EGPT - Perth Airport, Scotland, GB

World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers
Aircraft: DHC-5 Buffalo "Pipi"
Date: 7 June 2025
Guest Co-Pilot and Writer of this Log Entry: William the Bruce
King of Scots, Reluctant Aviator, Defender of the Realm, and Wearer of the Most Majestic Beard

Hark! This episode is brought forth by the noble Moderators of the X-Plane.org Forum—steadfast guardians of the virtual skies, keepers of order amidst the tempest of threads, and champions of peace in the hangar halls. Whether thou art a fledgling fledger or a battle-hardened veteran of the digital heavens, they stand vigilant, ready to lend wisdom, quell discord, and ensure thy flights be as smooth as a well-trimmed propeller. Praise be to these unsung heroes, whose watchful eyes and steady hands make every virtual sortie a triumph worthy of song!
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Let it be writ upon the everlasting scrolls of history, upon this, the 7th day of June in the year of our Lord 2025, that I, William the Bruce—King of Scots, scourge of English ambition, and now, by fate’s own jest, co-pilot of a flying buffalo called "Pipi"—did embark upon a quest most wondrous and fraught with peril, mirth, and the occasional airborne sheep.
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Music on board was Simple Minds – “Alive and Kicking,” setting the tone for our highland adventure.
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Departure: Tiree (EGPU)
The morn broke with a wind sharp as a claymore’s edge, the kind that stirs the blood of kings and sheepdogs alike. Our vessel, a contrivance of wings and roaring thunder, awaited. The captain, a soul of rare mettle, entrusted me with the sacred duty of "co-pilot." I inquired if this meant leading men into glorious battle—alas, it meant pressing mysterious buttons and not, as I had yearned, unsheathing my mighty two-handed Highland sword to send the English scurrying for their southern hills.
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Glenforsa (EGEL) and Islay (EG13): The Texan’s Foray
We soared above glens and bens, where once the boots of free Scots thundered and the wails of English defeat echoed through the ages. Lani and Kai, the highly trained hounds of Cropduster, worked the arcane buttons with a discipline that would shame the knights of old. Meanwhile, two of our stalwart support—MacGregor the Lighthearted and "Red" Angus the Beast—commandeered the Texan and set forth to Glenforsa and Islay, seeking the water of life.
• At Glenforsa (EGEL):
They returned, faces alight with triumph, bearing a case of Tobermory 12, its bottles glinting like captured sunlight. The nose promised wild heather and briny sea air; the palate delivered a dance of citrus, creamy vanilla, and a whisper of oak.
• At Islay (EG13):
Their spoils: two cases of Laphroaig 10, peaty as the very soul of Alba, and a case of Ardbeg Uigeadail—smoky, sherried, and bold as a charge at Stirling Bridge.
Yet the crowning glory was bestowed at Ardbeg, where the distillery chieftain, with a wink as sly as a fox in a henhouse, presented a special release case for Cropduster himself, in gratitude for introducing Spam Musubi to Stornoway—a dish now sweeping the isles after Cropduster’s legendary conquest at the Spam eating contest. The label read:
"To Cropduster—Champion of Spam, Friend of Islay, and Bringer of Musubi. May your flights be smooth and your drams peaty."
MacGregor, grinning like a victorious clansman, declared,
"A dram of this, and even the midges will salute ye!"
Whilst "Red" Angus the Beast, ever the bard, simply cradled a bottle and whispered,
"This is the water of life, right enough."
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Oban Distillery (EGEO): Heart of the Highlands
Here, the very soul of Scotland revealed itself. The air, thick with brine and destiny, beckoned me to sample the Oban spirit—a dram worthy of kings and rebels alike.
• Nose: The sea herself whispers secrets, mingled with orange and honey.
• Palate: Rich, bold, with the fire of a thousand Highland hearts.
• Finish: Lingering, as the memory of Bannockburn.
We feasted as Scots must: fish fresh from the sea, bread that would shame any English baker, and laughter that echoed to the hills.
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The Challenge: The Lumberjack Song
Let it be known the challenge was not mine alone, but shared with Cropduster, my comrade-in-song and Spam. Together, we mounted the stage with a local band, the Knights Who Say Ni presiding as judges— their helms bedecked with heather, leeks, and suspiciously large turnips.
Cropduster sang with the ferocity of a Highland charge—alas, his voice wandered the moors off-key, yet he noticed it not, his spirit undampened and his grin broad. I lent my own battle-hardened baritone, and together we belted the Lumberjack Song, our voices mingling like whisky and thunder.
When the final note faded, the Knights rose, brandishing shrubbery sceptres and declaimed in tones that shook the rafters:
“NI! NI! NI!
We have heard your song, and though it was… most peculiar to our ears, it was sung with the courage of true lumberjacks. Cropduster, your voice is as wild as the moors and as unpredictable as a flock of sheep on Irn-Bru!
And now, in accordance with the ancient rites and the most sacred traditions of shrubbery and song, we do hereby recognize thee, William the Bruce—King of Scots, Defender of the Realm, Scourge of the Sassenach, and Wearer of the Most Majestic Beard!
