from a book on how to rain on a city. We gave up and headed South, through yet more different country – thius time it was plains punctuated with green hills and valleys, carpeted with forests of chestnut trees. Spain is a constantly changing patchwork of numerous terrain, all stitched together with a history ranging from Celts, to Romans, to Muslims, to re-conquering Christians, invading French and intervening British (plus ca change). It is a great country to film from the air and easily our number one of the year so far. That night we ended up at a golf-hotel in Caceres, where the landing site was tight enough for us to need to reconvene in a football pitch while Tony took the helicopter upwards himself, so’s he could get a proper run-up with us fat boys on board. The new day was a real Spanish day, with a big chunk of Rome thrown in, at Merida, where the Roman remains are something to behold. Amazing. The big Spanish clichés were the windmills of La Mancha and a bullfight, which while queering our sensitive English souls, looked absolutely at home on the sun-knuckled plains, where in the isolated villages men and beasts obviously have different values. Some of the towns and villages we’ve seen are just so out of the way you wonder how much the people would have in common with us and our cityspeed lives. I suspect they might be a little happier, even if the bulls aren’t. A dramatic arrival at Ocana airport, with thundery sunsets and sky-divers and a 300km/hr drive to our motorway hotel. The following morning took us on a journey that was studded with castles, going North West (do we always go NW?) towards Salamanca, which this time was hiding beneath a thick blanket of cloud, right down to river-level. It wasn’t flyable, let alone filmable, so we turned East, towards Zaragoza. The castles here are great, looking just the way castles should do, on hills dominating the fertile valleys around. We shot some exciting low-level action shots, grabbed a few more castles and dropped down into Zaragoza very tired bunnies indeed. Tomorrow’s the last Spanish day, and it’ll be shame to leave, but I can’t wait to get back home to the family! Bestest, Jim
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 21 Alicante was wrapped in a dull greyness, as though the sun was slow in waking up. Like pilots. Nonetheless, fairer weather was promised northwards and we had a 1030 rendezvous with Kiko and his tightly stretched T-shirt. He also had our main bags which we’d left in his fuel van to reduce the aircraft weight. Thus the quicker we met him, the safer our atmosphere would be. We’d already turned our pants inside out and back again and things were getting desperate. The mist cleared and we worked our way up the coast, shooting the more rugged coastline of Andalusia. La Manga was a sports complex, just as advertised. Beyond it, on a long this spit of sand about six miles long and 200m wide was a most extraordinary sight – a long line of hotels, closely packed, whispering to each other about the perils of global warming and ice-cap melting. They looked precarious, floating on the water like that, yet somehow impressive, architectural hubris, if you like. Alicante airport was surprisingly efficient, and I only had time to breed a few generations of beagles before the aircrew were back with lunch. However, I will not be sending Raul to get sandwiches again, what a disappointment. After Alicante we worked our way up the Costa Blanca, rising up behind a hill to reveal the science-fiction set that is Benidorm. Quite insane; it’s a bay, closed in by rugged headlands North and South and squeezed in between there are about fourteen million blocks of flats. The beach didn’t look big enough to deal with all the people - I’ll bet that if you evacuated everybody from every flat and made them wait on the beach, you’d run out of beach. I wanted to shoot more stuff there, but the atmosphere in the cockpit was already below government minima for air quality, we had to move on. But not before we filmed some very cute dolphins walking on water and doing backflips in an aqua-park. I hope they’re happy, they seemed full of vim, and fish. We spotted Kiko’s tummy first, on the side of a hill (the two could have been confused) and we landed comfortably in a field above the coastline. A quick refuel, underwear assessment and donning of life jackets and we were off, filming my auntie’s house, well Javea actually and off over the sea to Ibiza. Before we landed we shot the azure seas of Formentera, a playground, it seems of rich people in big yachts. We then turned tail and headed to Ibiza before our fuel ran out. Today’s a day off. There’s a donkey sanctuary on the island and we’ve persuaded Richard to seek penance and put the hind-quarters of some donkeys back on, it’s only fair, the things he’s done to those poor beasts over the years. Tony’s got a long list of clubs to visit and he’s talked about being part of the act on stage at Manumission, whatever that might be. He keeps saying ‘bangin!’ and grinding his teeth, poor chap. The local ex-pat am-dram society ‘The Elizibizans’ are holding auditions for their one-off Fawlty Towers show and we’re encouraging Raul to go along. I’ve got to stay in the hotel and look after Whizzer, who apparently doesn’t like nightclubs. I hope I don’t get too bored with his Mary, Mungo and Midge DVD. To keep you amused, here’s another excerpt from our film. This one’s from the scene just before the pilots go berserk and break into the convent. HELI. INT: Camera Crew: Are we heading for Seville? Pilot 1: Yes, it’s that way (points) Camera Crew: Oh, right.. (Pause) Camera Crew: ..It’s just that, you know, according to our GPS, it’s er – over there (points in opposite direction). Pilot 1: What – over there? Camera Crew: Yes, you’re heading towards Cadiz. (Rustle of maps, pressing of buttons on GPS) Pilot 1: Yeah, er, it’s controlled airspace, air-traffic are being real buggers. Raul, can you pass me the other map? Pilot 2: Que? Pilot 1: Can – you – pass - me – the – other – map. Pilot 2: The other map? (more rustling of maps) Pilot 2: You wan’ the one with Seville on it? Pilot 1: er..yes. Camera Crew: That’ll be the Spanish map then? (Helicopter changes direction, hoots of laughter from the back)
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 20 We arrived at our little airfield, hidden amongst the trees and settled down to watch a few stars be born and grow and then explode in stunning novas. Then Raul finished talking to air-traffic and we went South, over the most spooky El Torcal rock formations, through the chasm of Garganta del Chorro, over near-desert landscapes to a landing site in the middle of Andalusia. We went off to check on the evolution of some local frogs (going nicely thank-you, adapting to the normal millennial fluctuations of climate) and got back in time to Raul giving the thumbs up from ATC for the next leg. Cordoba looked great, and in Granada some of our crew lost interest – here’s a preview from our fascinating film: Scene 27: - INT. HELI. OVER THE AL-HAMBRA – GRANADA Camera crew: (rustle of notes) Right, this is the Al-Hambra, probably Spain’s most important tourist attraction. 1300 years of Muslim and Christian history in one spot. Pilot (looking the opposite direction):I wonder what that is down there? Camera crew: Okay, let’s have a left-hand orbit, stay high and we can drop down when we get to the front-lit side. Pilot: What’s that down there, those low buildings – is that a cemetery? Camera crew: Er, maybe, the Al-Hambra’s to our left, go to ten o’clock and then drop down. Pilot: That’s weird. It is a cemetery! Look, they put the bodies in those little houses! Camera crew: Oh yes, right. Anyway, can we go around to the left? Pilot: Look, there must be thousands in there – all in those little low-rises! Camera crew: Can we go round again? Pilot: ..so when granny goes, you just stick her in the slot! Amazing! Camera crew: Listen, we’ve drifted right off, can we go back towards the mountain? Pilot: Oh yeah, whatever… It was obviously time to refill him with beer. We headed straight to Almeria. ‘El culo del mundo’ as our fuel man called it – I wonder what that means? I’ll write tomorrow, hopefully.
