Having passed my GFT at the end of March, I was beginning to believe that there must be more to microlighting than a quick flit up the road. In 12 hours of flying I hadn't needed the long-range tank once. Insch Micro Week seemed the perfect opportunity to try out Delta Bravo as a means of transport rather than a pleasant way of spending money.

A week's preparation, charts bought, route planned, Saturday 14 June dawned wet and blustery. Mr. Fish suggested that I wait until Sunday, so I did. Bright and early Sunday morning, up at the airfield at 7.30 a.m. The trike packed to the gunwales, tent, sleeping bag, spare underpants, trusty Castrol A545 under the seat, I am ready to go by 8.15. Sadly, Delta Bravo is not. She does not like getting up this early in the morning, and refuses to start. Lesson number one - always put the gloves on BEFORE trying to start. Tired, irritable, and blistered, I replace the plugs and try again - first pull. That's my girl.

0920 wheels off into a sky lightly brushed with streaks of cloud, Cark on the GPS, settle into the cruise at 3000 feet to clear Warton MATZ. A quick stop at Middleton Sands to adjust clothing - it is quite parky up there at this time in the morning, and upward and onward. A few showers are starting to cluster over the lakes, so a diversion around the coast is in order. Clear skies, as I survey the land I am awestruck by the sheer scale. Beneath me, England. Up ahead, Scotland. Behind me, the peaks of Snowdonia shimmer in the mist, while to the left, the Isle of Man is silhouetted against the faint grey line of Ireland. Mr. Garmin tells me I am 10 miles from Kirkbride, fortunately so does the map.

After one hour 25 in the air, a gentle touchdown on the infinite tarmac of Kirkbride, where a cup of tea and 15 litres of finest 4 star find their way on board. Can't stop, Scotland awaits, and after 25 minutes on the ground I am away again. Following Mr. Garmin's advice, I am overhead Langholm and headed for Hawick within 20 minutes, but the weather is not smiling on me now. Dark clouds loom, still plenty of height to spare over the hills. The small towns of the Borders sparkle in the shafts of sunlight lancing through the (now diminishing) gaps in the cloud. The rain is starting now, only a light drizzle but promising more. 5 miles before Hawick, the planned route is abandoned in favour of a more direct assault, and Goto E. Fortune is the command. Still plenty of height to clear the hills, but it is beginning to get cold, Mrs. Wells makes a fine suit, but an immersion suit it is not. As I scuttle over the last bit of high ground, I see a couple of trikes, the first aircraft I have seen since Ince, scurrying homeward beneath a lowering black beast. Bar in, I follow them home, landing at E Fortune after a mere 1 ½ hours flying. Before I have parked, the clouds open and the clubhouse disappears in a wall of spray. Drenched, I stagger into the building to be greeted by tea. Without trikers, the tea industry would be in big trouble.

3 hours later, the cloud is not going to lift any more. If I am going to make Insch tonight, I will have to take what height I can get and be thankful. The Firth of Forth is only 8 miles wide, the book says a glide ratio of 9:1, that means I only need 4/9 of a mile height to be safe. Let's see, that is 4/9 times 1760 times 3 feet, I make it 2346 feet 8 inches. Can't make out the inch scale on the altimeter, let's call it 2500 to allow for high tide.

Fueled up, and away again, 3 hours delay by now, but plenty of daylight left. As I approach Berwick Law and the coast, I can barely make out the edges of Fife. A furtive glance at the altimeter, 2000 feet, with the fin in the clouds. A quick mental calculation, at 55 mph, I will have about 2 minutes of puckering in the middle, go for it. Plenty of boats on the Firth anyway. Heart in my mouth, I set off across the ocean. I can hear every beat of the engine, every tiny fluctuation on tone. Time has slowed, am I really doing 55? Can't be, pull the bar in, foot down a bit. Suddenly, the land opens up before me in a wash of gold, the slate-grey sky of moments before a trick of the memory, as I flash across Earlsferry. Before me, lonely cumuli browse lazily across their azure pasture, the distant hills leap into sharp relief.

Moments later, it seems, I once again bless the GPS as it takes me directly to a freshly-mown silage field, briefly to enjoy the status of Skite international Airport. Training takes over, and almost without thinking I join overhead at 1500. No sock, but it looks like about 45 degrees, 5 knots. A right hand circuit, steep approach and down. The ground crew rush towards the plane, bearing a flask.. Sacrilege! This vessel contains, not tea, the beverage of choice of aviators everywhere, but coffee, foul American usurper of the libation of Allcock & Brown, Bader, Gibson. Choking at the effrontery to their memory, I nevertheless must drink, refusal dishonours the receiver as much as the giver.

