LAST September (2006, that is), John Baxter and Norman Parry left Swindon in Tiger Moth G-BPHR heading for Brindisi in Italy . 
The plan then was for the front seat to be converted to accept a long-range fuel tank and for Norman to continue alone to South Africa . 
JOHN BAXTER relives some of the most satisfying flying he has ever experienced when describing the trip to Italy .

AFTER the return of Tiger Moth G-BPHR from Australia to England in 1999, some six months after pilot Norman Parry, we were at the back of a queue for TNS32 inspection and remedial therapy so we anticipated being without wings for the next 12 months. Wrong.

As time passed, and farm dust was added to the dust of the Australian desert which still covered the dismantled airframe, we decided to take advantage of the delay to refurbish the fuselage. But once we were looking at a stripped and naked fuselage we were committed to a total restoration. It was not until May 2003 that John Pothecary carried out test flying at Old Sarum and a new CofA was issued, only four and a half years after leaving White Waltham for Norman’s little jolly to Sydney.

Well clearly this would never happen again. Norman could surely not contemplate sitting for hours and hours behind a lone Gipsy Major holding a straight line across miles and miles of empty sea and desert. So we largely ignored his occasional references to hanging on to the big fuel tank and maybe flying to South Africa one day.

There were three co-owners of this Tiger Moth and two of them certainly did not want to risk the loss of their favourite aeroplane on some crazy flight which would involve flying through Sudan from Egypt . What hope of ever seeing her again if she were to encounter a problem in Sudan ? Crazy! So we agreed that Norman would leave in September 2006.

Not to be missed

As we gradually came to terms with the fact that Norman really was going to do it again we began to discuss the possibility of the two supporting cast members getting something out of the trip. What about John and John flying down to Greece or Italy from where Norman could continue on his own with the big tank in the front cockpit?  Both John Hall and I had allocated all our holiday time so it would be difficult, but it might possibly be the last time we flew our Tiger Moth, and was not an opportunity to be missed. In the event, John Hall was required in the front of his 747 by Cathay Pacific. Norman and I decided upon a two-week relaxed tour through France and Italy , ending in Brindisi , where we would fit the big tank for Norman ’s onward journey.

If you have ever thought about undertaking such a trip, or not, do not let the planning and the stories of Italian airfields put you off. Do it. Absolutely one of the best trips you can imagine in a Moth – scenery, weather, food, and people – all superb.

The intention was always to take the scenic route via smaller airfields down through France to the coast at Cannes and then along the Riviera to Genova (the only big hard runway with airliners that we anticipated visiting). We wanted to spend some time in Italy so drew lines across Tuscany and Umbria and then around Rome down to the Napoli area before crossing over to the South East coast and Brindisi for the end of September. Norman ’s flight clearances were based on leaving Greece for Egypt around 3 October so the timetable was established – leaving Lotmead Farm near Swindon early on 16 September 2006 .

So, low cloud all day, and paranoia over a suddenly stiff engine, left us departing on the Sunday and heading for Lydd on what started as a clear and perfect morning for Tiger Moth exercise. This did not last, of course, and by the time we were approaching the coast thick cloud had developed and visibility was deteriorating. So an extended lunch at Lydd, flight plan for Le Touquet, weather updates etc as various aircraft were landing back after only 10 minutes with reports of complete cloud cover over the Channel and poor visibility. Those who were adequately equipped and competent were arriving from France having flown on top in reportedly good clear air. This was to be my first crossing to France in the Tiger Moth and I wanted to see the other side when I took off please! We were not in a hurry, still 12 days before we had to be in Brindisi, so we went off and climbed overhead the airfield in what seemed like a hole, and we climbed and turned up to 4,500ft before finding the sunshine and heading off for ‘moules et muscadet’ somewhere in the far distance. I cannot claim that the arrival over the French coast was in ideal conditions, but we could pick out the beach as we headed South talking to Le Touquet.

We had planned to call at Le Touquet for fuel and then press on around Paris to Coulommiers for an overnight stop with Peter Gould, but the passing front was still moving slowly and we would have to take in the delights of the Red Fox hotel in town instead. A weather check in the morning indicated that the front had left us with good visibility in the North West , but perhaps Paris was still in the murk. But surely by the time we were off it would have cleared to the East? So our approach into Coulommiers was via ‘roads and railway lines’ and was the first time I have really appreciated the accuracy of the cursed GPS. If you are ever within 100 miles of Paris do not miss out on the hospitality of the people at Coulommiers, and particularly of ‘our man in France’, Peter Gould, who brought us out a picnic lunch from home and filled our engine up with W100 – a splendid Moth Ambassador in this far-flung outpost. By late afternoon they had even arranged for blue skies and sunshine and recommended that if we insisted in pressing on that we night-stopped at Moulins, some 140 miles further South. A quick call ahead by Peter established there would be help available until 7pm , so we enjoyed a pleasant flight in the evening sun to meet a very friendly group of people at Moulins who helped lock up the old Tiger Moth in one of their many hangars.

