Down By The Riverside

We breakfast early the next morning (I think...no clocks remember?) with scrambled eggs, fresh bread and leftovers. I decide tents are for wimps and rib Buffalo Joe mercilessly about sleeping in one after his living off the land episode the day before. To redeem his status as a woodsman he goes fishing but using scraps of raw meat as bait. Im not sure what size of fish hes expecting to catch, Im almost sure its not Marlin season but off he goes anyway with a determined look to make like a gnome and no doubt re-enforce his potential as a tribal leader when the global economy finally melts down. Nat and I just stare bewildered at him and his meaty bait (not that meaty bait pervert) and open some beer. We watch from some distance behind him and occasionally call out with extremely unhelpful and sarcastic advice. “maybe a little paprika mate!” “they probably want starters first mate!” “maybe a nice little marinade...”It takes him a good natured hour or so to admit defeat and we leave after a fishless but never the less very enjoyable spot of camping.
The wind is still blowing the wrong way though so we cant fly and Nat has to leave today so Joe takes her to find a hitch. She prefers hitching to catching the 20 euro bus to where she currently lives in Barcelona, I guess to feed her sense of adventure. We get a heads up on another place to explore and we invite an English speaking French couple we met at the campsite to come along. High up a mountain road on the other side of the Organya valley we stop by a small bridge as directed. Under the bridge a fairly steep but short climb down a limestone rock face peppered with holes of all sizes leads to a small pool formed by a natural spring. The crystalline water from this pool flows in a stream with a smooth limestone bed which has cut a fairly deep sided path way over head height in most places as it meanders its way along and down at a slow steady pace, forming more natural pools at regular intervals of assorted, but generally increasing sizes down the mountainside. These are sometimes inhabited by water snakes but the ones we saw soon scarpered when they hear us splashing along. Occasionally the bed of the stream drops away to reveal a waterfall which you can climb up or down around but have large pools at the bottom as so its much more fun to jump . This is the way Joe and I descend the waterfall we come across but it is a 5 meter jump into a pool with boulders at the bottom so its not everyones cup of tea. The sun is blazing as always in the Spanish summer and we spend the day here with sandwiches and beers. Hmm more beers...I feel a pattern is starting to develop. That evening Joe and I in magnanimous mood after the money we saved not paying for camping eat out in a local restaurant and crash with thoughts of tomorrows flights and his impending return to England.

Magic mountain
60 or 70 km later we arrive in Organya the next morning, after dinner and a roadside kip in a small mountain village to be greeted by, bright sunshine blue sky and a wind howling over the back of a totally unflyable magic mountain, so named because of the lift all over it? W.T.F. For this we left a flyable Casteon? Locals in the landing field tell us this is the fifth unflyable day and we take heart with this news reasoning that it cant last more than another day or two. We get set up in a local campsite with pool, internet, elec and water for a measly 5e a day again. I am later informed that pilots can stay for 100e a month. This is so much cheaper than being at home. As its not flyable we decide to take the jeep to explore, and an old Catalan woman on a roadside olive and honey vending cart directs us to a beautiful spot with a large natural pool by a small waterfall and we go river swimming. Joe likes it so much he decides he wants to stay there swearing he only needs his trusty pocket knife to be able to live off the land and to prove his point sets about attempting to catching fish the old school poachers way by hand. I have to agree with him about everything but a not so sure the supermarket wont be a little more use than his 3 inch blade. Somewhat predictably for a city boy the great white hunter needs to watch a few more episodes of Ray Mears cos he hasn’t got a clue what hes doing and we will all starve to death with him as our leader. At around 4pm I start crying my eyes out complaining of advanced malnutrition so we leave the giggling sarcastic fish in The Garden of Eden and drive back to the Skylark for food and beer to last the night. We also decide fishing would be a good idea, but like most normal people, you know, with a rod and tackle. I refuse to leave without my lucky fishing hat as I’ve never caught a fish without it...come to think of it I’ve never caught a fish with it...come to think of it I’ve never caught a fish but its still a cool hat. We arrive back and set up a camp which really for me just means getting my sleeping bag out of the jeep. Joe and I make a fire and Nat cooks. I sulk a little as the tranquilo twins won’t let me use any petrol. With hindsight this is probably quite sensible as I am already half cut, grinning uncontrollably with a 20 litre jerry can and a box of matches and it hasn’t rained round here n weeks. We have a tasty variation of camping food. Fresh corn we poached earlier that day and potatoes roasted on the fire, pasta and sauce, tinned fish, loads of beer. I construct a small basher as a windbreak and spend my first intentional night under the stars rarther than in a tent or just being drunk (ok I was a little drunk but this is still different) and passing out somewhere. Its lovely sleeping in the open next to a fire and we have found a huge stock of wood washed up by the river close to our campsite so keeping the fire going all night is no problem. With no lights or clocks drinking, chatting and laughing seems to go on well into the night but it was probably only 11 or 12 when we crash feeling quite the drunken woodsmen(or is that woodspersons for the fuckin p.c. nazis). The sky is clear, the stars are bright, the wind is whistling through the treetops but behind my little basher it dosent touch me. I lie in the moonlight on my back with my hands behind my head and my eyes open. The milkyway is clearly visible, I just need to hear a wolf howl and a quick chorus of” Dont Fence Me In” to send me off to sleep.