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 19 We run run run out of Portugal, the camera wearing a little bobble hat that Tony’d knitted last night so that we can’t film. As we cross the border, he pulls a little silken thread that undoes the stitching of the hat, the wool trails down and Whizzer, his mascot rat, shins down the wool and sits at the end, the wind billowing his little mohican while he gives Portugal V-signs with his paw. Good old Whizzer. Now we’re in Spain we film quite happily, Rio Tinto mines – an area of outstanding, er, unnatural exploitation. But then again, I suppose copper’s got to come from somewhere… We then drop south to a little airfield that’s dropping parachutists, a scary prospect for both helicopter and parachutists. Luckily they stop and we roll in. We adjust our watches back to Spanish time and with that little action it all started again, slowly of course. Birds flying across the sky suddenly pause, in mid-air; businessmen hurrying across squares for important meetings suddenly stop and take in the air, a coffee, a lunch, a lifetime. How does anything get done in this country? Raul, our Spanish co-pilot spent about seven minutes talking on the radio to Seville air-traffic, jibber-jabber, andaly-andaly, arribba arribba – seven minutes! Then silence. “What did she say Raul?” We ask, with baited breath. “She say yes.” Bloody hell, it’s like trying to change the toner cartridge of a street donkey’s sombrero: stupid, pointless and slow. Whatever. Highlights amongst sites we managed to film in between periods of watching civilisations rise and fall included the spooky looking solar generator near Seville; amazing Seville itself; the densely packed streets of Cadiz, on its little peninsular; Gibraltar, with a little hat of cloud, and loads of ships at anchor around it, just waiting.
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 18 If – now that’s a big if, if we wanted to film the Southern half of Portugal, we’d do it like this. We haven’t done it mind, this is just hypothetical, you know, a bit of blue-skying.. First, we’d film a goodly part of the capital city – Lisbon. A beautiful city rising above the Tagus river with its Barrios and squares, its docks and monuments. It has fortresses, cathedrals and complicated C19th lifts – they’d all be on our list of things to film. A bit further along the river and we’d shoot the Expo area – strangely for an Expo area – thriving. All this, of course, is assuming air-traffic would let us. The city lies right under the centreline of its airport, so it’s not easy. After Lisbon, I’d go south along the coast, an eternity of a beach, with frozen sand-dunes, clamped in the grip of tenacious scrub. Slowly, the landscape would change, and we’d film a rockier coastline, with empty beaches inviting more robust families to disport themselves around interesting coves. There’d probably be a hazy horizon, what with the prevailing wind coming in from the sea – all that damp stuff rises up and condenses – nevertheless, the curves of the coastline are so intricate that they defeat distance and file easily beneath our progress. We’d go for all sorts of angles – low, high, sea to shore, hinterland to sea. The sun would be making an effort to shine through the mist and though failing to win the day, would mark out little victories of spotlighted coves and headlands. Seaside towns, some so new they’re not even on maps, would get the treatment as we speed past. The south coast, the Algarve would be great, because it starts off so beautifully. From the west, there’s a couple of towns that could be called perfect resorts – big enough to accommodate a serious amount of people, but not so many that the coast becomes clotted. However, as we would move east, that gentility would fade, for example at Lagos, a mediaeval town, whose walls have lost the siege of the C20th. The other towns – don’t even go there I mean that. Then we’d land at an airport that couldn’t refuel us, and we’d go on, actually unable to go on, because we wouldn’t have been able to forward the paperwork, for some reason – so that makes it an imaginary flight in an imaginary flight – right? We’re getting out of Portugal, land of lovely people with a rubbish bureaucracy, where you can’t film.
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 6 Up early via the bank machine to get enough cash to fund the fuelling – they don’t take credit cards here – for helicopter fuel at least, so we have to visit numerous cash machines, €200 at a time, to get the €900 necessary for a day’s flying. After a quick chinwag with the firefighters, and a tussle with the flight planners, we dash down through the hintercoast to Cascais. This is a leap southwards simply to rebase ourselves out of Lisbon’s second airport where we leave Raul behind again and do a loop northwards up to Abrantes, filming castles, monasteries and a busy landscape, packed with olive trees, terraces clinging to hillsides and tiny, ancient villages, higgledy-piggledy in the countryside, left discarded at the bottom of hills. Yet again, you have to ask yourself what these people get up to when they’re not wringing a living out of this hard land. We get back to Cascais, exhausted by the heat, and decide that enough is enough. Also, a strange sea-mist is rolling in, mixing itself with the haze from the forest fires – time to stop. Tomorrow is a day off, who knows what mischief Lisbon can get us into?
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 5 Braganca had a citadel – that’s right, a citadel and a city that bled off to the left. An empty city, the taxi driver’s excuse was that they were all on holiday, he said this, in French, in Portugal as we crept across a new traffic innovation – speed trenches. The same as speed bumps, but cheaper. After we left the citadel we caught an insect on the lens, which although rare, do tend to hinder our filming. It was difficult for Simon to land, as the terrain and conditions made this somewhat difficult, so we soldiered on, filming close ups and filtered wides of the barren natural park of Northern Portugal. Eventually we found a bare plateau and carried on clean to Braga. Braga offers, amongst edible barnacles, a religious site with lots of steps, a football stadium built into a cliff and an airfield, which we used twice. It was getting hot. So far the trip’s been either wet , grey or cold, hot has not entered our limited vocabulary. Heat limits helicopters’ ability to fly, so we left Raul behind with our luggage – to save weight and gain more distance in terms of fuel allowance. From here we filmed the North Portugal coast – including Porto – beautiful, red roofs, bridges, lots of sherry and a big valley. There was no lunch today. I doubt this tactic will get us much further. Our second exit from Braga took us south through dry hills to Viseu, where again we left Raul in the clutches of thirty firefighters and we went to film the terraced vineyards around the river Douro, across dusty plains to romantic castles, crumbling ruins glowing in the evening sun, ungrateful towns growing insolently out from their protection, building fuel tanks in their courtyards.
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 4 The waiting at Santiago has evidently been honed since the 9th century. A team effort, the township must be congratulated on their ability to keep the airport completely free of both time and any links to the real world. From breakfast at 0745, it took us four hours 53 minutes to get into the air – a new record! A special mention must be made of the refueller, who through stupendous efforts single-handedly managed to hold back progress by two whole hours. Lugo was our first target – impressive Roman walls which could probably hold back even modern hordes for a few days – assuming you had adequate supplies of boiling oil. The day was then filled with traversing Northern Spain, and included such highlights as a full-on bicycle race with helicopters, mussel farms, lonely hilltop castles and two short waits at Vigo, where, to be honest, they disappointed – we hardly had time to start and end a small career before we were turned around. We had piles and piles of tetra-packed quince which we had to leave behind… we are now in Portugal, where not only were we refuelled quickly – but they actually gave us an hour! It must be some kind of compensation the Portuguese govt give to Spain weary travellers – but they put the clocks back for you (to British time) so you can catch up. Mightily impressed. We’re in Braganca now, medium sized town with most imposing citadel. I can see where the camera will be pointed tomorrow morning…
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 3 The waiting at Santander we managed to fill with engine compressor washes, so it wasn’t too bad. We headed off West to the Picos de Europa. Stunning. Heroic villages cling to vast valley floors. To be a modern teenager here must be pretty frustrating – then again, the valleys are so deep they probably don’t get television, so they won’t know what they’re missing. Then again, it’s probably here that they come to learn how to wait. Potes, a bridge town (it had three) was very pretty, and the place where the teenagers come to have fights and mingle genes. Down the valleys to the Basilica of Covadonga – a place loaded with Islamo-Christian significance and then off to the seaside and the beautiful Galician coast. It was a glorious day and a Saturday, so the Spanish were out playing on the lovely beaches – we were all quite jealous. We waited at A Coruna airport for a large amount of time. After this had elapsed, we used a little more time with flight planning. Richard and I did civilian like things such as having lunch. The pilots had to bolt theirs or we’d have fallen into a time-hole out of which could not have crawled. We worked our way out to the North-West edge of Spain (Finister) and then back to Santiago de Compostella, a beautiful climax of many pilgrimages. As opposed to arriving after a three hundred mile knee crawl, we had arrived by helicopter, so we had it easy. We overnighted in this town, on bolsters aided with cupboard-based spare pillows but I personally found the hard/soft bolster/pillow contrast hard going thus spent much of the night listening to bells.