Thou hast proven thyself worthy before the Knights Who Say Ni.
The Lumberjack Badge is thine, O mighty monarch! May it gleam upon thy tunic as proudly as thy sword flashes in battle!
And a ceremonial pinecone for Cropduster, Bringer of Musubi and Slayer of Spam!”
At that very moment, as if summoned by the ancient magic of Alba, Lani and Kai bounded upon the stage—each with a perfectly shaped shrubbery clamped triumphantly in their jaws. The crowd gasped, then erupted in applause. The Knights’ eyes grew round as oatcakes.
"A shrubbery! A fine shrubbery! Brought forth by noble hounds!" they bellowed, kneeling in reverence before the dogs. "Never have we seen such resourcefulness, nor such well-trained canines. You have fulfilled the ancient demand of the Knights Who Say Ni!"
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The Caper of the C-130H Crew
Yet whilst we were thus engaged, a most audacious caper unfolded upon the streets of Oban. The crew of the C-130H, those airborne scoundrels, seized their moment and, with a cunning that would make a Border reiver blush, absconded with one of Pipi’s prized Gopher Tanks—the very same reserved for noble deeds and the occasional dignified ramble to the pie shop.
Leading this mechanised raid was Thomas "Big Tam" MacAllister, a man whose moustache could shelter a family of wrens. With him rode Fiona "Ferret" McDougall—so named for her uncanny ability to sniff out a hidden cask at fifty paces—and David "Wee Davie" MacBean, who once bartered a single oatcake for an entire firkin of porter.
These scallywags rumbled through Oban’s winding lanes, the Gopher Tank’s treads clattering over cobbles, drawing stares and the odd cheer from locals. Their mission: to liberate the finest Scotch and brews the town could muster.
• Scotch Acquisitions:
• Three cases of Oban 14, procured from the distillery warehouse under the guise of “emergency aviation fuel.”
• A crate of Springbank, spirited away from a rival’s delivery lorry whilst the driver was distracted by a passing ceilidh band.
• Two bottles of mysterious provenance, labelled only “Aunt Morag’s Special,” acquired in exchange for a spare propeller blade and a promise to return the parish priest’s wheelbarrow.
• Brews and Ales:
• Four firkins of Skelpt Lug Ale, famed for its ability to “put hair on your sporran.”
• A keg of Oban Bay Stout, black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat and twice as potent.
• Several bottles of “Lochside Lemonade”—which, upon tasting, proved to be nothing of the sort.
Big Tam was heard to declare,
“If we can’t drink it, wear it, or trade it for whisky, it’s no’ worth haulin’!”
Ferret McDougall bartered her way into a bolt of Harris Tweed by challenging the local tailor to a game of “Who Can Recite Rabbie Burns Backwards.” (She lost, but the tailor was so impressed he threw in a tartan scarf for good measure.)
Wee Davie, ever the opportunist, swapped a ration pack of army biscuits for a family-sized steak pie and a promise of “first dibs” at the next village fête.
Having loaded the Gopher Tank to bursting with their spoils—whisky, ale, tweed, and the odd haggis for ballast—they roared off, not towards the sunset but to EGPT, intent on reaching Perth ahead of us. Reports soon filtered in that they were seen at the airfield, plying ground crew with samples in exchange for prime parking and “a wee look” at the control tower’s biscuit tin.
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As we gathered all the crews on the tarmac after landing, a lively ceilidh erupted. Cropduster, ever the host, busted out his trusty BBQ grill, filling the air with the scent of sizzling delights. The stereo blared Gerry Rafferty's "Baker Street," setting a nostalgic and spirited mood.
One bold crew member—cheeky as a fox in the henhouse—dared to request a tune by KT Tunstall. I fixed him with a gaze sharp as a dirk and declared, “Touch yon stereo and I’ll be forced to draw my great two-handed Highland sword, and not for the purpose of slicing haggis!” The laughter rolled across the tarmac like thunder over the glens. Then I raised my voice for all to hear: “And let it be known—should any soul even think of requesting Big Country, I’ll see him neutered by my sword, swift and sure!” Music and merriment mingled under the open sky, sealing the day with camaraderie and mirth.
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Reflections
This land endures, as do her people. The English may claim dominion, but here, in the skies above Scotland, the only banners flying are our own. I raise a glass to Pipi, to my fellow adventurers, and to the enduring freedom of the Scots.
Let England watch the skies—and their whisky cellars—for William the Bruce and his allies are ever on the move!
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With special sponsorship by the Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Scottish Sporran Polishers—defending the nation’s dignity, one shiny pouch at a time. Since the days when William Wallace first realized his sporran was looking a bit peely-wally before battle, these unsung heroes have kept Scotland’s leather goods gleaming and its warriors striding forth with confidence and a suspicious squeak.
Remember: A dull sporran is the first step on the road to English manners. Shine wisely, shine well, and may your tassels never tangle!
Brought to you by the keepers of tradition, the polishers of history, and the only guild with a tartan for every occasion—including formal sheep-wrangling.
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