The next day was planned to be a 220-mile leg to Vinon, down the Rhone valley, possibly via St Rambert (a bit of a French Old Warden). In the event we had to head due South for a while with the intention of remaining in the valleys from St. Etienne and thus avoiding the low cloud on the hills between us and the Rhone. But as the heat began to build we were able to turn to the East and cross the beautiful countryside on track for the South West edge of Lyon , picking up the river at Givors. A good tailwind in fabulous clear skies pushed us down the valley at a ground speed of 85kts – it seemed a pity to interrupt such a pleasant flight so we over-flew St. Rambert and pressed on to Vinon, passing close by Carpentras with its acres of glasshouses and polythene tunnels.

Our reception at Vinon was wonderful – the gliding fraternity there, waiting for the afternoon wave to start, directed us towards the waiting figure of Jean Guerin, a former Spitfire and airline pilot, who was waiting to whisk us off for lunch in the nearby town where we would meet Jean Michard, an Airbus pilot who is rebuilding a Tiger Moth, slowly. Both Jeans had been pre-briefed by Peter Gould, and it was anticipated that we would be staying the night with the Michard family before heading towards Italy . It was a great pity that we missed out on the hospitality so generously offered, but, having taken note of a perfect forecast for the Mediterranean and the lack of a Mistral, we decided that there was at least time to get as far as Cannes for an overnight stop and therefore be clear of the mountains if the weather was going to change. We had assumed that it would be necessary to stop at Cannes for Customs before entering Italy until Jean suggested filing a flight plan direct to Genova via Cannes , Monte Carlo , Albenga and various reporting points along the coast.

Thus followed the most amazing two hours flying I have ever had the privilege to enjoy.

It is a bit of a squeeze between danger areas and military ‘no-go’ areas when you leave Vinon and head South East towards the coast – and it is important to keep yourself well to the West of Nice airspace on the run-in to Cannes Mandelieu. The notes in the French version of  Pooleys quite rightly tell the wandering pilot not to confuse the now-closed airfield of Frejus with Cannes, both looking very similar in relation to the adjacent river and town, and large blue sea.

Once over the coast we dropped down to 500ft and told Nice who we were and that we were intending to fly in the low-level corridor, a mile or two off the beach, all the way to the Italian border at Ventemiglia. The route took us close to the headlands of Juan Les Pins and Cap d’Antibes and across the wide bay with Nice Airport at its centre, continually firing off airliners, which often climbed away over our heads as we passed along at fishing boat level.

Having passed the towering apartment buildings and hotels of Monaco we entered Italian airspace at Ventemiglia with some apprehension. We were not to be disappointed, for soon after contacting the area controller at Albenga advising him that we were a Tiger Moth from England on our planned route to Genova, he began to ask a whole variety of questions. Where had we come from? Where were we going? Would we please confirm that Genova was indeed our destination? There was no doubt that all our details had been passed to him from Nice and he had us clearly identified on radar, but he still continued to behave as though we had come as a complete surprise and what we were asking for was going to be very difficult to arrange.

We were then told to hold our position at Alassio and orbit, as he had not yet got our clearance into Genova airspace. This clearance was suddenly forthcoming after only one 360deg turn over the sea, and he was pleased to be able to give us permission to proceed “as quickly as possible” towards Genova. Upon calling Genova tower we were instructed to fly an extended downwind leg out to sea until contacted again. After about 10 minutes I decided they had forgotten us as we were well on our way to La Spezia, so a quick call produced the immediate instruction to turn on to left base and report long finals ... about 10 miles long, and straight into the setting sun. Visibility ahead was awful, but the view to the right as we passed by the city of Genova and its enormous port was truly spectacular. After one of my exemplary landings on their enormous runway we were directed to hold at one of the exit taxiways and we held, and we held, awaiting the ‘Follow Me’ van, the driver of which was clearly otherwise engaged on something more important. Eventually, granted his attention, we were led off at high speed to a parking spot opposite the Piaggio factory. After a quick rub down of the faithful steed we were ready for our first round of Italian paperwork. Suffice it to say that this is a municipal airport and administered by ‘town hall’ staff with some early training by Ken Livingstone.

Beautiful morning

From the amount of time spent hitting buttons on the computer next morning and the constant reference to tables of charges for landing, parking, handling, aircraft tax, passenger tax, carpet tax and anything else you could add, it was obvious that we were going to have to sell the Tiger Moth and go home. Total cost €36! It was a beautiful morning as we taxied out past the Ryanair arrival from Stansted and took off over the sea heading south east for Lucca , via the mountains of Cararra.

The planned route was down the coast past the delightful little village of Portofino before turning inland at Sestri Levante and then a climb at full throttle as the ground quickly rose to 7,000ft to the East of Cararra – an amazing sight of the centuries-old marble quarries which leave the mountains resembling the Alps in winter as they are covered in the white dust of so many years of stone cutting. A quick dive through a dip in the mountain ahead and we could glide all the way down to the ancient walled town of Lucca , and their airfield at Capannori a few miles out of town.

This place cannot be recommended too highly. The airfield staff and flying club members could not have been more helpful and friendly, no fuss, no silly rules, no paperwork, despite the day-long string of skydivers falling out of their Pilatus Turbo overhead. The town itself is a gem, fabulous food and wine, and a certain peacefulness encouraged by its largely pedestrian or bicycle traffic.

