An Unlikely Love Affair

As featured in the March edition of the International Auster Club News

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Reproduction of this article in any format only by the express permission of the site administrator

Having sold my little single-seat Pitts Special and taken on, instead, a sizeable mortgage, I was looking for an affordable share in an interesting machine. My wife and I had moved to Aberdeen for a new job and reasonable shares in the sorts of machines I like ( tailwheel / vintage / aerobatic ) north of Perth and the central belt are hard to come by.  Luckily, there was a long running and established group operating a vintage type in the area and they were looking for new members.

The type of aeroplane in question, of course, is the venerable old Auster, dating back, in this case, to 1946 and a real ‘stick and rudder’ machine. Whilst this Auster was not aerobatic, it could offer me the sort of fun, back to basics flying that I was looking for. Even the name ‘Auster’, itself, being the Latin for ‘south wind’, appealed to my romantic sensibilities. Romanticism aside, the main appeal of this particular old aeroplane, a modified Auster J4 ‘Archer’ touring aircraft, was that it could take me anywhere in Scotland without breaking the bank. It seemed almost too good to be true at just fifty pounds a month and forty-five pounds per flying hour, inclusive of fuel. For those rates, all those tantalising sounding places that I had long wanted to fly to, like Campbeltown and Skye, Islay and Tiree, the strips of Orkney and the beach at Sollas on North Uist, now lay within reach.

My first view of G-AIJT, or just ‘JT’ for short, was in the green, corrugated iron shed that serves as a hangar at Whiterashes grass airstrip. The grass strip at Whiterashes exists in an almost constant state of water logged serenity, quite unnoticed by all but the odd fanatic like myself, who happen to think that flying small aeroplanes out of the rough, muddy stretch of sodden turf which otherwise constitutes a runway of sorts, to be actually good fun. It is nestled inconspicuously about twenty miles or so north of the city and is tucked away so effectively amongst the rolling Aberdeenshire countryside that it is nearly impossible to find. This is what makes it such a haven and is just a ten-minute drive from my house: the next best thing to having my very own airstrip.

Whiterashes is one of many such anonymous airstrips dotted about the area, with no airport security, high visibility vests, landing charges or bureaucracy. All a pilot need do is pitch up, test the wind, pull their machine out of the hangar and go flying. It is, quite simply, bliss. Water logging aside, it is the perfect antidote to a fast paced and hectic world.

I wasn’t overly impressed on my first viewing of the Whiterashes group Auster, however. It is an aeroplane that has been well used, rather than much loved and its battered nose cowl, dented wing leading edges and patchy fabric covering didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. On first approach, it gave off every impression of being what can only be described as a neglected museum exhibit.

Things didn’t get much better in the cockpit. The long past their best seat cushions were hiding a musty canvas support, stitched on to a rudimentary steel tube seat frame. The instrument panel hadn’t changed since the aeroplane was built, apart from the addition of a few retro fitted modern items now legally required. Its original clock and floor mounted, ship’s type compass, stared back at me defiantly from the middle of the last century, while numerous, ancient looking circuit breakers and switches were dotted haphazardly about the cabin. Even getting in and out the thing seemed impossible to do with any sense of dignity or decorum and an act worthy of applause upon completion. To top everything off nicely, the view out is terrible and there is a permanent and almost overpowering smell of Aviation Fuel.

It is powered, somewhat lethargically, by a retro fitted Rolls Royce Continental 0-200, horizontally apposed four cylinder engine, which drives a two bladed, fixed pitch propeller. Although sounding quite impressive, the 0-200 is a little inadequate for the relatively heavy and flapless J4. They say that you get what you pay for and in this case, I can confirm that it is true.

The J4 Archer was produced primarily with training in mind and was powered by the Blackburn Cirrus engine, which gave it the longer, more purposeful looking snout usually characteristic of the type, compared with the snub nosed look resulting from the unique cowl fitted to accommodate the 0-200 in the Whiterashes machine. The Marriage of the 0-200 and the Auster J4 is a unique one and ‘JT’ is currently the only example flying.

