EGEN - North Ronaldsay, Orkney
May 31, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ 🌬 52 °F
World Heritage Site Air Adventure
Log Entry: EGEF (Fair Isle) to EGEN (North Ronaldsay)
Date: May 31, 2025
Aircraft: Pipi (N8086K), DHC-5 Buffalo
Guest Narrator: Eric Idle (as Himself, in First Person)
Hello, skybound adventurers and people who thought this was a recipe for spotted dick! Eric Idle here, your guest narrator for this leg of the World Heritage Site Air Adventure. I’m not a dead parrot, nor a knight who says “Ni!”—though I did once say “Ni” to a shrubbery, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Today, I join Cropduster and his motley crew aboard Pipi, the Buffalo with a heart of gold and a cargo bay full of surprises.
We’re launching our Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers adventure from Fair Isle, where the wind is so strong, the sheep have to hold onto the grass. Cropduster, ever the squadron commander, is at the controls, while Lani (“Sky”) and Kai (“Sea”) are on paw patrol, ready to solve any mystery that comes their way. The rest of the crew—Wrench, Scotchmaster, Lost Boy, Choo-Choo, and Sgt. Hulka (our airborne man cave)—are all present and accounted for, though Sgt. Hulka is mostly just being awesome.
As Pipi roars to life, we’re airborne before you can say “Islay malt.” The flight is a quick hop over the North Sea, and before you know it, we’re descending over the wild, windswept shores of North Ronaldsay. The runway is so short, the cows have to turn sideways to let us past. The locals greet us with a flask of something peaty and potent—which is not a euphemism, no matter what Lost Boy says.
As we taxi out, Lani and Kai discover a new button mysteriously labeled “Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers.” Lani, ever the clever German Shepherd, presses it with her nose, and the cabin fills with the sound of sea shanties and the distant call of a whale. Kai, ever the diplomat, adds a wag and a woof. Lost Boy swears he saw a gopher with a screwdriver, but I’m not sure I believe him—unless it was a very clever gopher.
We barter dog treats and a fine cigar from our cargo bay for a hand-knit sweater from our hosts. Lani insists it matches her eyes, and who am I to argue? The cargo bay is now stocked with treats, a sweater, and a promise of more barter to come. If you’re wondering what the collectible is, it’s a rare North Ronaldsay wool yarn—which is not a euphemism for anything, no matter what Lost Boy says.
On the tarmac, we’re greeted by a chorus of sheep and a local farmer with a flask of something peaty and potent. Lani presses the button again, and the crew joins in with a round of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” for our hosts. Even Kai gets in on the action, wagging his tail to the beat. It’s like a ceilidh, only with more wool and less whiskey. Well, slightly less.
Another collectible—a rare North Ronaldsay wool yarn—joins the cargo bay. The button mystery deepens, and the gopher remains elusive. Next stop: more World Heritage Sites, more gifts, more adventure.
Clear skies, short fields, and long friendships. To whisky, whiskey, whales, and gophers—adventure continues. And remember, always look on the bright side of life… unless you’re a sheep on Fair Isle, in which case, keep your seatbelt fastened. Eric Idle, out.Read more
EGPA - Kirkwall, Orkney, Scotland, GB
June 1, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ 🌬 55 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers
Captain’s Log – DHC-5 Buffalo “Pipi”
Date: June 1, 2025
Guest Co-Pilot and log writer: George Mackay Brown
This episode is also brought to you by Orbx TrueEarth Great Britain North—where the Scottish Highlands, Shetland Islands, and every castle, loch, and lighthouse look so real you’ll check your ForeFlight map twice. With photoreal scenery covering over 40,000 square miles, even your virtual sheep look authentic.
Orbx TrueEarth: Because your sim deserves scenery as dramatic as your landings.