Onward for more of this to Siena , only 45 minutes flying time, via San Gimignano, the Manhattan of Tuscany, keeping clear of the airspace around Firenze , another municipal airfield that has seen better days but still believes it has a role to play. Unfortunately we seemed to be their only customer so were well placed to give some practice for the 20 firemen, immigration police, air traffic controllers, and airfield manager, particularly when it came to paperwork. I gave them everything but my mother’s shoe size, ticked all the boxes, signed all the dotted lines, and again paid only a few euros for a four-day stay.

Siena has to be one of my most favourite cities, absolutely stunning when you walk through an arch into the Piazza del Campo around which all life revolves – a wonderful place to take coffee or a glass of something whilst watching the world walk past. If time is limited, forget about Florence and make sure you visit Siena before you die, and if possible do it in a Moth.

By now it was Tuesday of our second week and we only had a couple of days left before we had to be in Brindisi to meet Ben Borsberry and his bag of tools. We had no firm plan or route from Siena , only knowing that we would need fuel between there and Napoli or maybe Salerno . I had drawn a choice of lines on the maps, all involving a circumnavigation of Rome and then either down the coast to the Bay of Naples , or following the autostrada in the middle. We had taken the trouble to buy a copy of the Italian airfield guide known as Avioportolano, a superb volume with photographs of many of the airfields. It was this publication that led us to pick upon Sabaudia as our next stop for fuel and sleep, and what an inspired choice it proved to be.

Our route from Siena , for the next two and a half hours, took us over the city itself towards the North-East to avoid the Chianti Danger Area until we picked up the River Arno and the autostrada heading down to Rome . Flying South-East past Lake Trasimeno, with its large grass airfield, we made a minor diversion to fly around the hilltop town of Orvieto for a few photos and then onwards towards the Eternal City . It is possible to fly all the way around Rome without having to talk to anybody if you keep under the TMA and out to the East around Tivoli and the military airfield at Guidonia . From here it is a pleasant flight towards the coast as you enter the airspace controlled by Latina , who have no problem in clearing you into the flying club at Sabaudia.

This is a splendid little grass airfield with a length of about 600 metres run by some really pleasant and helpful people, the leader of whom is Fabio Dapit. Fuel and a flight plan filed on the internet in the clubhouse by Fabio and we were on our way next morning to Salerno via the Bay of Naples , Sorrento , Capri , Positano, and Amalfi. Two hours passed all too quickly and we joined the circuit for a fuel and food stop at Salerno , another municipal airfield with yet another raft of paperwork.

First problem: the fuel pumps were closed for lunch. Second problem: paperwork! Had I forgotten my maternal grandmother’s maiden name and confirmation of the date of expiry of my radio licence? The real trick is to have once known someone called Fabrizio who ran a pizza restaurant in Doncaster – “Eh amico…what paperwork?”

And so we set off on our last leg together somewhat later than expected, but it was still only 5pm and the sun was up in a clear sky. Norman flew this final stage for a bit of practice with the controllers and the GPS, which he would be needing more than I had thus far. As we climbed out of Salerno I took a last look at the Mediterranean with some regret that it was all over too soon – but onward and upward over the Apennines for our first reporting point, Lunar.

When you get there it is clearly well named, looking not unlike the arid surface of the Moon. In fact the entire country now takes on a different appearance, the green being replaced by brown, and a much less populated landscape. After an hour or so contact was made with the military controllers at Gioia del Colle, who wanted us to give them a wide berth to the North as we crossed the autostrada from Bari . With only another 40 miles to go to Brindisi everything was still ticking along, although Norman was complaining that the GPS kept losing its satellites and freezing – this had in fact been happening on and off for much of the trip but I had not paid it too much attention, being something of a map and railway follower.

Cloud had been steadily building to the South as we began to fly parallel to the Adriatic coast and visibility and light were beginning to reduce. Time to take off the sunglasses and fit the standard lenses. Ah! I was already wearing the standard lenses! It appeared to be getting darker by the minute and we still had 15 miles to run. There is not a lot of twilight in the south of Italy . The final five minutes joining the circuit for Brindisi behind an Alitalia DC9 somewhere out there in the murk were not the least stressful of the journey but suffice it to say that the illuminated town and port looked very picturesque from short finals. After hurriedly parking we dashed off for another round of paperwork and took a taxi  to the recommended hotel for a wash and change before returning to the airport to meet Ben arriving from Stansted.

The next day and a half was spent on maintenance and fitting the 32-gallon tank,  which had been sent on ahead by road. We were lucky to be able to park in the entrance to a hangar owned by a small company involved in aerial seeding of rain clouds.

I packed the front panel and stick etc in my luggage for return to England and after screwing on the front cockpit cover we kicked the tyres, fired up the engine, and took a photograph. Would I ever see A17-48 again?

(In our next issue Norman Parry finds unexpected adventure on the flight from Brindisi to Durban , South Africa . Thanks to The Moth, the magazine of the de Havilland Moth Club, for permission to reproduce these articles)

The Dusty Road to Durban .