Europe Trip Part 2 - Day 2 Well, Spain is just wonderful, every thirty miles or so it’s different terrain, so the camera never gets too bored, like it does so easily over the prairies of middle France, or the endless rolling fields of Germany. It started in the Basque country, as we turned inwards through Navarra, with emerald foothills, little red-roofed villages and vultures. From the Pyrenees we went South towards Pamplona, more red roofs surrounded by a ring of massive tower blocks. It was here we experienced our first wait. Until you’ve been to Spain, you’ve never really experienced waiting. You can queue for some time in Russia, you can age considerably trying to get a British visa at the UK high commission in Islamabad, you can have a few cups of tea too many cutting a deal in Egypt, but they’re all knocked into that cocked hat by the Spaniards, who are in the premier league of pausing. Here, waiting has become an art form – at an airport, trying to get in and out involves negotiating for tax-free fuel; then trying to get them to accept Visa cards; then actually fuelling; paying – with the pilot begging the crew for loans of cash, and much scrabbling around in pockets for said cash and the exact change. Then we have to go inside the terminal and wait a bit more. The interior waiting is easy for Richard and I as it involves pilot talk – flight plans, diversionary airfields, fuel duration, inspection of chicken entrails and the like – we don’t do that, not having sold our mothers for the training, so we enjoy a cold lunch – tortillas, salad, dry sausage sandwiches. A couple of days later the aircrew come out of the briefing room with long grey beards and little grandchildren playing around their ankles. We give them the dried scraps of our lunch and on we go. I don’t leave many (any) scraps mind. After Pamplona we went across Rioja, admiring the complicated vine-filled terrain. Pop over another line of hills and the terrain changes again – a big plain, bruised with long scarps, upon one of which is Burgos, wind swept and Cathedral-filled. Back out towards the sea, via Firas – beautiful little hill/castle/village. Through a stunning deciduous natural park, out towards Bilbao, stretching along an estuary for 10km. Air traffic limited our time over the city, so the Guggenhem it has to be. Then out to Elanchova – home, we’re convinced, of anchovies, and through Bermeo – charming port, around the coast to Santander, a big, busy port city with very rude (but not to us) taxi drivers. The pillows were bolstery, not proper pillows, but doubled up were sufficient.
Europe Trip Part II Day one-ish. We took the Eurostar, bright and early on Wednesday morning, cradling a helicopter gearbox. It’s a long story, but corrosion played a part in the need for a new one. Where we were lucky was in the fact that we could replace it just like that, thanks to David Arkell’s bloodhound nose and Jack Schram at Redhill aerodrome, who was kind enough to let us borrow his own tail rotor gearbox. It was supposed to be a routine fit, and in fact it was, but it was the other two items on the list which put us behind – an oil pressure gauge and a rotor rpm gauge. DHL sorted us out for the oil pressure gauge and then we all had a lot of head scratching and waiting around for experts‘ opinions until it was discovered that a broken wire was our final problem. Hey-ho. By now it was tomorrow, and late tomorrow too, so we’ve only made it to Angouleme, which I thought was the cherry capital of France, but it turns out I’m wrong, it’s the capital of comic strips. This is true, and not made up. We did film for part of our trip south – some high shots we were unable to get a year ago, and some chateaux that happened to fall on our track. Tomorrow, however, we hope to be in Spain, and well along the Basque coast. Let’s see eh? Europe Trip Day 44 Luxembourg woke early, with a helicopter landing at the hospital beside our hotel. Good-ho, they’re used to helicopters here then, I thought. Breakfast was morphing from German to French, so comprised croissants, rubbish muesli and strange meat products. Apparently an angry pope banned tomatoes from Luxembourg in the 18th century, they’ve never looked back. The airport was very complicated, Mike (our enforcer) and I had to get boarding passes and little baggage tags so that we could get on Skyworks Airways flight 001 to Charlroi. Once processed we went out in a proper little bus to our helicopter. The misty had cleared, the sky was blue, we were ready to go. Luxembourg’s a big-boy airport, so we had to squeeze out between airbuses and 747s. So it was apt, then, that we get a fly on the lens just as we’re taking off and can do nothing about it. We were on the airport radar and landing to clean the lens wqould have proved difficult. To lose the fly we changed filters and zoomed in, but it’s jiggling presence could still be felt. Off we popped to shoot Luxembourg’s smattering of castles and wooded valleys. We got back for a refuel at Luxembourg, slow, like all big airports and flew on up to Belgium, a country of lovely air traffic controllers, amenable aviation authorities and friendly hotels. Charlroi boasted two enormous helicopters, growing old on the tarmac, dwarfing our little squirrel. We did one sortie from here to film UNESCO canal-lifts (modern impressive, old not so) and a castle, returning to refuel. The pilot got super-scared when the tower asked to see him; we’d been flying near SHAPE, the NATO headquarters and he was worried we’d transgressed but no, it was simply a handwriting problem – phew! We then struck north for Brussels. First over Waterloo, the battlefield, not the station and then to Brussels itself. We were barred from flying too close to the royal palace, but otherwise we had the best freedom we’ve had of any city so far. Fuel is spread very thinly in Belgium, so we had to hurry off to Antwerp, the Atomium winking gently in the distance behind us. Antwerp was okay, and the final location at the end of a long day. The next morning’s flight began with some very large and very rude inflatable sculptures in an Antwerp park that would have troubled Richard. He would have been very perturbed if anybody had explained what the santa was holding, luckily he wasn’t there. You’ll have to see the rushes – I’m not going to explain here, my children might read this (though I doubt it, they’re a bit too clever). If Ghent and Brugges were to have a beauty competition, the Ghent would win by a head in the aerial view category. I’m told that a canal trip in Brugges is most rewarding for photographers. Maybe so, but we were in a helicopter and I can thoroughly recommend Ghent over Brugges, which for some reason has better PR. Then we went to the seaside. We’ve all had a rubbish summer this year, and for once it was sunny at the weekend – all of Belgium decided to profit from this and went to Blankenberge. The beaches were impressively packed with regimented Belgos. The beaches face north, but I couldn’t work out which way they were sunbathing. We couldn’t linger, and swooped off to Ostende where we refuelled and lunched. Then more coast to Dunkirk, then a sharp turn left to Ieper and Passendale and then a right down to Beauvais. Chantilly was next – a chateau and a stable complex bigger than the chateau – weird. Next on the list was Paris. The skies became clearer and clearer, but the sun was getting lower and lower. This was worrying. In the end it was alright and we managed to get to Issy-les-Moulineaux (Paris’ heliport) and pick up Stephane – our French guide – with our rotors running to save time. Off we went on a tour of the peripherique and we were able to get some great stuff of Paris, in all sorts of interesting lights, it was lovely. We break up for the summer now, and about time too. Richard’s off already, as you may know. He’s gone away to Denmark to be a scribe in a re-enactment of the signing of the treaty of Versailles (well, someone’s got to do it). I’m going to go and try to spruce up my tourist boat franchise at the Blue caves in Malta – but I think it’s a lost cause and now the Bulgarians have moved in with their bigger boats I’m not sure it’s worth the effort. Hey-ho Enjoy the summer.