________________________________________
The morning rose grey and silver over North Ronaldsay, the wind sharp with salt and the promise of stories. The Buffalo “Pipi” lifted us into the sky, island to island, each a stanza in the long poem of Orkney. Lani and Kai, our faithful crew, pressed their new buttons—“Stride” and “Swagger”—mysteries that appeared as if by the hand of some unseen jester.
At every landing, the land welcomed us with the quiet of stones and the whisper of the sea. From the hold of the Buffalo, we unrolled our two Advanced Links Command Carts, swift as seabirds across the tarmac. The carts carried us and our gear over the ancient paths, winding through fields and along the edges of the world, where the land meets the water and the sky. Lani and Kai, ever the adventurers, rode in their special seats at the aft, eyes bright, tails wagging, as if they, too, were part of the land’s old song.
We flew over the Heart of Neolithic Orkney, where the stones stand like sentinels, remembering the footsteps of giants and the laughter of children.
At Stromness Golf Club, the carts ferried us from the runway to the clubhouse, where Sir Lancelot the Brave awaited, his armor glinting in the low northern light. The challenge was a silly walk, judged by this gallant knight. We danced with abandon, Lani and Kai leading a canine conga, while the wind carried our laughter out to sea. Sir Lancelot declared us worthy, and we were handed the Ministry of Silly Walks Certificate, a token of our folly and joy. In return, we offered a bottle of Highland Park, the spirit of Orkney, and received a tin of fudge, sweet as a summer evening.
We flew on, the islands unfolding beneath us, the sea a restless companion. At Scapa Whisky Distillery, the carts once again proved their worth, carrying us and our guests from the aircraft to the distillery’s welcoming doors. We raised a glass to the land and to our companions, old and new. The dogs pressed another button—“Noodle”—and we found ourselves in Kirkwall at The Stone and Sea Noodle House, tucked among the stone-built streets. The shop was cozy and eclectic, with driftwood and nautical charms, and a jukebox playing “Walk This Way” by Aerosmith—a classic rock anthem for our quest. The steam rose from our bowls of Orkney ramen, rich with local seaweed, scallops, and smoked haddock, and we laughed with new friends as the dogs enjoyed a special broth of their own.
Throughout our travels, the Advanced Links Command Carts were more than just transport—they were our companions on the ground, swift and sure, as much a part of the journey as the wind and the waves. Their compact design and rugged capability let us weave through the narrow lanes and over the ancient stones, while Lani and Kai’s special seats kept them close to the land and the story.
As I walked the streets of Kirkwall, I could not help but notice the chatter among the young folk gathered by the harbor, some with bright, disposable vapes in hand. It reminded me of the news—Scotland’s new ban on these devices, a move to protect the health of the young and the purity of the land. The ban is not just about the air we breathe, but about the future of the children who run and play among these ancient stones. It is also about the litter that mars the beaches and the batteries that poison the soil and sea. The land and its people are one, and what harms one, harms the other.
At day’s end, we gathered in the warmth of the pub, the collectible certificate pinned to the wall, the dogs at our feet. I thought of the verse: “Carve the runes, then be content with silence.” The journey is not just from island to island, but from story to story, from one hand to another, in the spirit of Aloha and the old ways.
George Mackay Brown, guest co-pilot, signing off.
Cropduster, ever pragmatic, reminds us to check the fuel and the dogs.
End of LogRead more
RAF Lossiemouth, Moray, Scotland GB
June 3, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ 🌬 55 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers
Log Entry: Sergeant Major Michael Palin, Guest Co-Pilot
RAF Lossiemouth, 3 June 2025 | Aircraft: DHC-5 “Pipi” | Mission: Kirkwall (EGPA) to Lossiemouth (EGQS)
Sponsor:
Today’s sortie is powered by Dr Noodles—“Marching up and down your tastebuds since 2005!” If you can’t eat it standing to attention, it’s not proper food.