Part 2

In our previous edition, John Baxter described how he and Norman Parry had flown Tiger Moth G-BPHR from Reading , England , to Brindisi , Italy , prior to her conversion into a single seater in which Norman was to continue to Durban , South Africa . NORMAN PARRY takes up the story.

Morally, I was the keeper of the high ground having sold two shares in G-BPHR after my return from Australia on the understanding that one day I might set off for South Africa. Still, both Johns were magnanimous in being out-manoeuvred – I had always known that the Moth and I would be heading south again at some stage.

The key of course is to state your intentions so far into the future that no reasonable person can be bothered to say 'no', whether it be for time off work, or absence from domestic or social duties. And this deviousness is well rewarded.

Flying a Tiger Moth in a straight line is just such fun! The whole process is so totally absorbing; the planning, the maintenance, the politics of the countries you pass through and the beauty of the terrain. It is deeply relaxing psychologically because you concentrate so completely on non-mundane activities.

And it goes on for days on end!

“The human soul needs nourishment,” my wonderful Irish farming neighbour (now deceased bless him) frequently told me as he made his pint of Guinness last an impossibly long time until another was eventually offered, “and don’t forget Norman , the graveyard is full of indispensable people! The aim of life,” he would often continue, “was to die with lots of memories but little money.”

The leaving of Brindisi in the south of Italy was delayed for 48 hours whilst a landing slot was agreed for Corfu . Yes, they are that busy with tourists in the summer. Thence an uneventful couple of legs in ethereal mistiness to Crete via Milos , thus avoiding the big American base at Charnia, and on across the Mediterranean to Alexandria . The Tiger Moth was on form.

Blessed with individually delightful people, ferrying or private flying in Egypt is, shall we say, challenging! It is breathtakingly expensive with a bureaucracy the consistency of treacle. This time I was compounding my woes by having to bring Mogas in through the gates, there being no Avgas.

Day One was a negotiating failure. I was planning to fly to Asyut on the Nile but avoiding Cairo VOR, one of the busiest in Africa .  Becoming technical for a moment, your locally filed flight plan (remember the word 'locally') does not permit any routing other than in or under Airways. No going ‘direct to’ a point if you like. If I was to avoid Cairo , the only Airways option was to fly back out to sea again for 50 miles, turn left, fly parallel to the coast and re-cross to terra firma over El Alamein . And all of this at a minimum altitude of 8,500ft. I returned to the hotel licking my wounds, facing the real possibility that I might have to come home. Thank you anonymous helicopter ferry pilot. The solution was cunning but legal. The following day I accepted the onerous conditions, filed VFR and set off out to sea again telling the regional controllers (not the local tower recipients of the flight plan) that a cruising altitude of 8,500ft would not be consistent with VMC rules for the moment and, by the way, could I also go direct to a route shortening point. No problems! In fact the airwaves were alive with aircraft making such requests.

I thus felt a little smug on my arrival in Asyut , but of course the true credit for beating the system, which incidentally was to work for the whole of Egypt , was due to the professionalism and courtesy of the sector controllers. I might have learnt how to overcome stringent flight planning rules, but high airport charges were unavoidable.  One wag commentated that the weight of dollars spent allowed him to carry more fuel.

Asyut was a remarkable oasis of green which I longed to explore that evening but the security police insisted I remain in my grim hotel. Whether this was for my safety or whether I was considered the threat, I was never to discover. My stay was to become protracted, however, as that night a water pipe leaked in my bedroom silently soaking all my maps, charts and manuals, necessitating a further day carefully drying these lifelines.

And so to Aswan . My handling agent quickly announced that his cousin had a hotel and a room had been booked. I politely declined having been there and done that! I insisted on being dropped off at the New Cataract Hotel built in the shadow of surely one of the world’s great hotels, the Old Cataract. The New is good but the Old can only be dreamed of. I used to sneak off there for my evening Turkish coffee after dinner watching the Dows on the Nile in the cool breeze. I was to consume a few Turkish coffees as I awaited my clearance into Sudan .

It was now mid October and the initial application had been made in July by Mike Grey of White Rose Aviation. I had told Mike that I would not commit myself to Egypt without this clearance but we both had been constantly assured that it was all but done and dusted – and we were believing sorts of guys, I guess! Five days later I was still waiting; Nubian Museum visited and appreciated; money spent in the Souk and many a fine meal consumed; Mike now apoplectic with Sudan ; me about to admit defeat and once again turn for home! Then a clearance with a number as long as your arm came through indicating just what a tortuous birth it had undergone.

It was about a week after my arrival in Aswan then that I was at the airport at dawn for what was always going to be the longest and potentially most risky flight of the trip, 540 miles to Khartoum . Khartoum was the only permitted designated point of entry for me into Sudan but it was at the very limit of my range, even if I flew in a straight line which meant passing over the Nubian Desert . The safer alternative would be to declare Khartoum as my destination, but actually plan to land short by some 200 miles at my first alternate at Merowe having followed the Nile down past Dongola. The inevitable hassle, which would ensue from landing at a non-designated point of entry, might turn out to be a small price to pay. Anyway, I decided not to decide on the routing until I was in the air and over Abu Simbel .

