After a couple of flights on my lightweight kit in March, it was time to collect my Mentor and my pod from the Loft and see if my new hip could cope with cross-country, and perhaps a hike up a hill beforehand.
A windy Saturday saw the BCC cancel the day, but it calmed down for a late afternoon flight after a stroll across the Blorenge, although the evening was marred by the news that Nick Jones had hurt his elbow trying to take off. Chris Williams of TVHGC kindly drove me to Abergavenny hospital to take Nick his phone charger, where he seemed in good spirits considering.
Sunday was forecast to be much better. Back on the Blorenge I was cautious about launching into the early throng, although a sizeable gaggle soon climbed out, some going a long way, some not. The Blorenge can be tricky, as I once found arriving there from Merthyr; it's so flat on the top that if you're low over it, it's much like trying to find a low save over a Sussex field.
But when my climb arrived, it was durable, if not of epic strength. Half of a dozen of us wandered around it, rather than corkscrewing up in a tight core. By the time I was committed to going, I was on my steady way to 3,500 with a green Delta and an orange UP, although even that mini-gaggle tended to break up. Down below I saw Chris Williams patiently soaring Blaenavon; his patience eventually paid off with a climb.
Staying high was easy almost to the 20k mark. I then found on glide that my Garmin 96C had somehow stopped displaying airspace - I've no idea how or why I came to set it like that, and I couldn't work out in flight how to restore the information to the screen. I'd set a course for Port Talbot which would take me clear of Cardiff airspace, but I knew I couldn't afford to diverge much south of that line.
It was no surprise, therefore, that I glided very poorly and, after crosswinding a little, thought I was going to land at 25k, where the UP was already coming down in a village which I later discovered to be Aberfan, where over a hundred children were killed in the sixties when a slagheap collapsed on their school.
But I sneaked over some power lines, and decided to soar the ridge beyond the village, in the hope of adding to my XC score with a couple of kilometres out and back. Instead, the edge of the forest produced a vigorous thermal, taking me back over 3,000 feet. The day had a couple more valley crossings in it, but after the next town I arrived low at the next ridge. I didn't fancy a hike down from the high ground, nor a pasting if I crossed the ridge low, so I turned back to land on the rugby field. There a mountain biker identified the town as Ton Pentre, before showing me an impressive collection of scars, the recent ones from mountain biking, the older ones from motorcycling -- the one from his broken pelvis looked as if he'd been cut in half and stitched back together.
The local cafe/chippy was closed on Easter Sunday afternoon, but Mark Rubinstein showed enormous generosity in coming to collect me, and we were soon back at the campsite eating Emily's excellent cake.
Sunday at Hundred House wasn't so rewarding for me; again I didn't fancy launching early, but those that did had the best of it, before it became more and more stable. Our own Dickon Walker was the star of the day with his second PB in two days. An excellent weekend; thanks to Catherine for organising the Sussex teams (two full ones on the Saturday, when Matt Canning did his first XC), and to all the Slackers and the other clubs for their company.