FLYING ABOVE THE CASTLE PEYREPERTUSE

Here I am back again from holidays, at the eastern portion of the French Pyrenees, about 50 km from the Mediterranean. We had really awful weather at home, July and August were partly similar to March and October.

No global warming for us, I had the impression to approach the starting blocks of a new ice age.
The only part of France featuring a real summer seemed to be the Mediterranean coast line.

This area is famous for its "castles of vertigo", all in ruins for centuries but still breathtaking. As far as I know there was fierce slaughtering over there during the Albigois crusade. The people there adhered to a Christian sect called Cathars, their aim was to lead a perfect life.

Thus a crusade was organized, the Cathars were killed wholesale and there possessions were the object of a huge real estate transfer. Mission accomplished as someone said these days.

The castle is still there and the cherry on the cake is that right below is a paragliding launching pad. And in the late afternoon, on warm sunny days, you get the phenomenon the locals call "restitution", a kind of valley wind. Warm air from the forest and the fields below is going up the castle slopes and allows for really peaceful flying.

The violent thermals around noon are gone and are being replaced by this restitution. You fly in an air like honey plus the special fragrance of the Mediterranean country side, rosemary, wild thyme, savory, olive trees, occasionally lavender. Splendidly smelly.

This gentle wind carries my along the slopes of the castle and then, hurray, I have made it! I am looking right into it from above. The visitors of Peyrepertuse look at me and I am looking at them. "Comment ça va" I yell joyfully to a group not far away from me and they make a photo.

Splendor of flying nearly like a bird. It could have been invented 2000 years ago, you just need some lightweight cloth. That was always available. But during all that time the inventors came to a dead end by trying to imitate a bird, spreading and moving wings up and down. And for that we just are not strong enough!

The photo shows the Peyrepertuse castle, built around 800 years ago. Nowadays, they start to rebuilt it by using exclusively the technical procedures of the Middle Ages. We will probably all be dead before it is finished.

UNDER ATTACK

Yesterday, heavy sunshine and a moderate north-easterly wind. The ideal conditions to go for a little flight in Monceaux, just above the river Dordogne.

Those of you who never had a flight in a paraglider do ignore one of the greatest pleasures live can give you. And so I was gliding at moderate speed just three or four meters above the treetops. Seen from above, those treetops look sometimes like broccoli. Then comes a sudden gust of wind and up you go. It's like stepping into a high speed lift but stout hearts hearts are needed here. Because you step into that lift without any forewarning. So up you go, the launching pad you left just five minutes ago becomes small and smaller, same for the broccoli trees under your feet.

To my left, I see a hanglider, that is Bernard, an experienced pilot. He knows what he is doing, anytime. But a little bit under him I see another paraglider circling around to go up in the warm air. I have to keep an eye on him, all the time. Because the idea is to hid the same thermal without being too near.

Meanwhile, we are five pilots in the air. Going up and down, circling up, gliding down. A kind of air ballet dance, in complete silence, only the slight whine of the kevlar ropes linking the canopy to the glider seat.

However, all good things have an end. Here it is the wind dying out and a big cloud masking the sun thus stopping the hot air going up. So I go down, prepare for landing on the other side of the Dordogne. Circling over the river, I see two canoes. I yell at them and they answer joyfully by giving a sign with their hands.

Near the landing pad is a big oak tree and there I see leaving that damned buzzard, my personal enemy. He is already gaining height yelling or screeching while approaching from above. Now he is above my canopy, I still hear him but cannot see the bird anymore. I imagine him diving on the paraglider, yelling, claws ready. Or is it his beak? What can I do? I yell, too, as loud as I can, making little moves with the glider.

Stupid buzzard leaves me and I imagine he returns to his nest in the oak tree. There he tells his wife and birdies how he is protecting them against those predating colored plastic birds.

Back on the ground I inspect the works of Mr. Buzzard. Three holes this time. Knowing him, I have some patches ready. Last time he made fives holes. And my previous glider had fifteen at all. Mister B suffers certainly from slight attacks of paranoia, especially at spring time. A visit to Doctor Freud should do him a world of good.