A lumbering take-off with 60 gallons of Egypt ’s finest petrol (if it is good enough for a Merc it’s good enough for a Tiger Moth) and a frustrating diversion due to ATC followed, but manna from heaven, a tailwind! And, yes Sir, in about 5 hours' time I should be cruising at 8,500ft!

In the certain knowledge that Moths one and a half-hours into the cruise never suffer engine problems with a persisting 10 knot tail wind, the straight-line approach was the inevitable decision. While I missed the meandering beauty of the world’s longest river, the Nubian Desert was equally fascinating in its ghastly isolation and harshness. The clock and fuel gauges continued in my favour making Khartoum achievable as I intersected the Nile at Merowe . Again there were no landing options available on this last section, the wonderful database of 1,500 dirt strips given to me by the Missionary Aviation Fellowship not becoming relevant until south of Khartoum.

My luck was not to hold however. Half an hour past Merowe I noticed towering cumulus on the horizon and suddenly Khartoum was giving visabilities of 1-2 kms. It would have been so easy to sit there and deny the reality of the situation and keep fingers crossed, but I had been warned of exactly this scenario by the more experienced. Khartoum was renowned for late afternoon thunderstorms at this time of year triggering dust outflows.

With a sense of disappointment I turned around and landed at Merowe after all. At these small dusty strips there are two types of official:  those on the way up the career ladder and those on the way down. The sliders, if you like, do not normally pay too much attention to protocol, but those on the way up are rather resentful of the problems you have suddenly posed them. I had definitely flown into the latter environment.

There followed the classical ‘African Interview’ which has the following characteristics:  smart uniforms with gold braid, a television on loudly in the corner, lesser mortals slumped over desks around the walls, heads-on-hands asleep, a constant procession of pretty secretaries coming and going with that slow sexy hip wiggling walk and shuffling of feet, and a wobbling ceiling fan looking as if it is about to detach itself any second. The passport at this stage takes an awful hammering as the pages are flicked backwards and forwards, thus gaining time before possibly career changing decisions are reached. But time and patience and smiles and handshakes and a brief discussion of the England football team normally solves all, together with the relinquishing of the passport for safe keeping.

That night my decision to turn back was justified by a sandstorm which came in from the south. The unsettled weather continued for two days, during which time traditional African hospitality asserted itself with the offer to join everyone for delicious evening meals after 7pm , it being Ramadan. I was given the use of a mud hut too and a 45 gallon drum for my ablutions.

The third day saw me up and away and safely into Khartoum , albeit from a take-off beside the only runway because of the cross-wind. I will fast forward here leaving the unpublishable views of Henry Labouchere to speak for this pit of officialdom and bureaucracy. In his youth Henry crop sprayed in the Gezira just to the south. In fact I think his Ag-Wagon is still parked up besides the runway, rotting away with the 50 others!

It could have been a Bateman cartoon with the Tiger Moth pilot asking for permission to bring in fuel through the airport gates. My now rather soiled copy of Notice 98 (CAA dispensation for certain engines to run on Mogas) did not impress much, nor I am afraid to say did John Baxter’s carefully printed italics on the fuselage ‘Motor Spirit Only’. What started the thaw was the donation of one of my ten copies of a small remaindered hard backed coffee table glossy on the history of the de Havilland Moth. A modest little number compared to the historical masterpiece created by the Editor of this august journal, but it was enough to re-enforce the view that G-BPHR was very old and deserving of special consideration.

If Khartoum was bad, what was it going to be like further south? I could not have been more pleasantly surprised. Malakal was a delightful place with minimal regulations, and lots of humour and courtesy. The Sudanese Sud had received a lot of rain in the preceding weeks and it looked like parkland. This appearance is of course deceptive, the Sud being sparsely inhabited with virtually no roads.  Transportation is via the Nile .

What I was experiencing in Southern Sudan was similar to that which I had experienced when working in Nigeria . With the ending of regional civil wars and the creation of semi autonomous regional governments the character of the local population shines through. In Nigeria the Yoruba has a profoundly different attitude to life than the Ibo, whilst in Sudan, the traditionally dominant force of the Arab has no place in the hearts of the tribal south who draw their culture from all the neighbouring countries – Ethiopia, Chad, Uganda, Kenya and even Tanzania. Southern Sudan is one of the most exciting areas of Africa today. Long may the tentative peace with the north prevail.

From Malakal to Juba my electrical power failed, giving rise to heart palpitations and stares of disbelief at the blank radio, unwinking transponder and listless VOR. John Baxter had suggested that he replace the old power-hungry Garmin GPS with a more modern unit which would be capable of extended operations just on internal batteries. How right he was, although in this particular instance, dead reckoning was never going to be a life or death affair as my heading was always going to bring me to intercept the Nile again which I could then follow into Juba.

No offence was taken by the tower for a non-radio landing. As I wandered back to the Tiger Moth to complete my picketing down, I noticed and admired the fantastic thunderstorms building in the 45-degree heat. My mind was more on the charging system fault and its implications for my flight the following day into Entebbe .