Europe Trip Day 41 “What’s red and invisible?” “No tomatoes.” But the fried eggs looked good, good enough to eat, so we did. Heiner had three. I had to look away, when I looked back, his plate was empty. Amazing. The skies were grey, but had a deceptive luminosity to them, siren-like they told us to wait ‘..the sun will break through.’ But we weren’t falling for any of that; this was as good as it was going to get, and if it was going to get better, it would get better later. So off we went, North, through the wonderful industrial heartland of Essen (real working steel industries!), through the smog haze and up the Rhine, towards Munster. Xanter was a good place, a recreation of Roman ruins which lie directly below it, it could be so wrong, but it seems to work wonderfully, bringing all those traces in the ground vividly to life – with a villa, a temple, a gatehouse and an amphitheatre. Munster looked nice, but the weather was closing in now. We stopped to refuel and worked our way down to Wupperthal, today’s great disappointment. Wupperthal has a fascinating 107 year old upside-down railway. It weaves its way along 13km of C19th industrial conurbation. Every year it takes 23 million happy passengers on upside-down journeys over the river that runs through the town. It’s great and it’s shut. Every August, it appears, the staff all take their holiday. Didn’t ask us did they? Splitters. I personally had been looking forward to filming this since I first visited the town three years ago, now it had beaten me. I lay slumped over my monitor, I couldn’t give any more. We asked Robert and Heiner to take us back to Essen, so we could collect our thoughts and curse our bad luck. There would be no more work done today. The fact we could hardly fly because the rain was so thick didn’t come into it, not at all. It didn’t get any better. After hanging around the airport for a bit, and finding no weather forecasts that said what we wanted to hear, we gave up and went bowling. You’ll be pleased to hear that the camera crew beat the pilot crew. Luckily for me, when we got out of the bowling, the weather was still awful. Tomorrow promises to be better. Tomorrow is Koln, Dusseldorf and Bonn; we may even get out of Germany. Dare I say it? (not many people have) – Luxembourg, here we come! All the best Jimbo
Europe Trip Day 40 “Runny scrambled eggs!” shouted Richard cheerfully. Funny how three simple words set the whole tone of a breakfast. The good eggs, backed up with a hearty lack of tomatoes, was a portent of a good day. We were back in Kassel, home of big palace on a hill with melancholic gardens, home of Dokumentar – an art festival and home of Helitec, who had been sort of looking after our helicopter for the weekend. We arrived nice and early, I changed the lens and then we sniffed around another Cineflex which had arrived at the airfield. We pretended to admire their setup, but we were secretly smug – they had an SRW-1 but were only recording composite! Tsk tsk tsk… Off we went to Berlin. Berlin was good, we got some useful stuff for library, but, well, there’s not much to it. Someone mentioned something about a war, and it’s obvious they should have been more careful, because a lot of it’s just missing. Even their famous wall has gone, not a trace. Checkpoint Charlie, we found where it was, and filmed where it was, but, there’s not much to it… After that we trekked back across Germany, filming autogyros on the way – and ended up in – you guessed it – Kassel. It was on the way apparently. It was the last time I could ask “Is this the German border?” anyway. Full again, we headed off to the Ruhr valley, and the ex-industrial complexes of Dortmund and Essen. I liked the sound of Essen – it means ‘to eat’ in german, so I’m looking forward to seeing lots of fat people tonight. On the ground were lots of demolished steelworks, lots of motorways and lots of empty railways. And that was that – a long day, beautiful weather and lots of transitioning across the more boring parts of Germany. Hey-ho. Tomorrow I’m in charge, because Richard’s leaving. I’ve gone down to the local milliners and I’ve got us all lovely hats; should at least keep morale high. I’ve got a hat with a little windmill on it, when it turns a little man chops fake wood with a little axe. He goes crazy when I stick my head out of the helicopter! Richard’s going to miss some fun! All the best Jimbo
Europe Trip Day 39 I scanned the room and my tomatometer read zero – it was safe to go in. The breakfast area was vast, and Richard was sat far away in an echoing corner. We ate cereals and talked; outside the sun was shooing away the clouds, ready for a good day. Getting away was brisk, and we arrived at Legoland too early – it was shut, so we put down at Billund for a refuel, a short while later, we were back up and filmed the crowd as they poured in. We then flew briskly (reaching 160mph at one point – fast for a helicopter) to the north west. We filmed the uber cool town of Aarhus, with its Arne Jacobsen university and then went on up the islands to the far North, where Denmark peters out into the Baltic. On the way we flew high, and filmed wonderful patterns of sea and estuary, down for Frederiksborg and then along the sandy coast to Skagen. The further north we went, the hardier the holidaymakers looked, fully-dressed, sunbathing on the beach. Skagen was a wonderful place, and you can see the appeal to the community of C19th artists who were pulled up here by its wonderful light. Basically the area consists of a spit of land that reaches up east from the top of Denmark to a single, definitive, end. Hundreds of Danes cram themselves onto the spit, wading in the shallow waters around, just to get themselves photographed on the end of Denmark. Charming summer houses shelter in the dunes which, in the winter, must be horribly cold and windswept. That was it, our most northerly point. It was downhill from here. We flew down the west coast this time, a different kettle of fish, much less developed, more rugged – but still flat. German fortifications lie 10m out to sea, either Denmark’s shrinking or they’ve been pushed out that way. Skive slot was very impressive, a moated castle that looked impregnable, but miles away from Skive, so that threw us a bit. Then it was down to Esbjerg for a worrying sleep in a scary hotel that contained the last three beds in town. It wasn’t even in town. It didn’t matter, we’d worked a long day so sleep was easy. The next day was dull. The whole sky looked like someone had put a great nicotine-stained glass bowl around the horizon. It was enlivened, however, by two things: Sonderborg, which had welcomed the Danish Royal yacht – Richard was most thrilled, and more thrilled when we filmed Sonderborg Slot – where the Danish Queen was actually staying – perhaps it was her cigarette smoke that dulled the sky… We didn’t stay long, in case the guards gently pacing the exterior of the castle noticed us, but I don’t think they could hear a helicopter underneath their bearskins. The other great thing was the prescence on the schedule of the Kiel Kanal, a slice through the north German landscape, containing water, of course, and on that water, g r e a t b I g s h I p s – going past peoples’ bedroom windows – just like that! It were brilliant! But the rest of the day wasn’t, so we flew silently and solemnly down to Kassel, where the helicopter was to undergo its 100 hour service. “Goshtewardstigmat, Johan Mathieu.” “Er.. hello?” “Hello” “Hello, my name is..” “I know, Jim Swanson.” “Yes, and I’m enquiring..” ”About bravo-papa zero one.” “Er..” “The forbidden zone.” “Er ..yes.” Who was this wizard I was talking to? How diid he know my name, and what was the forbidden zone? In spite of his omniscience putting me off my stroke, I still knew why I’d called; I played my trump card. “Brussels.” “Yes, the forbidden zone, - bravo-papa zero one.” “Oh, yes, we’d like to do some aerial filming..” “I know..” And what a nice chap he turned out to be! Madame Ringoir had told him all about us and all he needed was a fax, with four million details. These details, concerning aircraft maintenance, integrity of operations, colour, type and furryness of mascots are now easily called upon, thus it was that the permission to fly over Brussels has been granted. Sometimes it’s that easy – are you listening – Spain, Portugal and Italy? We re-start Germany tomorrow, with permission to fly low-ish over Berlin, after that we turn West, and make our way towards Paris via, of course, Brussels! Europe Trip Day 33 The other two stared at him, in total silence. Suddenly self-conscious, he looked away. He’d had his brief, he had to stick to it. He couldn’t flinch - because to yield, by any amount, was a defeat. The two of them could have been Russian presidents, except maybe Russian presidents don’t have beards, he thought. Yeah that was it, he thought, one Russian president and one Russian president on holiday. “What you have for breakfast?” said old Beardokovsky “Any tomatoes?” “No, I, er, I didn’t have any tomatoes.” “But there were tomatoes at breakfast weren’t there?” said Moscow Mike, he was a barrel of laughs this one. “Yes, but I don’t like cooked tomatoes at breakfast.” “What!? But you..” “Shut up Robert! Let’s get to the point. Listen Jimbo, the airport café’s closed, it’s 1230, and we know you’ve got some Danish pastries left, are you going to share?” It was going to be a long day. We were grounded at Roskilde, the weather had closed in and we’d set up camp in the briefing room. The airport staff didn’t care about us, they were clustered around a television watching a Danish cycling hero get cross-examined. Driven mad by boredom, we’d been reduced to fighting over breakfast’s scraps. Then, whilst there was no apparent change in the local skies, the weather monitor said that it was flyable. Before we killed each other, we gathered up our things and trotted out to the helicopter. It was wet, but there were promising gaps. While they started up the helicopter, I waited around the back and gobbled my remaining pastries. Away we went, across the soaking landscape to Odense, where it rains a very fine kind of rain, underneath very dull clouds. Because of the exceedingly dull weather, nothing of note happened in my vicinity today, hence the nonsense above. Tomorrow promises sunshine, tomorrow we break the back of Denmark.