Right, listen in! Sergeant Major Michael Palin reporting for duty as guest co-pilot, and I’ll have no slouching, no malingering, and absolutely no silly walks unless properly authorized. Cropduster’s at the controls, but I’m here to keep the crew in line and the spirits high as we thunder south from Kirkwall to Lossiemouth in the mighty DHC-5 “Pipi.” Weather’s brisk and the wind’s got more bite than a corporal with a hangover, but that’s just the way we like it.
Now, about the crew: Lani—call sign “Sky”—is our airborne-qualified, ex-Malaysian Special Forces K-9. Marching is in her blood, discipline in her bones, and she’s got more medals than half the parade ground. She surveys the apron like she’s about to lead a platoon into the breach. Kai—call sign “Sea”—is a Search and Rescue K-9, Australian by birth and a natural on any base, nose twitching for the next mission or misplaced ration pack. If there’s trouble, he’ll find it; if there’s a biscuit, he’ll find that too.
En route, we set the tone with Iron Maiden’s “Aces High”—none of your modern pop nonsense here. As the Moray Firth slides beneath us, I keep the crew sharp: “Left a bit, right a bit—Cropduster, this isn’t the Luftwaffe! Eyes front, everyone!” Lani sits at attention, ears up, ready for any airborne or ground-based challenge. Kai lounges with the calm assurance of a dog who’s seen it all, but don’t let that fool you—he’s ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.
Touchdown at RAF Lossiemouth is textbook—none of your bumpy landings on my watch. The base is a hive of activity, prepping for the Red Arrows display on June 7. Typhoons everywhere, and the ghosts of WWII pilots watching from the hangars. The place smells of history, jet fuel, and anticipation.
Now, Lossiemouth is a proper destination for any crew with a thirst for adventure and a taste for the finer things. For those who fancy a pint, the Windswept Brewing Co. is right here in town. Founded by a pair of ex-RAF pilots, this award-winning craft brewery offers tours and a Tap Room bar with a dozen cask and keg beers—perfect for a post-flight debrief, and I’m told their Glen Moray whisky cask-aged dark ale is a must-try. If you’d rather walk the fairways than the flight line, Moray Golf Club sits right next to the base, boasting two classic links courses—Old Tom Morris himself designed the Old Course, and you’ll be teeing off to the sound of Typhoons overhead. And for those who appreciate a proper dram, Glen Moray Distillery is just seven miles away in Elgin, one of Speyside’s legendary whisky producers, with tours and tastings available for those who want to toast a safe landing.
Then, the main event: the “Marching Up and Down the Square” challenge. I line up the crew, ground staff, and anyone else who can stand upright. “Now then,” I bark, “today we’re going to do marching up and down the square. That is, unless anyone’s got anything better to do?” Lani takes the lead—her parade-ground form is impeccable, a model of canine military bearing. Kai, ever the search and rescue professional, keeps the line straight and the morale high. The rest of the crew follows, some with the precision of Grenadier Guards, others with the enthusiasm of Monty Python’s finest.
After a round of applause (and a few giggles), I judge the performance “most democratic”—and suggest we all deserve a proper feed. Off to Dr Noodles for a celebratory meal, where the only thing more satisfying than the noodles is the knowledge that the parade ground remains safe from any and all silly walks (for now).
Meanwhile, Kai, never off duty, sniffs out a WWII RAF pilot doll tucked behind a hangar—today’s collectible. In the spirit of aloha and camaraderie, we present the ground crew with a bottle of Speyside whisky and a stash of gourmet dog treats from our cargo bay. Barter and gratitude, the old-fashioned way.
For those with a taste for squadron history and a bit of collectible spirit:
While we’re on the tarmac at RAF Lossiemouth, the Squadron is offering Tiger Shark challenge coins, squadron patches, and other exclusive swag. If you don’t catch us there, keep an eye out for our two Advanced Links Command Carts—stop us for a chat and pick up some gear to remember your visit by.