It happened so quickly. One moment it was just towering cumulus, the next it was a black squall line rushing down the runway. The gust must have been 40-50 knots when it hit. G-BPHR was pushed back with increasing speed along a now wet runway, trailing her concrete-filled tie downs. The whole sorry episode only finished when she slewed off into the high grass, coming to an abrupt halt.

As I raced after her, my thoughts were for the stern post, only having a semi castering tail wheel, but when I saw the metal tank trap against which she had come to rest, I knew I was going to have bigger things to worry about. I noticed first the broken trailing edge of the starboard lower wing, in-board of the aileron, and then the crushed starboard elevator. I have been complemented in the past for my work with an adjustable spanner, a Wiltshire Persuader (hammer) and a roll of gaffer tape, but this damage was going to require something more.

I huffed and puffed and clucked around the Moth trying to make a detailed assessment, but the light was failing and reluctantly I knew that I was not going to achieve anything of further use on the airfield that day.

One of the Red Cross pilots who had witnessed the set-back offered me a lift to town and help in finding accommodation which was very rare and expensive if you were not a member of the UN Peacekeeping staff who were in Juba in their thousands. Before we left the airport, however, I called in to see the Operations Manager to tell him of the incident and start the long process of building political bridges. The guy was sympathetic and to prove a great ally in the future.

My gloom was further deepened on the short ride to town by being told lurid stories of damaged aircraft, even after repair, not being allowed to leave until inspected by Khartoum , which might take weeks to arrange.

Camp Mango , a bargain at $300 a night, at least provided thinking time. A good evening meal was followed by a sheepish text message to John Baxter talking of damage, the full extent of which was as yet unknown. I went to bed in my air-conditioned prefab box with one certainty. The trip to South Africa was off and all my efforts must be concentrated on getting the Tiger Moth home for the two Johns to be able to fly in the spring as originally promised. Actually, I have never asked John B what he thought on receiving my text; probably something along the lines of, “I bloody knew it!”

A good night’s sleep and a long leisurely breakfast reinstated my positive attitude. Hey, had I not survived a hole in a piston in Burma ? As with that event, you quickly meet people who know people who will tell you the lie of the land both physically and politically.

Fact one.  Wilson Airport at Nairobi was the closest centre of general aviation with the expertise to containerise the Moth and ship her out via Mombasa . Some people thought that if the aircraft proved to be un-flyable, or politically grounded, it could be transported by road to Nairobi , but this suggestion was quickly scotched. The road from Juba , through Torit, Kapoena and into Kenya at Lokichouggio was dreadfully rough and still subject to banditry. The other option for $17,000 was to fly her out in a big Antonov to Jomo Kenyatta, the other airport in Nairobi . Over to the insurance company if this had to happen.

Local knowledge assimilated, the next act was to get my accommodation sorted as $300 a night was not going to be sustainable. Eventually I prevailed with the UN and got accommodation close to the airport at $10 a night on the basis of my previous World Bank work in Africa as an agriculturist.

It was now time to go back to the scene of the crime and make a detailed inspection.  Within an hour I knew that she could be flown out. My fear of damage to the rear wing spar was groundless. A bit of aluminium bracing and yes, gaffer tape, was going to solve that area of non-structural damage. The stern post was OK – I was to miss initially the three broken bolts holding the tailwheel hub together, but the elevator was a different story.  It was well buggered.

Texts flew back and forth to John and eventually the decision was for a new starboard elevator to be air freighted to Wilson Airport care of Colin Davis at Light Plane Maintenance.

I stayed in Juba for a few more days before flying commercially to Nairobi to make a detailed list of tools needed for repairs, to look again and again for further damage and to sort out the charging system. But most importantly, I had a couple of extremely sociable meetings with the Airport Director appraising him of the situation.  Gratifyingly he dropped all parking charges whilst the Moth was under repair.

My hidden agenda during these meetings was to steer off any suggestion that Khartoum need get involved with inspecting the Moth once repaired. I dropped several hints that this would be quite unnecessary in view of….well, I do not think I need be more explicit here!

In Nairobi , I stayed at the East African Aero Club at Wilson , which was a holiday within a holiday. The Club is a heady mix of history (Beryl Markam et al) and modern operations. I was to suffer a little from the post work-evening camaraderie between pilots having been teetotal so far on the trip because of my passage through Islamic countries.

“How are you getting on Norman ?”

“I’m fine, really.”

“I know you’re healthy, I was asking what you’re drinking.”

Such was the hard work of all concerned, notably John Baxter and Ben Borsberry at home, the Moth Club's amazingly productive worldwide e-mail network and Colin Davis looking after the Customs' clearance in Kenya that after only a few days I was on my way back to Juba clutching as hand luggage one bright yellow elevator section.

In the concluding part of the story, Norman Parry describes how having repaired G-BPHR, there were some serious decisions still to be made at this junction on the Dusty Road to Durban .

