WEEKEND COLUMNISTS Lost in Oxfordshire. It was a rainy Saturday, and I was fed up and frustrated because I could not find my way to where I was going. I was on my own, and my mobile hadn’t got a signal. I had a map, but no GPS. Finally, I decided to give up and go home – except that even with the map I couldn’t work out where home was. This was because I was at 2,000ft in a little single-engine aeroplane, surrounded by clouds that showed no sign of disappearing.
I had been “lost” before but, on that occasion, it was deliberate. I had had an instructor on board who had a) sneakily put a handheld radio next to the compass to make sure I went in a totally different direction to my planned route, and b) had a GPS in his flight bag in case he got lost too. Then I had to go through my carefully rehearsed “lost” drills, which included everything from looking at the map to calling up the emergency frequency and asking for a radar fix. But this time I really was lost.
Fortunately, the weather was much better when I flew myself to the CLA Game Fair last month, and I managed not to get lost. A cracking tailwind meant that Oxford to Leicestershire took a brisk 29 minutes, there were no clouds, East Midlands air traffic control looked after me splendidly, and the £5 landing fee at Langar seemed more than reasonable. My Ducal Girlfriend was hosting the 2009 fair and she was my hostess too, for I holed up in her house for the duration of the event, an annual affair that rotates between various stately homes, and showcases the best of British hunting, shooting and fishing.
As I was well down the pecking order of important guests in DG’s castle, I was billeted in a turret up a flight of stairs designed to give me so much exercise that I was in danger of becoming as slender as DG herself. My room had twin beds so I immediately called up my Most Glamorous Girlfriend, who was working at the fair for a leading land agent, and upgraded her from the Premier Inn. High in our turret, we had the privilege of sharing a bathroom with the guests in the adjacent room; on the first night this was a very attractive male Tory MP, who had clearly been sent to the turret to deflect any accusations of lavish hospitality. He cautioned us at dinner that he liked his bathrooms neat and tidy – “not the way girls usually leave them”. Hmm.
Mr M did not accompany me, but he too was sharing bathrooms with MPs. He had been drafted in to play with the Parliamentary Golfing Society – far more appealing than looking at shotguns, watching working dogs and hanging out at MGG’s stand.
With MGG busy, and DG zooming around in an official golf cart presenting prizes and visiting stands, I was left to myself and fulfilled a long-held ambition – I learnt to fly-fish. The Game Angling Instructors Association offers free tuition every year at the fair and, after 45 minutes of single-handed casting, I rushed off to buy my very own (credit crunch price) rod and reel. Tying your own flies strikes me as up there with baking your own bread or making your own pasta, so I took myself off to the Salmon and Trout Association stand and bought some ready-made ones. Don’t they have great names? I rather fancied a set of Montana Nymphs (I am sure every girl has an inner Montana Nymph dying to get out), but was told they were inappropriate for river fishing. Shame.
It rained on and off at the fair and I did get very tired, but I didn’t get lost – I just had to look up to see where the castle was. That doesn’t work when you are lost and surrounded by clouds at 2,000ft. Then you have to call up Oxford ATC and ask them what heading to set to get home. In future, if the weather looks dodgy, I shall go fly-fishing instead.