The town is buzzing about the upcoming Red Arrows show—Moray’s biggest event this week. Safety reminders everywhere: “Spot safely, respect the locals, don’t block the runway!” The sense of community here is as strong as the wind off the North Sea.
As the sun sets, I gather the crew for a final inspection. “Right, that’s enough democracy for one day. Next time, we’ll be marching up and down the pub. Dismissed!” Cropduster mutters something about living to fly and flying to live—typical pilot.
Until then, keep your boots polished, your noodles hot, and your spirits higher than a Typhoon at full afterburner.
Sergeant Major Michael Palin, out.
End log.Read more
EGPE - Iverness, Scotland, Great Britain
June 4, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ 🌬 54 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers
Aircraft: DHC-5 Buffalo "Pipi"
Date: June 4, 2025
Guest Co-Pilot: John Cleese
Today’s flight is brought to you by “Pontius Pilate’s Premium Pumice Stones – For the softest soles in Judea. Always look on the bright side of exfoliation!”
Leg: RAF Lossiemouth (EGQS) → Inverness (EGPE)
RAF Lossiemouth (EGQS) was a hive of activity as we prepared “Pipi” for departure. As Centurion Ioannes Clēsus (pronounced “yo-AHN-nes CLAY-sus,” for the Latin-challenged), I took personal command of the cargo manifest. This morning, we loaded the bay with the Highlands’ finest local products:
• Crates of craft beer from Uile-bheist and Black Isle Brewery, their ales and lagers promising to keep the squadron’s spirits as high as our cruising altitude.
• Casks and cases of single malt Scotch from Glen Ord and Tomatin, with a promise of a special cask from Uile-bheist’s first whisky run.
• Bolts of authentic tartan textiles, fresh from Inverness weavers, each pattern a riot of clan history and Scottish pride.
And, for the sake of discipline and dignity, a new set of “Romans Go Home” stencils (Latin edition, naturally)—for educational outreach and the occasional public service correction.
Before boarding, I addressed the entire squadron—across all aircraft and land-based platforms, including the mighty EM-50ex (Awesomely Amazing Airborne Man Cave Extreme) and the Gopher Tanks (Advanced Links Command Carts):
“By order of Cropduster and enforced by myself, Centurion Ioannes Clēsus, all crew donning tartan or kilts shall wear proper undergarments. This is a World Heritage adventure, not a Roman bacchanal or a Monty Python sketch gone awry. The only wind permitted is beneath our wings, not up our kilts. Any deviation will result in the immediate application of a Latin stencil—on the offending party’s boxer shorts, in full accusative case. Let us keep the surprises in the cargo bay, not in the cockpit, the EM-50ex, or the Gopher Tanks. Onward, in dignity and plaid!”
Before we departed Inverness, a courier from Aberdeen arrived bearing gifts that could only come from the Granite City itself:
• A limited-edition case from the City of Aberdeen Distillery & Gin School, complete with a custom “Cropduster’s Concoction” label—a gin so botanically complex it could double as aviation fuel.
• Several tartan scarves woven from Granite City wool, shimmering with flecks of silver, perfect for fending off Highland chills or impressing noodle shop owners.
• Aberdeen Angus beef treats for Lani and Kai, who promptly performed a synchronized sit in anticipation.
• And polished granite stone paperweights, guaranteed to keep our flight plans grounded, no matter how strong the Highland winds.
As I, Ioannes Clēsus, observed: “Aberdeen—where even the rocks are dressed for dinner, and the gin comes with a degree in history!”
With Cropduster at the controls and Lani and Kai on lookout, we lifted off, sweeping over Viewfield farm strip and pausing at EGPS for a rapid Scotch pickup. The C-130 and C-17 teams handled their cargo with military precision, while the DC-3 crew debated the best distillery tour snacks.
We made low passes over Culbokie, Knockbain Farm, and Glendoe, then set course for the Black Isle and Glen Ord Distillery. There, as Centurion Ioannes Clēsus, I received the coveted Holy Sandal—reputedly lost by a prophet after a Highland reel.