The field is long, but rough, located in a small valley. Nick at the helm, it is time to take off for the last leg to Insch. We are heavy, neither of us lightweights, and as we accelerate ponderously down the field, I begin to wonder if we will ever get off. The local photographer, hoping for a dramatic shot, almost gets one as we leave tyre tracks on his lens. We lumber into the sky, trusty 447 straining. 2500 feet needed to clear the Cairn, it looks as if we may have to circle, but we skim the hills into the valleys beyond, a few grey clouds lurking in the distance. Nick pulls the bar in a little, not much as the engine cannot keep us airborne at great speed, and 40 minutes later Insch comes into view. A perfect touchdown, Nick's first in many months, and we have arrived. 297 miles, 6 hours flying - Delta Bravo's longest so far in almost 10 years of service. More is yet to come, but not the return journey. After a week of torrential rain, I must abandon her, and return a week later with a trailer to take her home on the first flyable day in a fortnight. Such is microlighting.

However, Delta Bravo's adventures have barely begun.

A week later, another dawn, another fully packed trike, this time with a passport in the trike pocket. I sit at the holding point for 29, as a trio of Blades take off. Peter C, with Mad Chris in the back. Charley, with Derek the Boss Bag, Dave the Blade, 912 barely purring. Then it is my turn, Delta Bravo unleashed again. We are going to France, for God's sake. Behind me, Nigel in his ageing and much-traveled Alpha catches me and overtakes rapidly. Delta Bravo is going to struggle in this company, and all too soon I realise that the group policy of "flying at the speed of the slowest" is a mere myth.

An uneventful run to Sywell, 130 miles in 2hours 20 with a 15 mph tailwind - a good start. At Sywell, fueled up, we hunt for breakfast, to discover that the restaurant is closed. A bit of bribery and full English later, we are off again. Conditions are rough as a badger's rough bits, but the wind is still on our side, and we make good time. My radio is playing up, no-one can hear me, but I can hear them lamenting the loss of all GPS satellites. I look down, Mr. Garmin is still pointing resolutely at Thurrock, so I carry on. A glance behind, Nigel has realised that I am still on track and is tucked in aft. The others are discovering why we still carry charts! As I cross the Thames estuary, the others pass, back on track and no longer following the motorway, so I assume they have got their satellites back. We pass overhead Rochester, birthplace of Delta Bravo, and as we do we hit enormous sink, she wants to go home. A firm application of the throttle, and she accepts the inevitable. not this time. Headcorn heaves into view, and after a distinctly dodgy approach I make touchdown after exactly 2 hours in the air.

Headcorn is abuzz with pilots, parachutists and spectators as we head for the cafe for some much-needed tea. We are ahead of schedule, and decide that a rest is in order while we wait for the air to calm down a bit. I take the opportunity to swap batteries on the radio, all seems to be in order, and we snooze on the grass watching otherwise normal people leap out of fully serviceable aircraft.

1700, time for France. Once again, I end up tail end Charlie in the queue for take-off and watch the others head for Dover. Airborne myself, almost immediately the BATTERY indicator comes on on the Icom. No way am I crossing the Channel without radio, so I turn back for Headcorn. After a brief conversation, we decide that the others should carry on, I will join them tomorrow, if possible.

Somewhat dejected, I put Delta Bravo to bed and set up my tent. Is this the adventure over? Chris reckons someone can fix my radio, but with a heavy heart I trudge into the bar, to be greeted with "Now here's a Real pilot!" I can only smile modestly as the first of many Guinesses is thrust into my hand.

Next morning dawns bright, wish I could say the same for my head, but over a large coffee things pick up. Radio is working, all batteries fully charge, flight plan filed, let's go to France. Even before I start to roll, the adrenaline starts. 20 miles! The Forth was scary enough. Can't pull out now, though, the flight plan is filed. Left turn out of Headcorn, bar against the strut as I scrabble for a handhold on the sky above. 5000 feet as I approach Folkestone, nothing but a grey haze on the horizon. Somewhere over there is the French coast, but I can't see it. Set Cap Gris-Nez on the GPS, hope it's correct, and turn right. Almost immediately, the featureless horizon begins to break up, and through the murk I can just make out a dark line. I look over my shoulder, the White Cliffs sparkle in the early morning sun. Goodbye, England, hello fear.

There's a container ship down there. Wonder if I could land on it. There's a yacht, they could stop and rescue me. Can I glide back from here? Was that a misfire? Should I test the lifejacket, see if it inflates? How much thrust could I get by pulling the starter cord? Can I glide from here? How about here? From here, I reckon I could. Now I know I could. A joyful call to Headcorn - "Delta Bravo over Cap Gris-Nez". I am in France. An hour later, Abbeville, four flexwings on the ground, back amongst friends at last.

After the first of many cheese sandwiches, a cup of coffee and an argument with French ATC regarding closure of flight plans, it is time once again for the off. Next stop, Dreux, just over 100 miles. This is where Mr Garmin proves his worth - there is barely a landmark to be seen, just an endless repetition of villages, woods, barely discernible rivers. Nonetheless, a bare 2 hours later, Dreux comes into sight, right on the button. As was to become commonplace, we are confronted with a vast expanse of grass, carefully positioned to be at right angles to the prevailing wind. Yet another flawless landing later, to be greeted by total indifference from the locals, five foreign trikes landing must be an everyday occurrence here. We find the clubhouse, and in halting French introduce ourselves. The hospitality of the French is nothing like their publicity, and we are shown where to camp, and given directions to the local eatery where we indulge in a spot of beer and waiter abuse.