‘JT’ has a long and chequered history. It is on its third engine and second pair of wings and has seen many pilots come and go in its years as both a club aircraft in the 1950s and 60s and as a group aircraft in the north east of Scotland. It has survived many incidents over the course of this time, including an engine failure when air got into the fuel line through a leaky fuel selector valve, the taking out of telephone wires on an under-performing climb out and landing in a tree of the farm bordering Insch grass airstrip, which lies otherwise serenely at the foot of the area’s most prominent landmark hill, Bennachie.

Insch’s airstrip owner, a friendly but perhaps understandably little jumpy aviation and car rally enthusiast, forever in a pair of slightly ill-fitting oil stained blue overalls and a ragged old baseball cap, filled me in on a little history. He told me how some years back, when a new syndicate member was being checked out in JT, he had been casually watching whilst working outside the hangar. JT had barely got airborne in a crosswind and was careering across the strip, headed straight for the hangar where he was stood, at ten feet off the ground and ‘just not climbing’. Just as he felt that he was about to lose his hangar and possibly his life, the aeroplane veered away at the last moment and ‘disappeared down the valley very low’.

“If you come in here with that Auster,” he told me, “make sure you’re on your own and not full of fuel!” I agreed that I would. “Aye,” he added, and then after a suitable pause, “every take-off is a drama in that thing.”

After hearing some of these tales and having a close look at ‘Juliet Tango’, I felt a little dubious about committing to the syndicate and reported back to the owner that I wanted to reserve judgement and my decision to join until I’d at least had a flight in the aeroplane. This was somewhat academic, of course, considering that there was nothing else available that I could afford, but I didn’t want to appear desperate.

One muggy, still air evening in June, I drove out to the strip to meet Mark, who would soon be leaving the syndicate to take a job with the airlines and had agreed to take me up for a flight. He was very professional and gave me a good walk through of the old aeroplane as we wandered around the structure to pre-flight it, but there didn’t seem much to check other than to make sure the control surfaces weren’t damaged, there was still oil in the motor and the wings hadn’t fallen off.

Trying to ignore the general shabbiness as I clambered awkwardly into the cramped and antiquated cockpit, I was having second thoughts, again. The view out was pretty terrible due to the nose high attitude whilst on the ground and the large, ‘barn door’ type, high set wings, restricted the view above and to the side somewhat. Most worryingly, especially for any of the future passengers I had in mind; namely my wife, the flimsy looking side-doors kept popping open if I leant on them in-advertently.

Sitting more comfortably now, in the tiny cockpit, with the familiar smells of light aviation filling my nostrils: that wonderful and toxic mix of fuel, oil and musty fabric, I was feeling a bit more positive and told myself that I’d get used to it. It was like anything, surely? My single seat Pitts Special that I had owned had seemed like a little monster until I got used to it. I was sure I would grow fond of this old thing eventually, too, once we’d been on a few adventures together and besides, I loved these old aeroplanes, didn’t I?

We peered down the strip, trying to assess the light and variable wind and I could see the mental calculations going on in Mark’s brain as we discussed the best take off run. I knew that the performance wasn’t going to be breathtaking, but I wasn’t prepared for the staggering reluctance to fly that JT would shortly demonstrate to me.

Mark lined up with the strip and carried out his pre-take off checks. He ran the little Rolls Royce Continental up to full power against the brakes, which in contrast to the rest of the aircraft had just been renewed and were quite good. Just as the building sense of anticipation for the take-off run was reaching its peak, the aircraft trembling to be set free, with everything, including my eyeballs, vibrating furiously, he released the brake pressure.

I waited for the push of acceleration at my back; but nothing happened. Nothing seemed to happen for a very long time until, glancing sideways eventually, I did see the first hints of motion that confirmed that yes, the brakes had been released and we were indeed, actually moving. At an agonisingly sloth like pace we trundled, terribly and alarmingly slowly, onwards up the now, by ironic contrast, rapidly shrinking grass runway.

The noise and the vibration had not eased as we barely staggered into the air, clawing our way painfully free of the ground, but the silence between us in the cockpit that followed as we contoured the local hills, struggling to achieve a net gain in altitude, was palpable. After what seemed an age we reached 700 ft above sea level, which was still easily close enough to the ground to see the somewhat surprised expression on the faces of motorists peering up to us as we lumbered awkwardly overhead. We were doing 60mph by now, with full throttle and just holding level.