For the Challenge:
I set the classic test: spell “ROMANS GO HOME” in Latin. Cropduster’s “Romanes eunt domus” on a whisky barrel was met with my best Centurion glare. “Romani ite domum!” I corrected, wielding my new stencil. Lani and Kai, not to be outdone, pressed the “Button of Correction,” which played “Another Brick in the Wall.” Clearly, Latin education is still in crisis.
En route from Glendoe to Inverness, Lani and Kai staged a “Nessie Alert,” barking and pawing at the windows as we flew the length of Loch Ness—only to reveal a rubber plesiosaur in the cargo. The crew in back nearly radioed for backup.
Landing at Inverness (EGPE), we celebrated with noodles at the legendary Wok This Way Noodle House, a local institution run by Hamish “Hot Wok” MacLeod—a burly Highlander in tartan apron, famed for his spicy broth and caber-tossing noodle technique—and his wife, Mei-Ling “The Noodle Whisperer” MacLeod. Mei-Ling’s hand-pulled noodles were so springy even Lani and Kai were tempted to chase them, and her sharp wit matched the chili oil she snuck to Cropduster. Hamish regaled us with tales of Highland games and noodle mishaps, declaring, “If you don’t slurp, you’re not doing it right!” The only thing spicier than the broth was Mei-Ling’s banter.
Fleet Integration Update:
Upon arrival, the Gopher Tanks rolled out from Luna Honua’s belly, their tactical plaid camo blending seamlessly with the Highland landscape. The EM-50ex, our airborne sanctum of strategy and single malts, remained prepped for instant deployment—because one never knows when a spontaneous ceilidh might require mobile command capabilities. Lani and Kai immediately commandeered an ALCC, using their button system to demand “Ride of the Valkyries” over the PA. As Centurion, my final edict: “All ground vehicles shall display proper Latin stencils: Festina lente (Make haste slowly)... unless whisky’s involved.”
Lani and Kai’s “Button of Correction” now includes a Nessie sound effect and a Latin phrase generator.
With the Holy Sandal secured and Latin grammar enforced, we look ahead to the next adventure. Will the canine communication button mystery deepen? Will the C-17 crew ever admit blended whisky has its place? Stay tuned.
“Remember: If you’re going to vandalize, at least conjugate correctly. Romani ite domum! And don’t forget your sandals.”
“Next stop: more whisky, more wonders, and probably more canine chaos. Over and out.”
And now for something completely different.Read more
EGPO Stornoway, Scotland, GB
June 5, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ ☁️ 54 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers
Today’s flight is proudly sponsored by SPAM®—the official canned meat of flying circuses and culinary champions everywhere.
In Hawaii, SPAM® isn’t just food—it’s a cultural icon, comfort food, and the backbone of breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They devour about 7 million cans a year, making it more popular there than anywhere else on earth. Whether it’s musubi at a corner store, fried rice at a family luau, or the prize in a Hebridean pub contest, SPAM® brings people together—sometimes in song, sometimes in sketch, always in style.
So remember: when destiny calls, answer with SPAM®.
‘We’ve got Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, and a little more Spam!’”
Date: June 5, 2025
Log Entry – Duncan Campbell, Guest Co-Pilot
Aboard “Pipi” with Cropduster
Route: EGPE > EG29 > EGEI > Stornoway (EGPO, Spam Contest)
Mission: The Spam Tin of Destiny
Aye, Duncan Campbell here, and what a spectacle we made of ourselves in Stornoway! We landed just for the famed Spam-eating contest, but you’d have thought it was the Highland Games, given the crowd and the convoy that rolled in behind us.