The next morning, after a 2 hour wait for the fuel man to turn up, and its off again, this time all the way. First leg, Blois, a mere 71 miles and 1 hour 10 minutes away. There we meet that most feared of all creatures in the French skies - the French aviator. After refuelling, we prepare to take off to be confronted with someone doing touch-and-goes on the runway - in both directions. After some 10 minutes of this, he finally does what we have all been waiting for, and goes away. Foot to the boards, and I'm off again. Almost immediately, I see a glider tug taking off from the grass strip at 90 degrees to the main strip, glider in tow and on a course to converge with me at about 150 feet. I dive hard right, but he is not letting me get away that easily, and turns left towards me. Bar in, and wheels brushing the barley crop, I squeeze underneath him. Fortunately, with the glider in tow he can't turn quickly enough and I get away.

By the time we reach Chauvigny, an hour later, my heart has slowed enough for me to be able to dodge yet more gliders and put down. Here we meet a bunch of English gliders on holiday, who pump us full of tea. Revitallised, it is time for the last leg. Dave has already gone on, and Peter C. didn't bother to land, so it is just me and Charley and Derek. Charley's starter has gone, and none of us is an expert at prop swinging, 30 minutes later we decide that I should get up and get on the radio to call for ground crew.

Some 15 minutes later, I get Peter H., currently at 7000 feet above Riberac. I tell him the story, but he tells me that he has just spoken to Charley, who has got his engine going and is taking off. 90 minutes later, Riberac at last. I have only bloody made it, 700 miles to the south of France.

30 minutes later, I realise that Charley has not arrived. I get on the radio, and Peter H. tells me that Chas & Degs have gone down, both OK, machine undamaged, in a field about 15 miles north. He has marked it on the GPS, and is on his way back.

Maps and charts out, we plot the position, and armed with a GPS and boundless enthusiasm, we pile into the car and head off to the rescue. Shouldn't take long, only 15 miles and an exact position.

5 hours later, 0.35 miles away from the marked position, we must give up. Pete has climbed every telegraph pole in France, waking the natives with his eerie cries of "Chaaaarleeeeey!". We have been attacked by dogs, reversed through a herb garden, and woken everyone up. As we are turning round, a door opens, and in the warm glow of a peasant kitchen, I see Derek, feet under the table and glass of wine in his hand. We have found them. So, we all made it. Eventually.

The next week or so is spent puttering about the skies, drinking wine, visiting local farmers' strips. A local pilot tells us of some nice little strips, we should do a round trip, why not? A quick hop to Chavenat, 40 minutes, to be greeted by cold cokes and an interesting collection of Balerits and an original Mignon Flea. Next, a short hop to a place called Laroche-Beaucourt, a truly nasty gravelly strip on top of a plateau, where we are buzzed by some model aeronauts. It is not a very beautiful location, so we don't hang about. Peter C. takes off, and I follow. Suddenly, about 150 feet beneath me, splutter cough. Full throttle is giving me about 3500 revs. Momentarily panic stricken, I look around. Trees everywhere, where do I go? Training kicks in, but it says You can't go back, land ahead. Sod training, the runway behind me is the only treeless ground for miles. I ease the bar out, engine spluttering away, and oh so gently coax Delta Bravo into a slow, gentle 180 turn. As I regain sight of the runway, the engine finally dies. The gentle sigh if the wind in the wires is, strangely , not very comforting, as I realise that I am not going to make it, I am heading for the trees at the edge of the runway. Bar out a tad more, doing about 40 mph now, ground coming up fast. Just as I am about to brush the trees, I fling the bar forward, and we skip over the top. Bar in fast to prevent the stall, swoop down, bar out, too late, bang! Bounce, we are now careering sideways across the runway, heading for a sheer (ish) drop. I ease the front wheel round, leaning right out to prevent us from rolling. Finally, I come to a stop. I am alive, Delta Bravo appears to be unhurt. Breathe, damn you.

Sadly, closer inspection reveals a burst tyre and a bent front strut. De-rig, and wait for the trailer. The model aviators have barely glanced in our direction, they obviously think it is normal for people to land sideways across the runway and then dismantle their aircraft.

Subsequent inspection reveals the cause to have been water in the fuel. Drained and replaced, front strut straightened, puncture repaired, she is ready for the air again, and after a thorough inspection, I deem it time. Right at the end of Riberac's vast runway, foot down, bar out, away, silence, land ahead. A leak in the fuel line now, air getting in. Fix that, off again, and this time we make it to 7500 feet, never straying out of sight of the runway. It is glorious up here, smooth as silk, a fiery sun sinking slowly towards Bordeaux to the West. Bach playing on the CD, engine back to about 30%, we begin the long, quiet descent, gently rolling from side to side, drinking in the sheer majesty of France in the evening. On the way down, I meet Peter C., and we ease into close formation, gliding side by side towards the sinking sun. This is glory. This is why I came. This is why I fly.