It was a tense departure, at best; frightening at worse.  As my gaze finally tore itself away from the airspeed indicator and altimeter and Mark finally managed to speak, I concluded that the whole thing was now perhaps one of my more stupid ideas. Juliet Tango, with its shabby appearance and brave little Continental engine that was at least only three quarters of the horse power of what the machine really needed, was not looking like a great contender for my planned means of exploring Scotland, with all its mountains and frequently treacherous winds and weather.

“It does get better.” Mark told me, hopefully.

Unbeknown to us at the time, however, the auxiliary fuel tank had previously been filled to the brim and then not used, or, more to the point, recorded in the log. With the two of us, the full auxiliary tank, as well as a full main tank, we were lifting close to the poor old aeroplane’s maximum weight, which, on a warm, still evening such as we had, clearly presented significant problems for the little continental engine.

Those of you who have the additional belly tank will know that there is no way of telling how much fuel is actually in this tank as there is no gauge and the shape of the refilling tube makes using any form of dipstick unpractical. To try to account for this, there is a column in the log kept in the aircraft; there to record time spent running the engine from the fuel out of this tank and thus, starting from full, be able to estimate fuel remaining based on the standard consumption.

Once I took this into account and realised that this take-off was not necessarily typical, my attitude toward the aeroplane softened a little: it was very affordable after all and I could live with a few shortcomings in sophistication and performance, couldn’t I?

The Auster was certainly not the sort of machine that was going to impress. Neither was it going to get me anywhere particularly quickly. In fact, in a strong headwind, it appeared as though I might be better off riding my bike and I’d certainly need my wits about me for the take –off; but it was a plane of old and offered more subtle rewards than speed and performance. It was more at home on the grass of tucked away little airfields and private strips, than on the tarmac of the larger airports where the real fun killers of officialdom and bureaucracy lie.

It appealed to my adventurous side, then, offering me ‘real’ flying: hidden farm strips, distant island beaches, flying with stick and rudder and by the ‘seat of the pants’.  With that in mind, I decided that she was worth persisting with a little longer. That, and the low costs involved, anyway. I made a mental note to at least rock the aircraft back and forth a little during my pre-flight checks to see if I could hear any ‘sloshing’ noises coming from the region of the auxiliary tank. I would then at least be able to roughly estimate its contents in case the same situation as I had experienced with Mark ever repeated itself in the future. Thinking in this vein and against my better judgement, I made arrangements to go ahead and get a ‘check out’ on the machine with two of the most experienced group members, Nick and Trystan, who had been flying JT for years and had even flown it all the way to France and back.

Nick is approaching forty and is the manager of a whole Oil Rig. He gets his kicks flying small aeroplanes in and out of the various grass strips of Scotland and is now building his own aeroplane for his home strip. Trystan is a suave pilot with Virgin Atlantic and just a little older. He gets his kicks the same way and loves old JT, having built all the hours he needed for his commercial licence flying her around Scotland. He wasn’t even put off when the engine failed on him whilst returning to the strip for a landing, too low to do anything but set the old thing down in a convenient field. The two are good friends and between them, along with JT’’s owner, John, know as much as there is to know about flying this particular old Auster. They slowly introduced me to not only the vices, but also the unexpected delights of the aeroplane, patiently teaching me to fly her over a week or so during the summer. Their enthusiasm for JT was infectious and my confidence and skill in the machine grew each time I flew with them.

Despite the many downsides of the machine and the added challenge of JT’s inadequate power, I began to relax and enjoy myself to the point where the tension of the ground roll disappeared. I got used to the terrible performance, the sluggish feel of the controls and the way she just wouldn’t climb if I didn’t hold her perfectly in balance. I learned that she could be flown very safely, very slowly and plucked from the ground on short airstrips, at just above the stall speed. In this way, the pilot could hold the aircraft just a few feet above the surface to accelerate in ground effect before climbing safely away, thereby shortening the ground run required.  It was certainly true that she was old and slow and didn’t seem to want to leave the ground, but once airborne, there seemed no finer way to take in the beauty of the countryside than by drifting happily along with the clouds in this old and shabby aeroplane.

One evening in late summer, I flew JT by myself for the first time and reached that familiar level of ease that told me that I had at last, come to know the Auster and its personality. I also felt, quite illogically, that the Auster had come to know me, too; as though we now understood each other and having reached this point in our relationship, we could really begin learning about each other.