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As the F28 braked on the wet runway back in Juba , I gently restrained my precious elevator section in the seat next to me and managed to catch a glimpse of the Tiger Moth still parked in some sort of order. After the damage sustained in the storm, my priority had been to obtain, courtesy of the UN Russian contingent, two long metal stakes which I had driven into the ground to act as tie-down points.

Passing through Customs and Immigration of the new SPLA Government resulting from the recent cessation of hostilities with the North which had lasted some ten years, my priority was to drop-in and update the Airport Manager whom I now regarded as both a thoroughly decent man and a political ally. As a gross generalisation which is the privilege of the traveller I found the mainly Christian Southern Sudanese such an engaging people compared with his Northern Muslim brother. Think Darfur !

Knowing that for any repairs undertaken on a Tiger Moth you should double the estimated time, I told him that I would probably be ready to fly out in about six days time subject to clearance being approved for Nairobi. I was now also in the happy position of not having to be fearful about the certification of G-BPHR following the repairs as the imported elevator had come with a rather important green document!

With a little daylight left I went to check on the aircraft and started to prepare a ‘repair zone’, the philosophy being that a clean workspace leads to a good job. My abiding memory of Juba is millions of empty plastic bottles littering the place, most drinking water needing to be imported. The initial amusement of the locals turned to concern as I ventured from the edge of the runway into the longer grass (it being the rainy season) where the Tiger Moth was parked collecting these bottles and other debris. I had speculated before why I had seen so many large rats crossing the runway. It turned out that they were not rats, but mongooses and yes, mongooses eat snakes of which Juba was host to some bad buggers: 'Tiger Moth Pilot Suffers Broken Elevator' preferable to 'Tiger Moth Pilot Dies from Black Mamba Strike'.

The following day I started work in earnest and managed to fit the new elevator maintaining correct cable tensions and almost getting the trailing edge distances of the left and right sections the same distance from the ground.

The next day, which I thought would be a doddle, turned into a nightmare.  The damaged wing trailing edge and supporting ribs proved far harder to stiffen then I had anticipated, and I wasted some of my precious aluminium sheeting on a repair schedule that was going nowhere.

An early retirement and a lot of thinking resulted in a better job with me constructing a lattice held together with soft rivets, screwed into the good wood of the rear spar and small bolts clamping the broken trailing edge between alloy strips. All finished off with gaffer tape of course!

My clearance number for Kenya had by now been relayed to me via e-mail to an official of the World Food Programme. However, the conditions of this clearance were not communicated to me, which was to lead to big problems later with officialdom.

But first of all, there was the small matter of the test flight scheduled in the evening. Delayed by an Antonov on the runway with a collapsed nose wheel, I used the time for a further scrutiny of the tail wheel assembly still in the belief that it could not have survived the Tiger Moth having been pushed backwards with such force. And there they were, three sheared hub bolts but in situ looking for all the world like they were intact.  My Russian friends quickly assisted in replacing these awkwardly shaped bolts, but by now time had run out so my test flight was going to have to coincide with my departure for Lokichoggio the following day.

The aeroplane flew just fine and so course was set for Loki. I had expected Juba to be a politically tough environment but with the gentle folk of the new Government it was not; I was looking forward to Kenya being low on the stress-o-meter, but surprise, it was far from it although things began well.

After a nervous flight over the Didinga Hills due to rotor turbulence and an increasing headwind and the now very old ONC maps being physically inaccurate in their depiction of the orientation of the Hills, the welcome in Loki was …..I can only describe it as sweet!

A tiny wooden Immigration shed with ‘Welcome’ hand-painted in blue and a helpful Air Traffic controller who gave valuable advice on flight planning for the following day set the atmosphere. Loki is also a regional base for the MAF (Missionary Aviation Fellowship) my dirt strip data suppliers, who sorted fuel and accommodation for me. I was to stay with Irish engineers rebuilding a UN Hercules which had broken its back doing a ‘tactical’ landing short of the runway in the belief that they could stop short of an Antonov with a broken nose wheel stuck on the runway. (Yes, another one.)

Advice was to break my flight to Nairobi at Lake Baringo . Nairobi had been experiencing bad weather for days now, mainly in the form of thunderstorms and an arrival later in the afternoon was not advised.

Northern Kenya was beautiful, arid yes, but with a huge sky and fascinating drainage patterns. (Dendritic for you geographers.) Lake Turkana was somewhere on my left as was the famous strip at Lodwar from where so much food aid was flown during the famines in Ethiopia. Slowly the country greens a little and in this transition sits Lake Baringo , a tourist destination mainly for the Kenyans themselves. Just as I was arriving from the North, a couple of Cessnas were landing from Nairobi , their timing ensuring that a brief stay on Satien Island in the middle of the lake was memorable. Hippo watching in the evening, wonderful bird life, and a fabulous sunset with a beer.

The story in Kenya really begins the following day, however. Before departure from Baringo, I could already see milky top cover, and I knew that getting into Wilson (the GA airfield for Nairobi ) over the Ngong Hills at 8,000ft was not going to be easy.

