Welcome to England

World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: ENG‑LANDings
December 21st, 2025
Flight Log #1 – Giants, Lakes and Fried Feelings
Guest Co‑Pilot & Narrator: Marisa Tomei

Overnight in Iniko—side‑by‑side cockpit, two J85s humming, me parked next to Cropduster like this is a normal commute and not a long‑range date with a light‑attack jet. We rip past the Giant’s Causeway and Causeway Coast at first light—forty thousand basalt hexagons laid out like a cosmic car park, the exact line where the dinosaurs checked out and modern geology clocked in. I’m admiring column geometry; he’s practically quoting chapter and verse on magma, cooling rates, and UNESCO criteria, like a man who reads flight manuals and volcano reports for fun.

On the way towards the Isle of Man, we swing over east Belfast and he gets weirdly quiet. “That’s where C.S. Lewis was born,” he finally says—soft, like we just overflew a personal shrine. This is the same man who’ll argue about approach speeds like a courtroom cross‑examination, now whispering about Narnia, theology lectures, essays, and old BBC broadcasts he treats like sacred podcasts. I look down at the rooftops and think, “Of course. Only this guy could mix turbojets, fairy tales, and apologetics in one breath and make it work.”

We land at EGNS with dawn still deciding what to do, Tiger Shark Squadron already set up—support aircraft on the ramp, heaters going, three dogs pacing like the world’s friendliest security detail. The upgraded Stearman “Hoʻomaka Hou” is out front, fuelled and pre‑warmed: tandem open cockpits, winter flight gear staged on each seat, enough heat plumbed in to make January jealous. Lani patrols, Kai and Charles inspect the tyres, and I climb up, give Cropduster a look and go, “You pre‑heated my biplane and my wardrobe? That’s either romance or premeditated aviation.” He just grins.

We don’t head inland straight away. Offshore, the USS Gerald R. Ford is loitering like a floating city, and its captain, David Skarosi, has sent word that since Cropduster’s already carrier‑qualified from work off Africa, we’re “cordially invited to drop in.” So we do it the Stearman way: no tailhook, no drama, just a slow, smug glide down the wake, tyres kissing non‑skid like we’re parking on a very expensive driveway. Deck crew are grinning, partly because it’s ridiculous, partly because they know why we’re really here—the coffee. In the ready room they hand over mugs of Naval Aviator brew so strong it could file its own flight plan and warn him in unison, “Tank up now, sir. England doesn’t really appreciate the best source of life.” Cropduster treats every sip like a sacrament, tops off his bloodstream in octane, and then we launch straight off the bow, nose pointed across the Irish Sea and on towards England.

We hit the English Lake District first—glacial valleys, narrow silver lakes, dry‑stone walls stitching the hills like somebody hand‑quilted the whole region for UNESCO. He’s in my headset talking U‑shaped valleys, Herdwick sheep and Romantic poets; I’m yelling that if Wordsworth had flown this in an open cockpit, half the poems would just be wind noise and swear words.

Then Durham Castle and Cathedral appear, locked onto a river bend like a stone aircraft carrier that double‑majoured in theology and intimidation. Norman mass, 11th‑century foundations, relics of St Cuthbert somewhere under all that weight—he’s explaining why UNESCO drools over this ensemble while I’m thinking, “They did this with chisels and faith; I pull a muscle opening a coffee bag.” We slide east to Whitby, harbour tucked between piers, fishing and shipbuilding in its bones, the whole town radiating “we invented proper fish and chips, don’t start with us” energy.

We swing inland for the big finish at Studley Royal Park with Fountains Abbey—18th‑century water gardens wrapped around a 12th‑century Cistercian ruin, like someone parked a broken cathedral in a mirror maze and asked UNESCO to pick a favourite angle. From the Stearman’s front cockpit, the canals and ponds line up like a hand‑flown ILS to those roofless arches that once belonged to one of England’s richest monasteries; I look down at eight hundred years of ambition and collapse and mutter, “Yeah, I know what it’s like to look put‑together and still be missing a roof.”

Only then do we drop into EGNM, where a “Whitby‑at‑the‑Runway” pop‑up is waiting just for us: cod in glass‑crisp batter, fat chips, mushy peas, and a pot of British tea strong enough to clean spark plugs. I’m in heaven—salt, vinegar, fried therapy. Cropduster drinks his tea like it’s a hostage negotiation, clearly mourning the espresso and ramen this country refuses to provide, and finally mutters under his breath, “It’d be Greater Britain if they learnt what coffee is.” I almost spit my chip laughing, which would’ve been a crime against batter.

By shutdown we’ve ticked giants, lakes, towers, harbours, ornamental holiness, one literary fly‑over and one carrier cameo, plus a pilot now officially in caffeine and noodle withdrawal. Tomorrow he’s hunting coffee, mythical English ramen, and maybe another C.S. Lewis reference; me, I’m back in the warmer front seat, heater on, ready to correct him loudly whenever he’s wrong—and maybe let him be right about us.Read more