Wide eyed and bushy tailed
The next day is similar with fair but not epic flying conditions and so we fly around the huge valley at Castejon along with 20 or 30 others again taking turns to tandem and speedglide. The cloudbase is reasonable, about 800meters above launch, the views are Alpinesque and after we land the river is lovely and clean, slow moving with smooth stony banks and a perfect temperature to cool off from the scorching summer sun. Damn its hard being me sometimes. We see a totally stereotypical Spanish horseman dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, long waxed cotton barbour type coat and ten gallon hat on a white stallion doing that dressage thing. He probably thinks he looks pretty cool and to be fair hes probably right. I don’t take his photo though as his head is almost certainly too big already, what with his wide shoulders, chiselled jaw and low bodyfat (what do you mean jealous...have you seen my abs?).
Time though, as usual, is our greatest enemy though and Joe wants to visit a place further south but still in the Pyrenees called Organya next. This is THE place to fly not cross country but accro not only in Spain but possibly the world and is the training ground of the Rodreguez brothers and the S.A.T. team. The brothers and their team need no introduction to those who know anything about accro but for those who don’t accro is paraglidings most spectacular discipline and the first time I saw it as a rookie I thought the whole team had suffered a simultainious malfunction and were about to be smashed into bloody pulp on the mountainside. I had no idea you could do such things on a paraglider. After half an hour of watching these guys at play spinning and looping I knew if there was a way I could learn even 10 percent of what they could do I could be having masses of fun. The brothers, whos father is a paragliding instructor, have been flying since almost before they could walk and between them pretty well invented every accro trick there is from scratch and their child is accro paragliding. They are undisputed undefeated world accro champions so many times(about nine I think) they got bored winning and retired from full time comp to give mere mortals a chance at lifting a trophy from time to time. He doesnt have to try too hard to convince me this is a worthwhile place to visit and we set off that evening.

Aug 14 the fast way down
Adam and Katie leave for the dune the next morning without flying .Apparently she who must be obeyed is missing the seaside and not wanting too much fuss Adam agrees to make the 5 hour drive back and we bid them a fond farewell.I guess you cant please all the people all the time.There are lots of activities here besides flying with horses mountain bikes and kyaks on hire to name a few and it seemed to my selfish mind she could at least of let him fly the mountain once after driving all that way but what do I know.The three of us left head into the village to suss out a lift up to the huge launch which is around 2000meters above landing.Although this is just a small village with one main street the potential here is such that it supports 5 paragliding shops who all seem to be surviving perfectly well without firebombing eachother and were all here when I last visited in 2005.Joe decides to fly the speed glider and climes up another few hundred meters above the launch to make sure he makes the landing field as the glide on the speed glider is only about 5:1.He has been making calculations all morning on various scraps of paper relating to the height at launch,which we don’t know exactly,the height of the landing field, which we don’t know exactly and the distance to the landing field which ,you guessed it , we don’t know exactly.He thinks its on.If his calculations are correct he will have a cool fly down at top speed with room for loops and spins and we hope to get some cool video if we are close enough.If his calculations are inaccurate he will fall short and crash into the forest and we will get some cool video if we can get close enough.Everybody wins(don’t they?).I take Nat up on the tandem.She is a game girl and knows neither me or Joe have any tandem experience but I guess you don’t get free tandem rides everywhere and we are both pretty experienced pilots with hundreds of hours between us.On the risk verses reward scale most would have to do it.We wait for Joe to make the climb and set up before we launch to be able to film his flight and sure enough after a few minuits he goes screaming past us at top speed whooping and hollering.Iwant a go on that.We thermal around on the tandem for a while but such is his speed we don’t get close enough for any really worthwhile video.He makes the L.Z. with room to spare and I decide to take up his offer of a go and for the next flight we swap places.Im not looking forward to the climb but it should be well worth it.It is.I am getting one of these.The most fun for ages and a totally new way for me to fly.Everything is super fast including the launch and the same amount of control imput that make my paraglider do a 90 degree turn sends this thing looping towards the ground.I decide to email my club back home the first chance I get to see what type of deals are available.We meet up again back at the skylark and spend the rest of the day swimming in the nearby river and trying to smoke enough weed to bring our resting heartbeats down below 100bpm which turns out to be impossible.