Not only did we have Pipi and the ever-faithful Gopher Tanks, but our support crew arrived in full force: Maui the C-130, Luna Honua the C-17, and—turning more heads than a sheep on the runway—the EM50ex, our airborne man-cave and tactical party bus. The EM50ex was packed with the likes of Click, Kona, Venti, Bean, Slip, Wrench, Scotchmaster, Lost Boy, and Choo-Choo, all eager to witness the carnage and, let’s be honest, scoop up any local booze, brew, or oddball gifts we could barter for and with.
We even had a new face in the mix: Honor Blackman, working on her multi-engine rating and already talking about starting her own “Flying Circus.” She’s got the poise of Cathy Gale and the ambition of Pussy Galore—give her a few more hours in the logbook and she’ll be leading her own squadron of sky aces.
The pub was packed tighter than a can of—you guessed it—Spam. Brian Cohen, our host and the keeper of the legendary Spam Tin of Destiny, greeted us with a grin. “You lot bring more hardware than the RAF on payday,” he said, eyeing the EM50ex parked out front. “And who’s this? Another future ace?” he asked, nodding at Honor, who was already quizzing the locals about V-speeds and engine-out procedures.
Cropduster, ever the tactician, set up his rice cooker and nori on the bar. The locals watched in awe as he pressed rice, sliced Spam, and rolled musubi with the calm of a man raised on island time. The contest began, forks flashed, pints were raised, and our support crew cheered from the sidelines, led by Scotchmaster, who was already negotiating a trade for a case of Hebridean ale.
Brian leaned over and stage-whispered, “This is either the greatest culinary coup Lewis has ever seen, or the first sign of the apocalypse. And I’ve seen both.” When the last musubi vanished, there was no doubt: the Spam Tin of Destiny was ours.
True to tradition, Cropduster offered Brian a bag of Kona coffee and gourmet dog treats for his collie. Brian, never one to be outdone, handed over the tin with a flourish and a bottle of Hebridean ale. “Take it, Spam Master,” he said, “and may your Gopher Tanks never run out of petrol—or Spam. And tell your multi-engine apprentice here,” he nodded at Honor, “that if she ever needs a squadron, I know a few sheep that could use the exercise.”
With the contest won and the cargo holds brimming with local gifts and brews (thanks to Luna Honua’s cavernous belly and Scotchmaster’s bartering skills), we loaded up the Gopher Tanks, zipped back to Pipi, and were having a Tarmac Squadron Meeting/BBQ) before the foam on Brian’s pint had settled.
If there’s a lesson here, it’s this: never underestimate a pilot raised in Hawaii with nori in his flight bag, a support crew with a taste for adventure, or a future Flying Circus captain with her eye on the sky.
Tonight we rest—bellies full, spirits high, and the Spam Tin of Destiny secured.
End log.Read more
EGPU - Tiree, Scotland, GB
June 6, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ ☁️ 54 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers
Aircraft: DHC-5 Buffalo "Pipi"
Date: 6 June 2025
Guest Co-Pilot: Terry Jones
Right, then! Log entry, stardate: Friday, or possibly Thursday if you’re counting by the tides—which is a fool’s errand. This is your guest co-pilot, The Dead Parrot Shopkeeper—yes, the very same, still not dead, merely pining for the fjords, or at the very least, a runway above sea level.
We launched from Stornoway (EGPO) in “Pipi”, the DHC-5 Buffalo—a machine so robust it could land on a blancmange, provided the blancmange wasn’t underwater. Which, as it happens, was precisely the problem. Sollas? Submerged! Barra? More water than runway! Cropduster muttered something about “VFR not standing for Very Fishy Runways”, and I agreed, mostly because it sounded official and I was distracted by the dogs’ new button panel.
Onward to St Kilda, the World Heritage Site so remote even the sheep have their own customs forms. The cliffs loomed out of the mist, looking like the set from a particularly bleak episode of “Top of the Pops”. Lani and Kai, our canine crew, were already at their mysterious button panel. Lani’s paw hovered over a button labelled “NOODLES” (in all caps, for extra urgency), while Kai, ever the philosopher, contemplated the existential meaning of the number three.