Europe Trip Day 28 It’s Monday, and the day looked good; from the – wait for it – well cooked tomatoes at breakfast to the stench of the taxi-driver on the way to the airport. The crew didn’t look too good though. Only I had escaped the day off unscathed. Tony was nursing a bandaged hand and Richard had ‘popped a joint’ or something, and was walking somewhat comically. It had rained a lot on the day off, and we were pleased with our luck. While we waited for our flight plan to go through we unwrapped the damp helicopter. Everything switched on normally, usually one or two warning lights go awry when they’re wet, but today it was fine, so off we went to Odense. It was a beautiful morning, the insect population bothered us quite a bit, but not too badly, and inbetween their splodges, we were able to get some lovely shots. Denmark’s mix of islands, water and sky, with its neat farms and avenues was, in its own way, lovely to film. We filmed regattas off Langeland, beautiful bridges on the Great Belt, even more romantic castles and palaces and to top it all, Hans Christian Andersen’s house. I tried to hum all the tunes from the Dick Van Dyke film, but for some reason my microphone stopped working, so the others couldn’t hear.. shame. In the afternoon, we headed back to Copenhagen, to get another bite at the city. The skies were clear, and the city looked great – a pity about the high-flying bug that chose to sully our lens just as Richard turned it round to face the city. Still, we were able to filter through most of it. Tony goes back to Great Britain tonight, a worn out husk, and Robert arrives later on, somewhat damp from his Gloucestershire home. We’ve got sixteen hours to go before the 100 hour check – will we make it to Kassel?
Europe Trip Day 27 Denmark woke up dull on Saturday morning, gone was the sunshine, gone was the hard light that wakes up any recording medium, gone were the tomatoes – perhaps there’d never been any. At the airport we settled down into our usual routine. I logged onto the internet, looking at all the weather forecasts until I find one that says what I want to hear; Richard looks at maps and, like a chess player, permutates every single option – long strings of posh houses and damp gardens float around his brain, jostling for position - bewigged courtiers lobbying his synapses with velvet charm, anxious to commit their properties to tape. Tony, our new pilot, was meanwhile talking to air-traffic, apparently gently – but if you looked carefully, every now again he would fix them with steely eyes and say – in Danish: “You will let me do anything I want.” I didn’t actually see him do this, but he must have done it, because during our flight, the authorities were just lovely. Our first flight, once the clouds had cleared, took us over Copenhagen. It still looked misty, but we had to take a chance. Amazingly, when we arrived, the skies cleared and off we went, Richard barking out orders non-stop – perhaps it’s something to do with a lack of Heiner or maybe it’s the invisible hand, but he was acting like a panzer-commander advancing on Russia – ‘Left, right, up, down - bang bang bang..’. Had our Cineflex been fitted with the optional 88mm calibre accessory, there wouldn’t have been much left of Copenhagen. It’s a good-looking city though, lots of palaces and waterways, busy streets and crowded squares – with a few modern buildings thrown in to keep it up to date. Once we’d flattened the city, we went off to the big bridge that goes over to Sweden. Such a beautiful structure, it allows you to point a camera at it and produce pretty pictures no matter how tiny your talent quotient. There weren’t any trains on it though, which was a disappointment. Air traffic control tried to tell Tony off for loitering over the centre-line of the airport, but a few choice words, on the surface diplomatic and fawning, soon had them back in line, the loganberry juice going stale in their mouths. Our second sortie was more difficult. It was to be something we haven’t really tried on this trip, and none of us were looking forward to it – but sometimes, you turn a corner, and you’ve just got to keep on going. There was no café at the airport, and the nearest shop was miles away. After only a thin packet of crisps and a chocolate bar, we were to go flying WITHOUT LUNCH. The flight passed without incident, in grim silence. We moved with smart economy, anxious to preserve every single calorie – who knew when we would eat again? I kept quiet, of course, about the Wunderbar that Michael had bought me. That was hidden under my seat, it was my secret and was going to save me when things got tough. We worked around the West coast, over gentle rolling – well, hills isn’t quite right – you know crown green bowling? Yes, about that size, pretty enough though. The summer houses and beaches looked lovely. Eventually we got to two palaces, Fredensburg and Frederiksborg – the latter is stunning, and was approved of by all the crew members as one of the best we’d ever seen, ticking all the right boxes of beauty, romance, pointy-toweredness and resistance to hostile forces. Helsingor, further east and north – and Hamlet’s castle – can’t quite compete, good though it is. We scurried back to base, before the weather closed in again. Tomorrow was another day off, which we are all looking forward to. Tony’s going to the zoo to try out his mind-control on the tigers; Richard’s got a breakfast meeting with his lawyers to sort out his complicated Canadian mining assets – after that he says he’ll be ‘wready for wrestling’ so he’ll be going down to the leisure centre looking for all-comers and I’ve got a Summer Special A1 sized 1000 word-search which should keep me busy.
Europe Trip Day 27 It was, quite simply, a tomato, uncooked and muscled, on my breakfast plate. I looked around the room, but there were no Italians: who could have wanted to threaten me this way? Who was giving me the cold tomato? There were two ways to take it – someone was having a laugh, or someone wanted me dead. I was in Germany, working with a crack international team – who was going to get me? I wrapped the tomato up in a napkin and put up back on the buffet. Someone, I thought, is going to pay. The helicopter had survived the night on the tarmac, and was gently glowing in the slight morning sun, we unwrapped it while Richard talked about targets and hours. We have a maintenance stop at 100 hours, and we don’t want to get caught out at the wrong end of Denmark, obliged to put the helicopter on a flat-bed truck. So we took off, to film the naval harbour at Wilhemshafen and gather in the Friesian islands, which were flat, and in the sea. Eddying patterns of sand and mud glimmered in the sun and we made ships and lighthouses dance across our screens. One such ship guided us in to Bremerhaven where we our long lens foreshortened a vision of hell; with cranes, wheels and forklifts conspiring to drag their tonnes and tonnes in and out of the silent ships who waited at the dockside like horses being shoed. It was shocking to see just how much product goes in and out of just one port, and I wonder whether our images will be used as a celebration of global trade and ingenuity, or as signals of doom and overconsumption. I overconsumed slightly at lunch, because Michael had bought a very large packet of crisps with the sandwiches, and no-one else seemed to like them - perhaps they’d come from China, in a container. At our luncheon airport, we played with some field-bound Strandkolbe, these are wicker and wood beach baskets which the sausage people use to shelter themselves from icy blasts on Baltic beaches – they are wonderfully cosy and adjustable according to wind and sun. One day we’re all going to have them in our back gardens. We had a tearful goodbye to Heiner and Michael, they held a quaint but charming goodbye ceremony, where they lined us up and pinned these little metal crosses to our collars, but each country has their own silly foibles – I talked about this with Heiner and he suggested that perhaps the British thing was xenophobia, whatever that means. We sped across Schleswig Holstein, anxious not to get insects on the lens, as we were being controlled by radar, and unexpected landings trouble the authorities. For this reason, we went to high altitude to get nice map-like shots of the countryside. At this point, Richard went all serious, and we could sense a hidden hand that controlled him; it was all ‘have to’ and ‘we must’. We were entering Denmark. The freestyle frivolity of the last few weeks disappeared in a puff of broken Ryvita as seemingly ordinary-looking farmhouses took on an importance that belied their humble exteriors – just because they had a flag flying outside! The terrain is flat, but interesting in a 2-D kind of way, being made up of so many islands – there are bridges everywhere. We did, however, get a hint of the 3-D as we assailed the vast and dizzying range of cliffs known as Mon Klint, at about 100ft high and a couple of miles long, it is Denmark’s Everest. Richard tried hard, extolling the virtues of relative size, but failed to stifle our less than impressed giggling. We then headed up to Roskilde, filming astonishingly clean farmhouses and palaces on the way, when they weren’t obscured by the smoke from stubble-burning (such are our trials..). We peeped through the windows of Roskilde’s Viking museum, and viewed the (of course) scaffold-clad cathedral where all of Denmark’s Kings and Queens are buried. Then it was beer o’clock, so we stopped for the night, before the taps ran dry. Today we tackle Copenhagen, and hopefully, the sun will be joining us.