Flying on my own around the circuit, I gazed out across the fields in the honey glow of the evening between each take-off and landing and smiled to myself, seeing JT’s shadow chase after me across the crops below.  Coming in for the last landing, all was harmony; the engine throttled back to idle, we whispered softly over the thick hedge at the threshold of the westerly run and I levelled off, a few feet above the strip, with that golden light playing through the trees in the periphery of my vision. I let her slowly sink and held her off, a few inches above the grass; back, back on the stick and with a gentle bump, finally she was down and rolling along, the engine still purring like a contented, lazy old cat.

I taxied back to the hangar, still smiling to myself and enjoying the pleasing sensation of bumping along the ground in this flying machine from another time, with its ancient compass, awkward heel operated brakes and peeling paintwork. I parked into wind and let the engine idle a minute or two before pulling the mixture lever to ‘full lean’. The engine coughed once or twice and then all was quiet, save for the gentle ‘ticking’ noises coming from the engine cowl as it cooled. I savoured the stillness, the sense of calm and felt as though I could just sit there for the rest of the evening in quiet contentment. I realised then, that an unlikely love affair with the old Auster had begun and that I would come to relish the satisfaction gained from teasing the best out of her for each take-off. I knew that it would be a satisfaction that I could not find flying a more modern, more powerful machine.

The Auster, like many of the best aeroplanes, reveals its charms slowly to the pilot and only through patience and perseverance, does the pilot come to know the real joy in flying it. To me, the Auster had become a ‘real’ aeroplane, offering me the kind of flying that seemed to belong to another time and putting the old thing away in the hangar that evening at the end of summer 2010, I couldn’t wait to begin the journey of discovery that lay ahead of us.

One beautiful, bitterly cold day in November, I flew JT across the mountains to Oban and back and for two, very cold hours, gazed out from the slowly drifting vantage point of the Auster’s cockpit to the majesty of the snow capped peaks and mirrored lochs of the Highlands, beneath a pure, crystalline blue sky. Flying peacefully across this magnificent landscape, the engine purring contentedly, I began to see what the Auster could bring me. Far from being an abandoned museum exhibit; this ragged old aeroplane was a piece of flying history that gave as much access to the skies as any modern machine. In contrast to my job as an offshore helicopter pilot, the Auster seemed to offer me the kind of flying that existed in the era from which she came and which I had read so much about, defined not by heavy regulation, but by a spirit of adventure and free enterprise.

In the summer of 2011, myself and another syndicate member flew all the way down to North Weald and back over a weekend.  We were attending an event that celebrated 65 years of the Auster and a selection of other classic aircraft. It was a round trip of over 1000 nautical miles that took in almost the entire east coast of the UK, from the unbroken beaches of Aberdeenshire, over the Firth of Forth, past Robin Hood’s Bay, to The Wash and East Anglia. We flew low along wide stretches of empty coastline, revelling in the sense of freedom we found and flying where and how we wished. We climbed out of airports with a full load in the heat of mid-day, pushing the little Continental as hard as we dared, landed on unforgiving tarmac runways in crosswinds and slipped into grass fields through bumpy thermals. She took it all. That trip really showed us what the Auster was capable of.

On a fantastic trip around the west coast of Scotland, sitting on a lonely beach in the Outer Hebrides, I looked over to the Auster, parked up on the wind-swept sands and thought back to that first day, flying what seemed to me at the time, such a tired, old and frankly, dangerous machine. The Auster felt to me now, like one of my old baseball caps: a little tatty and worn, but comfortable and reassuring. She possessed a sort of old nag dependability that I couldn’t help but fall in love with. It was true that JT wasn’t the fastest, best performing, or even most lovingly kept of vintage aeroplanes, but it was good for the job and despite its many shortcomings, offered the kind of flying that made me smile, which is worth a whole lot more than I could ever try to put a value on.

She has brought me the length of the British coastline, the windswept domes of the Cairngorms, the mirrored lochs and snow capped peaks of the Highlands, the rugged beauty of the west coast of Scotland and the many hidden, delightful strips nestling in the heart of lush landscapes that you can only discover by light aeroplane. She has also connected me to a great community of like-minded fliers who, caught up in their own unlikely love affairs, are busy doing what these old aeroplanes love doing best: getting out there and flying.