Now, the challenge: to retrieve the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch, rumoured to be hidden at the Bun Dubh in Sandaig. The catch? One must recite the “Instructions of Antioch” and, crucially, count to three. No more. No less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out.
I prepared myself, cleared my throat, and, in my best ecclesiastical tones, began:
“And the Lord spake, saying, ‘First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin…’”
At this point, Lani, with the timing of a seasoned comic, pressed the “1” button. Kai followed with “2”, and together, they smacked “3” in perfect unison. The Dead Parrot Shopkeeper (that’s me, still not dead) nodded sagely, and awarded us the Holy Hand Grenade—a golden orb that looked suspiciously like a plumbing fixture with a cross glued on top. I held it aloft and declared, “This is an ex-parrot!”—for truly, the collectible had ceased to be, expired, and gone to meet its maker.
Just as we were basking in our triumph, the ground began to rumble. Over the dunes, “Maui”—our Tiger Shark Squadron’s Lockheed C-130 Hercules—thundered in, performing a short-field landing so impressive even the sheep stopped chewing to watch. The “Maui” crew, led by Captain Joseph “Kona” Coffey and First Officer Sandra “Spice” Atreides, taxied up alongside us, their aircraft’s Tiger Shark teeth grinning in the Hebridean sun.
Without further ado, we loaded everyone—dogs, pilots, and one parrot shopkeeper—into our two Gopher Tanks. The convoy rolled across Tiree’s grass to the Ceabhar Restaurant and Bun Dubh Brewery, the C-130 crew’s boots still sandy from the cargo bay, their laughter echoing across the machair.
The evening unfolded in true Hebridean style. We feasted on haggis with neeps and tatties, the haggis peppery and rich, the neeps and tatties mashed to perfection with a dollop of whisky gravy. There was Tiree lamb, slow-roasted and served with seaweed butter, and platters of fresh langoustines pulled from the local waters that morning. For pudding, cranachan—clouds of cream, honey, whisky, and oats, crowned with raspberries. The ales flowed: Bun Dubh’s “Cu Donn” (a malty brown ale), the zesty “Faceplant” pale ale, and the island’s own “Skart” hybrid lager, each poured fresh from the cask, the flavours as wild and windswept as Tiree itself.
In recent local news, Stornoway is abuzz with its latest food fad that seemed to happen overnight: Spam Musubi. Yes, you heard right—slices of Spam, dried Scottish seaweed, and a mysterious block of rice, all bundled up like a sushi roll that’s lost its way to Tokyo and ended up at a ceilidh. The locals are mad for it, though no one seems entirely sure what white rice is or where it comes from. There’s talk it might be a rare form of snow, or possibly imported from the mainland in exchange for whisky and sheep. All I know is, if you ask for musubi, prepare for a lengthy debate about the merits of barley versus rice, and a suspicious glance from the town’s only sushi chef.
As tradition dictates, we did a trade of a full case of Havana Club Cuban rum (1-litre bottles, twelve to a case, enough to float a small ceilidh)—for Tiree’s finest single malt, and not just any single malt, but three cases of the island’s rarest: a 12-year-old, sherry cask-matured Highland single malt, rich with notes of dried apricot, dark chocolate, and a lingering, smoky finish that tastes of sea spray and peat fires. The nose alone could make a grown man weep, or at least forget about the Spam. The exchange was sealed with a toast on the tarmac, the dogs each getting a biscuit, and the locals breaking into a spontaneous chorus of “Auld Lang Syne”—in three-part harmony, naturally.
And so, as the sun set over Tiree, with the Hercules and Buffalo side by side on the grass, Cropduster smoking a cigar, grilling some cheeseburgers and plain meat patties for the dogs while he also checked the weather for Benbecula (EGPL), I sign off:
“This parrot’s not dead—it’s just resting before the next adventure. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition… except, perhaps, our next guest.”