Europe Trip Day 26 For the hotel staff it was quite normal, but for us, to be woken, our ankles dragging in the dew, from a sleepwalk – well, it came as quite a surprise. All I can remember is a dream, a long lovely dream of country-lane avenues, rolling cornfields, dark woods, gentle-lapping waves, reed-bed bays and sand-dunes. When I awoke, it was to the somewhat surprising image of Richard in his wee-willie-winkie nightgown, and Heiner in his leather sleeping shorts. Tony, our new pilot was sitting on his haunches pretending to drive a car and little Michael was stuck, high up in the branches of a skinny birch tree. I won’t tell you what I sleep in, but I was wearing them in the garden of the hotel. The staff had prepared cups of camomile tea and some pouffes; they urged us to sit down and relax. “Don’t worry” they said “everyone falls in love with Rugen.” And it was true, we all thought it was perfectly charming place, just the right place for a G8 summit. It’s like all your childhood holiday clichés all wrapped up in one place, with a Nazi holiday camp thrown in for good measure – what’s not to like? The staff led us in for breakfast but they were firm – “No tomatoes!” I could see their point. There weren't any anyway. Half an hour later we were in our helicopter clothes (don’t ask) at Rugen airport, poring over maps. Our first leg took us over to Sandstrund with its bridge and a regatta, from there we went high level, peeping through wispy clouds to the fields below. We dropped down to Rostock, buzzing a disused airfield in the process. Rostock was ships chopped in half, and ferries from Denmark, canoes on the beach and awful-looking housing. A refuel at Schweritz, preceded by the filming of Schloss Schweritz – the Neuschwandstein of the North – and somewhat better from an aerial point of view, may we say, being photogenically placed next to a pretty harbour town and on a lake, allowing all sorts of options for filming. Unlike the other castle’s cussed adherence to a clogged up valley and scrubby hillside. There was, of course, the usual scaffolding, but that, we have decided, is a sign of a healthy economy and we don’t want to deprive the germans of a euro or two, do we? The airfields of Northern Germany seem to exist in a universe of their own. They have no staff, and no other customers. We are close to Peenemunde, where they did all sorts of experiments in the war, perhaps we are within the sphere of an end-time wonder weapon, and in fact these deserted aerodromes are in fact peopled with legions of black-uniformed SS, hidden behind a shiny bubble of invisibility, giggling as the Englanders pick their noses and pee behind the helicopter, while the pilots try to find fuel handlers. Somehow, we did get refuelled, and off we went to Luneberg Heath. This leg was boring, very boring; an endless plain of woods, fields and bits of heathland, upon which British soldiers would bore themselves, until recently that is, they do that in hotter places now. It all got so boring that I became creative, trying to create athletic motorway shots that Richard assured me ‘would never get used’. This only made me strive for more until our routing took us away from the motorway. Hannover airport was quiet too, apart from a man from Wigan who, strangely enough, runs the fuel service there – perhaps a problem with the wonder-weapon? He promised us a greasy-sounding lunch around the corner, but all we found were sandwiches. This was hardly enough to steel us for the next leg, up to Wilhelmshafen, but it had to do. Bremen was on the way, where we shot some lovely vertical look-down stuff of pedestrians magnetically pulled this way and that. Pure art. From there it could only be downhill, a few cruddy gardens, some palaces – it looked alright, I suppose… We've heard we may have got our Spanish permissions – unbelievable! Only two months too late. We hope they’re going to be okay stalling them until September… Tomorrow’s a big day for Richard, for tomorrow we go to Denmark and he’s got to make a good fist of it, or else he'll be sleeping under birch twigs this winter – his wife being Dansk and all. All the best Jimbo
Europe Trip Day 25 ..and I woke up. Yet somehow – it can’t have been a dream, it all seemed so real. A whirlwind of industrial heartlands, swirling rain clouds, sausages – and no tomatoes. Seven days without a blog and the world grinds to a halt. I'm very sorry, it’s been a bit busy. Here we go: We retired early from our last stint because of a suspect lens – it had developed a notch, which meant that when zooming back, the image bounced a little. Not wanting to compromise our work, and seeing yet more damp weather on the horizon, we pulled the plug and gingerly carried our lens back to London. This was nice, as it meant we would be able to be home for a couple of days. Richard’s wife was a little upset, because it meant unforeseen changes for her musical statue training schedule – but he promised he would work around her. We got back on a stunningly hot Sunday evening – if you’ve been in the UK this summer, you'll understand why it was stunning. It was thirty degrees! We quickly put the lens back on (lens servicing company had found nothing wrong with it, Cineflex tech hangs his head in shame, but still puzzled) and took off for a dusk/night flight over Frankfurt. It was a Sunday, fair enough, but the Germans take this saving the planet thing far too seriously – they’d switched all the lights off! All those impressive skyscrapers – all darked up, look, well dark. The sunset bits looked nice, but the rest was a bit dim, not having much to contrast the dark bits with and all.. The next day was still bright, and we took off very early, too early for some, but I made the effort with the promise of a big tea. Breakfast brought forth no tomatoes. We did a bit more Frankfurt (irresistible skyline) and then tootled off towards Heidelberg. Our first fuel stop was at Speyer, where an oddly placed jumbo-jet pretends to crash into the cathedral there. Mannheim and Ludwigshafen were very impressive industrial places just close by. Heidelberg was very pretty, and where Elvis Presley spent some time during his short army career. We discovered a hidden gem of a big posh house, as a surprise for Richard, and it had an englischer garten, which pleased him enormously. Then it was low-flying over wine country, and some lovely castles, all very photogenic. Stuttgart was next, with its early le Corbusier houses – amazingly futuristic for something so old. We managed to get to Nordlingen, a walled city in a meteorite crater, though some might argue about the size of the meteorite carter. Nonetheless, good walls with town inside, discipline maintained. Rothenburg was close by – another walled town – less discipline, more bleeding through the walls, but still worth a few minutes of our time. We were able to use local valleys to great effect, and made the town fly. It was here we discovered the theme of our day – swimming pools. The Germans love a lido (note my careful spelling), and they were using them today. We used the Cineflex to good effect, getting unearthly angles of cavorting bathers in sparkling waters. It looked very good. There were a bunch more in Wurzburg, which had a bigger and better lido. Wurzburg also had some great castles and palaces, much rebuilt since the war. Best thing about Wurzburg, though, was its grizzled old air traffic controller, who was kind enough to furnish me with some maps, maps which described the old German border between east and west. No more faffing about guessing whether that gap in the trees was the old death-strip, there it was, writ clear. So it was, we ended the day on a high, flying into Erfurt having shot the border, and having enjoyed a wonderful sylvan sequence – which included disturbing a nudist camp. Etched on my memory it is, I’ll never forget it.. The next day was almost as bright, and we were heading Northwards towards Berlin. The eggs in Germany have changed, and the ruhrei are no longer moist, instead being unerringly rubbery. Do you think there were any tomatoes? The trip to Berlin included a fuel stop at an aerodrome featuring wistful photographs of the local gliding-club, circa 1934, and we pondered the participants fate. Wistfulness was swept away on the breeze, however, as bockwurst appeared and we stuffed our faces. The terrain was uneventful, but included a magnificent valleyed castle which we filmed to death. Richard kept on promising us ‘huge’ castles, but honestly, most were quite disappointing. Thanks to our maps, we were able to recreate the wall between east and west, watchtowers and all. The scar is definitely still there, if you know where to look. The approaches to Berlin were flat, we filmed Potsdam and the Sanssouci Palace, which had Richard taken up into raptures so stratospheric we had to give him oxygen. There were gardens, palaces, little temples, orangeries, lakes, ponds, Romanesque bath-houses, Italianate chapels – it was like a jumble-sale of mid-european post renaissance architecture. Luckily some philistines remained on board to bring him down to earth. We dropped down into Tempelhof airport, Albert Speer’s teutonic masterpiece. They might have had some pompous/horrific architectural ideals, and I wouldn’t like to see it in my back garden, but you can’t help feeling impressed by its daring and powerful cantilevered structure, curving around like some vast temple of the skies. We changed lenses, from wide to tight, and took-off for an orbit of Berlin. Air-traffic were very kind, and we didn’t get all the way in, but our circle was uninterrupted and thanks to clear skies, we got some good images of Berlin. Today started off with no threat of tomatoes. Another lift-off from Tempelhof and another orbit of Berlin, then off to the north, over a sobering Sachsenhausen concentration-camp, preserved as a museum. Off to the north is initially flat and uninspiring, but a wonderful Lakeland soon opens up, with people and boats enjoying the summer sun. The same goes for the north coast, which we filmed at leisure; golden beaches packed with holidaymakers, scary nudists scattered amongst innocent bystanders; places where they made killing-rockets in the war and Rugen, a beautiful island, beach-strewn and enjoying a post-reunification renaissance.