As I headed South the ground level slowly rose as I passed the sculptured ridges and kopjes of Saloi and then the Aberdare Ridge on my left. By Nkuru, the weather ahead looked unstable and by Naivasha, thunderstorms were blocking my path past the extinct volcano of Longanot.  By now it was also raining.

My Aerad guide told me that Naivasha was a safe port in a storm. My doubts started with the potholes in the runway, were reinforced seeing the goats and cattle and confirmed when I became surrounded by some 200-300 folk from the adjacent settlement. Nobody lands at Naivasha anymore.

It was one of many disgraceful municipal airports, a source of great friction between the Kenyan DCA and aircraft operators including Kenya Airways themselves. Operators prefer to use private strips where possible which enrages the Nairobi authorities.

I saw no future staying on the ground here so still in rain I took off again trying not to chop anyone in half and headed back up North to Nkuru in the hope that it would be a more secure stopover.

I need not have bothered because thunderstorms started to form there too. I returned from whence I had come, determined to protect the aircraft by sleeping in the cockpit if necessary -‘ Norman 's Last Stand!’ and all that!

After about half an hour some sort of order had been established with a line around G-BPHR across which the children with their pokey little fingers could not cross. But it was like trying to keep oil in a Gipsy rocker-box.

Whilst on my protection duties, unknown to me the grapevine had reached Mike and Sarah Higgins - conservationalists, farmers and pilots themselves living only two minutes flying away near the ‘Airspray East Africa’ private strip hidden by large glasshouses growing flowers - that an aircraft had crashed at Naivasha municipal; the Swahili word for ‘crash’ being the same as ‘landing’.

And so I got rescued but as the weather failed to relent I found myself handed from one long-suffering couple to another. The problem was not just the low cloud and high ground, but for reasons too embarrassing and complex to delve into (yes, it was a serious oversight) we had not fitted the Tiger Moth with full mixture control before leaving England . There was a serious horsepower shortage in this environment, the airstrip being at 6,700ft.

Enter Pat Neylan owner of ‘Airspray’ and father of Russ, with whom I was now staying.  Flying in from his farm south of Nairobi at Bisil, we adjusted the mixture on the ground which involved me in the cockpit setting 1,800rpm whilst Pat without ear defenders moved the mixture control arm on the carburettor to obtain maximum power.

"Why," asked Pat, "was I trying to go to Wilson anyway when the dismantled aircraft would still need to be jolted in a container all the way to Mombassa?  Why not fly to Mombassa and let my mate Alan Herd, the best wood and fabric man in Kenya , crate her up for you?"

Why not indeed? And so we applied for a change in flight plan for Kijipwe just to the North of Mombassa.

Oh boy!  Suddenly the hippo dung, meeting that stubby windscreen wiper of a tail, started to fly everywhere!

"Why," asked the Department of Civil Aviation, "had I violated the conditions of my entry permit by not flying straight from Loki to Wilson ? Why had I not contacted Nairobi Regional Control and why had I not opened and closed flight plans? Indeed, where had I been for the past week?"

Now located down on Pat’s strip at Bisil having squeezed past Longanot, through Devil's Passage, I was summoned to Nairobi for what turned out to be three meetings over a period of about ten days with some very senior officials.

I was required to make a written statement explaining the sequence of events and why rules had been transgressed. Still there was disbelief at my actions coming to a head when firstly it was pointed out that other aircraft were not affected by the weather as I claimed to have been, and further, “We think you are a spy because you say you landed at Lake Baringo for fuel, but we know there is no fuel at Baringo!”

Time to present my last remaining Tiger Moth book and explain that Ma Righteous’s store sells petrol, albeit mixed with a bit of peanut oil necessitating extensive use of the chamois leather as a filter.

"What," I asked Pat, "did these guys do for a living that they could spend so much time over me? Were there not other priorities? The state of the municipal airports for starters?"

The threat of jail receded as Pat worked behind the scenes on my behalf (although he does not admit to it) and the final outcome was no more than a letter of admonishment and then much to Pat’s amazement as well as mine, permission to fly to Mombassa.

The weather remained uncooperative but I felt little frustration staying with Pat and Sara on their farm. It is beautiful, carved out of the bush amid the Masai people growing mainly beans but with a huge effort being put into conservation.

The house designed by Pat and Sara was stunning with the veranda overlooking trees and a watercourse. During breakfast I would watch the Crested Hammercocks building their huge nests, and the Weavers their tiny constructs.

The male Weaver bird carries out the work as a courting ritual, subjects it to scrutiny by the prospective mate who, if disapproving, sends it crashing to the ground with one nip of the beak. I have friends who have similar relationships with their spouses and Ikea shelving.

And so the last leg to Mombassa. Pat and Sara were going to do the photography as I flew over Amboseli National Park and past Kilimanjaro. I was not quite as relaxed as I should have been as large showers loomed on the horizon. But as I slid downhill past the Denys Finch Hatton strip onto the coastal plain, I knew I was safe.

Better to travel than arrive?  Never truer if flying a Tiger Moth. It had been a great holiday. When I am old and dribbling in my soup a wry smile will occasionally cross my face, caused by a poignant memory. Jack, my deceased neighbour, would have been proud. Money spent, but memories banked.