Return of the two headed beast

The girls are doing an excellent job keeping us all fed and clean and after brekky we drive a fully laden Lill Suzy up the mountain to take off.Nicky still a little low in airtime decides to stay grounded with Kate, Joe and Nat decide to fly the tandem.I decide to fly my new UP Summit and Adam as reliable as ever rolls a joint before joining us in the air.The Summit is a fantastic glider turning beautifully and to date hast lost a thermal yet...Joe and Nat have a fun if not epic flight on the tandem after Joe gets used to its huge momentum on launch. Travelling at night is definitely the way forward as we waste no flying time,have the roads to ourselves and obviously stopping for a sandwich and a bit of kip is no problem.The take off at Luchon in the northern Pyrenees is a large steep grassy slope at around 1500meters above the landing which is actually a light airfield the paragliders share with sailplanes cesners and the like.As the rules of the air go we as paragliders have right of way but having a twin engine turbo prop plane in your flight path will not suite everyone Im sure even though the landing field is huge.Conditions are fair and we all have reasonable flights over an hour long.Luchon is however a fairly narrow mountain valley and as such is subject to quite high valley winds on a daily basis rendering many afternoons unlandable without some difficulty if not unflyable.Nicky leaves on the train for Tolouse that evening to catch her flight back to Blighty and the rest of us decide to head over the Pyrenees that night for Casteon De Sos on the Spanish side where the valleys are huge and endless.There is massive cross country potential there with many world paraglider championship rounds held in the past.We load up the Skylark with water and beer and set off that evening along the winding mountain roads with Lill Suzy in tow and Adam and Kate following in their hire car.We cross into Spain after an hour or so and bid farewell to the French roads and their authorised highwaymen.The drive is only a couple of hours and we arrive with a fair amount of the evening left to get settled into the well equipped and very reasonably priced campsite which is again next to the landing field.

Superbagneres
Dawn probably breaks the next day but there was never any chance of us noticing and with heads in various stages of labotomy we head back for our last day on the dune around miday.We have decided to leave after todays flying as although its great fun these guys have limited time and there is only so much floating up and down on the seabreeze you can do before the call of the real business of serious mountain flying becomes too strong.We leave that evening for Luchon in the French Pyrenees although we are all sorry to see the last of the dune for now.Its a 3 hour trouble free drive punctuated at regular intervals by the cursed French tolls to the mountain at superbagneres.It is a typically pretty small mountain town containing all you need to get by whatever you are travelling by with plenty of well stocked small shops,banks a cinema,bars and restaurants. We find a campsite which is unfortunately mostly populated by grumpy French pensioners who complain about everything from the music to the menopause.The former is switched off but can the latter really be our fault too?.We later learn that a rumour had gone round the campsite that because of our age and size of our camper they thought we were a rock band on tour and they were all shitting themselves wondering what that night may bring to their hitherto peacefull retirements...KERANGGGG!!!!...”HELLO LUCHON!!!!!”Luckily for them we are a nice friendly bunch and have a reasonably early and quiet night after a barbie and a few bottles of cheap French plonk.

It gets better and better
The next day begins much as the first but we are obviously no longer subject to a dawn beasting up the dune from drill sergeant Joe.The tandem has dried out and been given a good shake to relieve it of its cargo of sand,the sea breeze is a welcome bit stronger today and I decide to invest an hour in mastering kiteing and launching the tandem solo.This turns out to be time we spent and within half an hour I become proficient and confident.The boys and girls in the meantime have been having a ball on the sandy slopes and I decide to join them.The dune must have a hundred pilots with skill levels ranging from experts flying backwards and performing huge wingovers with wingtips in the sand to total novices toppling over, being dragged and spitting out the sand.Professional tandem pilots fly a constant supply of tourists sending them home with once in a lifetime photos and experiences and planting the odd seed of thought here and there too no doubt.Half a dozen young Jedi probably no more than 10 or 11 years old are also dotted around learning the ways of the force with small training wings and hurling themselves down the dune under the instruction of their parents.They all have the kind of smiles that will ensure the sport will continue with more skill and bravado than ever in the future and I envy their head start.The sport is enriched greatly by these familys.I have been flying my trusty freex arcane and a light comes on after practicing kiteing for a while with the rear risers and I begin an enjoyable time flying backwads up and down,lying down,powering back up and upon coming a little low down the dune using the wing like the spinnaker on a sailboat catapulting myself back up it running round its outside.Fun fun fun.We shoot loads of photos and some video and generally run around under our wings like schoolkids.Joe and I spend some time coaching poor Nicky who is having a bit of a hard time as she hasnt flown in ages and was pretty inexperienced even when she did but she comes on leaps and bounds.He however provides the biggest laugh of the day by insisting I watch and film his next set of wingovers.Hes says hes got skimming the sand with a hand and a tip sussed after hours of practice and flies headfirst into the dune.”did you get that...?”oh yes mate
The seabreeze becomes a perfect speed in the afternoon and a tremendous time is had by all.We eat at a resturant and return to the skylark with a huge stock of beer and wine cementing the reputation of Brits abroad by parting into the wee small hours.