Europe Trip Day 17 The skies looked brighter, and Richard and Robert had tomatoes with their spiegeleier.
Europe Trip Day 16 It was the moment they'd all been waiting for, to some of them it seemed like they'd been waiting all their lives; their grandfathers had told them stories of days like these: days of breakfasts without tomatoes, days of passion, days of glory. Europe Trip - Day 15 We woke up to bright sunshine. We all enjoyed a good breakfast, without a hint of tomatoes.
Europe Trip - Day 14 At last, a good day. It started with Richard spilling coffee all over the breakfast table (no tomatoes) in front of our new german pilot. We refreshed the word 'dummkopf' together, and we all felt happier for it.
Europe Trip - Day 13 Disaster!
Europe Trip - Day 12 Welcome to Germany, a place where they know how to keep scrambled eggs runny. Perhaps that's what the wars were all about, and the Allies actually lost, and we're stuck with our rubbery hotel eggs while the sausage-volk cruise around in their Mercedes, smug with satisfactory eggs. Anyway, we profited from our visit at breakfast, and noted the absence of tomatoes.
Europe Trip - Day 11 Our helicopter, as you may be aware, was broken. This didn't matter, we were in the Movenpick, where they boasted a 'world famous' breakfast. It was indeed rather good, and did include tomatoes, which looked good. None of us had any tomatoes.
Europe Trip - Day 10 Our first flight of a gloriously sunny day was up the Wallis valley, to a small valley we'd previously shot in Winter. Richard wanted to be able to match a winter/summer shot using the same terrain. The timing was great, the sun shone down the main axis of the valley so the shot wasn't blighted by the extreme contrast you sometimes get doing sunny mountain work. While the pilots refuelled, paid their landing fees and cooed over knitting patterns with the airport staff Richard and I put the wide-angle lens on the Cineflex. We'd already shot some long lens material of mountains yesterday, and the terrain simply deserves the width this lens offers and with it we worked our way over to Gstaad, past the Eiger and the Jungfraujoch and the mountain railway. It all looked just wonderful, the peaks little different from their winter coat, but not far below, where once were ski-resorts, neat hills stretched off, looking less confident, in my opinion, than in their winter plumage, but beautiful nonetheless. We dropped down into Lauterbrunnen for a refuel. It's a spectacular steep-sided valley where the helicopters have to dodge the base-jumpers and waterfalls cascade hundreds of metres down to the green valley floor. Lunch was a few valleys further on, served with deft charm by a woman who looked like the middle-european kick-boxing champion, all skinhead and sinew, in a sailor suit. After I took photographs of Richard doing Julie Andrews impressions we let her sit in the helicopter and admire the banks of technical equipment we battle with every day. She appeared impressed, and didn't kick or box us. A short while later, at the airport where they build Pilatus Porters the lens was changed back, but after an initial back-focus problem the helicopter wouldn't re-start. Suddenly, we became very glum. Our day was supposed to finish after this next leg and we'd booked a flight from Zurich for 2000. It was 1530 and the clock was ticking. We checked fuses and pushed buttons until Robin remembered the old turning the compressor backwards trick. It did indeed work, and we got going, to climb up to about 10,000ft, using convenient updraughts (otherwise the poor old helicopter would have run out of puff at 8,000ft) to film the Piltaus mountain and its charming trains. Luckily Richard was operating these shots, so I could busy myself with prayers and promises to be good forever while the pilots discussed whether they'd make the next orbit around. Hmm.. Lucerne was next, a charming town in a delightful lakeside location, with famous C12th wooden bridge and rowing lake. More trains on another mountain and a move around to Zurich. We didn't shut down at Buttwil, where we picked up our baggage, in case the helicopter wouldn't start again - but it was all alright, we made it to Zurich, where we wrapped up the system and helicopter and organised engineers to come out and mend the starter. We were going home for a three day break: Richard plans to string pasta on to bird-scarers on his allotment in Perivale - in spite of the rain, Robin's got a broken septic tank to look forward to and I've booked a short - and quiet - break in a monastery.
Europe Trip - Day 9 Showers, mostly sunny. If ever you can avoid flying to an airport, avoid Basel. It looks good when you're flying in, the chemical capital of Europe, but the airport itself is a mess of three different countries and their bureaucracies - smashing up against each other like pompous tectonic plates. We got there before lunch, and left well after lunch - only trying to refuel, not having had any lunch. Some might say this would do me a favour, us even, but it does affect morale rather badly, and we filmed in silence. Not only that, we filmed in controlled airspace (read: high altitude) over northern Switzerland which, well, whatever (but give me southern Switzerland any day). Things looked up when we got to the Jura, much better, rolling landscapes, green hills, forests and fields. Castles, valleys and lunch. For once I won, and everyone stared jealously as I ate morilles, their tasteless spaghetti dangling limply from their lips. Geneva, with its fountain, was bathed in sunshine. There followed a traffic-jam, three castles, a lake, many trains and some beautiful mountain and cloud combinations. The Wallis valley spoilt us with its choice of crystal front lit (factual) or dusty backlit (fictional) and we wished we had two cameras as we came back into Sion. We're staying at the Hotel Europa again, Paul the pilot is super-glueing the piano's lid.
Europe Trip - Day 8 We are in the heart of Wallis country, so say the little heart-shaped chocolates they leave in the hotels here. Still very skinny on the breakfast front - we've reached a nadir, with just muesli and rye bread on offer; still no tomatoes. We had a breakfast meeting in the hotel lobby, to decide which way to go, however our calm demeanour was fractured by a little girl guest's need to practise her piano in the lobby. I think mummy was awfully proud, and in theory the little girl was good, plonking out tune after bloody tune - but it was terrible and something had to give: it was flying, insanity or a long prison sentence - so we took to the skies.
Europe Trip - Day 7 This morning seems such a long time ago. Switzerland - great country, rubbish breakfasts. Sparse buffet, wrong kind of croissants, no tomatoes. Paul, our swiss pilot arrived at 0930, looking rugged. I expected him to shout 'Young man!' in a YMCA sort of way, instead he calmly asked for documents and we rustled together a dossier so that the swiss authorities would not only let us work in the country, but would let us fly low level and land where we pleased. We kept on looking out of the hotel window at the clouds, which were creating ever more exotic patterns, milling around, waiting for the english idiots to try and go out filming. We cocked a snook at the clouds and went anyway. At the airport, another film crew were in the middle of shooting a crime thriller, and sadly they'd started a scene that had our helicopter in the background - we were honour bound by the code of mutual film-making to wait while they maintained continuity - though if you look carefully, you know doubt see our skinny ankles hiding behind a blue helicopter. Luckily, Richard offered to sell some of our footage so that they could complete the scene with some fine aerials. We took off towards Geneva, through great green valleys, revealing Martigny behind tree-studded slopes and grabbing Montreux, Chateau Chillon and Lac Leman before piling into Lausanne before the rain hit us. It was very cold, most unlike the end of June. Lunch at Lausanne was late and long, and ended with the disappointing news that a recent italian law on terrorism will impede our progress into Italy by 20 days. This information was supplied after Paul told us our swiss permit had been granted in, what four hours? - Spain and Italy take note. This leaves us pushed into a corner by bureaucratic circumstance, with only one exit, Germany. A hurried phone call to Regina Kaczmarek, who has started dealing with our german shoot, and yes, it looks like we have a plan C. More paperwork, more discussions - and who knows? We speak to the pilot tomorrow. The weather radar was going crazy and it was getting late, Sion airport was going to shut and we had to go somewhere, off to Geneva looked awful, so Paul took us off on a short tour of castles and monasteries. Gruyere castle was especially impressive, and unfolded for us beautifully - but I was disappointed it wasn't made of cheese, nor was the Lake of Gruyere actually. We weaved our way up and down a few more valleys before the weather finally beat us and we turned tail for Sion, living to fight tomorrow, when we plan to go following the good weather south and east All the best Jim Swanson
Europe Trip - Day 6 Our days off were variable, suffice to say that we've been munching our way through a lot of vol au vents and there's a very cross looking owl. Perpignan's Mercure hotel does not offer tomatoes at breakfast, but they are able to keep their scrambled eggs runny, so full marks to them. The airport staff were lovely. They must have had good weekends. We paid our landing and 36hr parking fee - •10.82 - cheaper than Sainsbury's - and took off towards the beach. We were torn between the need to get going because of thunderstorms predicted for later in the day and the desire to film beach activities, which usually start late. Luckily, some people were at the beach, though some of them would have been kinder getting up later. A speedy banana boat provided some entertainment for Richard, however (what about the filming? – ed). After Sete, we cut inland towards Lex Baux, a hilltop fort/village which used to be France's main supply of bauxite (hence...), almost next door was Glanum, at St Remy en Provence, an impressive Roman town, set in a combe in one of those aggressive limestone scarps that march across the south of France. We moved up to Avignon, where we refuelled and set a flight plan for our journey into Switzerland. We've been dealing with Paul, our Swiss co-pilot, who assures us that everything in Switzerland will be fine, and we can shoot there until Italy is sorted out early next week. Hurrah! We filmed lavender fields and red-roofed towns, refuelling at Valence. The skies were getting darker, and the clouds were boiling around the valleys that rise up to meet Switzerland. The light, with its flat yet contrasty feel made the terrain uninspiring, though we were able to get some moody sky shots - hmm, can anyone notice a theme? Lac Leman, and the valley towards Sion were interesting, and again, perhaps enhanced by the swirling clouds. And why were they swirling? For me, for as soon as we arrived at Sion, the clouds stopped, hauled themselves up and dumped on me, as I tried to cover the system for the night. The very kind man who came to pick us up told us it had only just started, but it was no consolation. Italy seems to be progressing well, Germany is slowly untangling itself and we got through Swiss customs without a hitch - so all is good for the moment. Tomorrow, we shoot Switzerland.
Europe Trip - Day 5 After an evening of throwing maps around a restaurant and international telephone diplomacy, Richard and I could see a plan coming together. The Spanish authorities keep on finding things to impede our progress, in spite of great efforts from Severn and the CAA. We are apparently, only one document away from unblocking the logjam, but even when that happens we are a few days away from permission being granted. The Italians, however, are well underway with their permissions and after much consideration think that they may have things in place for an arrival in early July. So, having entered the land of Bulls and chorizo, we turned back to the land of grapes and cheese. As a rule, neither of these countries offer tomatoes for breakfast. Two years later (time runs differently in Spain), we were on the tarmac, ready and refuelled. Our first leg was from San Sebastian to Tarbes. We were attacked by enormous vultures (this is not a joke), but we got our revenge by putting them on tape, getting some great shots of them sweeping against the Pyrenees. It was quite a misty day, but the green foothills rolled away from us beautifully, and using the long lens we were able to stack them up nicely. We also worked Robin quite hard, using the heicopter to crane up and down to make the hills move against one another. We arrived at Tarbes, the feeder airport for Lourdes. This is our second religious airport this year, the first being at Knock, in Ireland. We paid our landing fees to a D'Artagnan lookalike with a tic. Robin and Richard thought that he'd taken an unnatural shine to me, but I can assure you it was but a tic, not a wink. We were directed along corridors lined with empty wheelchairs and hospital beds - all empty, presumably because of the miracles wrought here - or perhaps it was just quiet. The hospital touch didn't end there either, the terminal building smelt of hospital food and the food; a buffet of stringy duck and twigs, tasted like hospital food - all served by a woman who wore stockings and suspenders on her arms. All in all, we were happy to get away, and work our way over the mountains. It was still misty, but one valley was miraculously clear - hmm.. perhaps this Lourdes business had something after all... We milked the valley, and it's bright gorse fields, snowy mountains and flew on to Damian's house. With its fine Doric columns, reversed portico and 450 tonne architrave, this holiday home certainly dominates the tiny hamlet of Brouzenac. The gilt decoration is, shall we say, a touch russian, but not out of place in today's bling culture. We thought it a little unkind that the peasants working the gardens were not given more up to date, electric machinery to tend the wonderful topiary fantasies on display, but a dedication to traditional crafts does have its price - so long as le patron doesn't pay heh?. All in all, a perfect bolt-hole for the stressed executive. A pity about the semi-ruin beside it, with its feebly painted blue shutters (painted on one side only!) and ramshackle garden. We did film the right place didn't we Damian? We continued on towards Perpignan, collecting some stunning Cathar castles on the way. While we filmed, we in the back were able to keep a running commentary of our location, airspeed and direction, much to our pilot's annoyance. This joyful ability comes courtesy of Microsoft autoroute, a multi-talented GPS led mapping system that will revolutionise the way we log our shoots. Boring, perhaps, to you, a thing of beauty to us. Perpignan was in the middle of the fete de St Joan - the big Catalan saint. Twas thus that we found ourselves before a small castle, just before midnight, watching scenes that could have been staged by Leni Riefenstahl - young girls riding white horses, youth with flaming torches, rousing speeches in minority languages, songs flags and banners, eternal flames and big-bang fireworks. I wonder if they did it like this 300 years ago? Today's a day off, when we usually go off and do things on our own. Robin, I know, has been stitching a little velvet jacket for his owl, Lawrence and is eager to get him to try it on. I'm not sure it's a great thing for these Mediterranean climes, but I'm sure he'll look good in it, on Robin's shoulder as they promenade around the town. By the way, Robin's sewing machine explains why his bag was so bloomin' heavy. Richard, as usual, will probably try and get a shift or two in a local restaurant as a pastry boy. He's a bit grumpy that the day off's on a sunday and he's worried he'll only get to be a plongeur, helas. Me? Well, I spend most of my time writing this blog, but I'm sure I'll find a moment or two to play a few pages of 'Where's Wally?'. All the best Jimbo
Europe Trip - Day 4 The music did stop, surprisingly quickly. It all wrapped up at about midnight. So, after a good night's sleep and a normal french breakfast (no tomatoes) we went off to La Rochelle airport. After hours of talking to air traffic controllers, filing flight plans, paying landing fees and getting jet fuel, we got on board and were away, over the bridge to the Ile de Re, and down the coast. It was windy, and the coast looked great, being battered by the waves - should have been like this at Ouessant, I suppose. We made it to the spectacular Dune de Pilat at Arcachon just before 1200, we filmed the dune, with the sand being whipped around tourists' ankles at the top, and got to Arcachon aerodrome just as it shut. We were saved, however, by two jolly men from the aero-club there, who drove us to a nearby restaurant where we met the controllers. We discussed flight plans and the current english invasion of France, which is the main topic of anglo/french conversation. They are evidently unnerved by our unstoppable ability to buy property. The world put to rights we went up to the tower to talk of our immediate future, planning a route around danger zones. We watched Robin, our pilot, struggle with the fuelling hose, he won in the end. We weighed anchor to head for San Sebastian. On the way down we grabbed images of windswept seas, kite surfing - evidently well past its cult status an |