End log. Bring out your noodles!Read more
EGPT - Perth Airport, Scotland, GB
June 7, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ ☁️ 48 °F
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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Slàinte!Read more
EGPH - Edinburgh, Scotland, GB
June 9, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ 🌧 55 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers
Aircraft: de Havilland Canada DHC-5 Buffalo "Pipi" (N8086K)
Guest Co-Pilot: William Wallace
Today’s episode is sponsored by The Spanish Inquisition RPG app—available now on iPhone, Apple, PC, and Android. Nobody expects their next adventure!
Date: Monday, 9 June 2025
Weather: Mist at dawn, clearing to scattered clouds over the Firth of Forth.
Flight Plan
Route: Scone (EGPT) → Talisker Distillery (EGEI, urgent detour) → Overfly: EGPN, St Andrews Golf Course, Balado Airfield → Edinburgh (EGPH)
Log Entry
As told by me, William Wallace—guest co-pilot, log entry writer, and champion of all things Scottish—this day’s adventure will not soon be forgotten. If you seek a tale of English order and quiet skies, look elsewhere; what follows is a true Scot’s account, full of spirit, wit, and just enough irreverence to make the Sassenachs blush.
We’d barely finished our pre-flight at Scone when the radio crackled with an urgent summons from the folk at Talisker. Smitten with Spam musubi (a delicacy the English wouldn’t dare try without a manual), they begged us to divert to EGEI. “We have a cask that cannae wait!” they pleaded. Only a Scot would answer such a call with haste and a hungry heart.
With Lani’s paw launching the “Nessie Alert,” the Buffalo’s cabin filled with the wail of bagpipes and Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir.” We landed at Talisker, where the distillery team greeted us with reverence and a case of their finest: Talisker 10 Year Old and a rare bottling of Talisker Storm.
The 10 Year Old was a homecoming—salt, peat, pepper, lemon, and bonfire smoke on the nose; silky, creamy, with orange, wood, pepper, and a wave of sea salt on the palate; candied ginger and a bright note of apple on the finish. The Storm was bolder and sweeter, with peat, oak, honey, and a chilli bite—enough to put hair on the chest of even the most timid Lowlander.
With the casks secured, we pressed on, and soon the links of St Andrews sprawled beneath our wings. Now, I ken the world calls this the “Home of Golf,” but let me tell ye: golf is a sport only a Scot could invent, likely as punishment for the English. Swinging a stick at a wee ball, then chasing it through wind and bog—aye, that’s our idea of a good time, apparently. I’d sooner face a line of English archers than a bunker at St Andrews. They call it the “gentleman’s game,” but I’ve seen more honest brawls in a Highland tavern. At least in battle, ye ken who your enemy is. On the golf course, it’s the wind, the sheep, and your own cursed temper. If the English want to claim golf as their own, they’re welcome to it—let them have the rain, the midges, and the lost balls. I’ll be at the 19th hole, where the real sport begins—with a dram in hand and my dignity intact.
But the true test awaited us in Edinburgh. We landed to festival madness—Fringe performers, Monty Python tributes, and coconut parades. The Bridgekeeper himself appeared, robes billowing, eyes sharp as a claymore.
“Stop! Who would cross the Bridge of Death must answer me these questions three, ere the other side he see.”
I stepped forward, sword in hand, heart pounding like the drums of Bannockburn. “Aye, ask your riddles, old man. I am William Wallace, son of Scotland. I fear no bridge, nor keeper, nor Englishman!”
The Bridgekeeper’s Questions:
1. “What… is your name?”
“William Wallace, and I’ll not be mistaken for another!”
2. “What… is your quest?”
“To bring freedom, whisky, and Spam musubi to every corner of this land!”
3. “What… is your favourite colour?”
“Blue—like the saltire, and the face I paint for battle!”
4.
The Bridgekeeper paused, then nodded. “Go on. Off you go.” The crowd erupted in cheers
.
Cardinal Fang appeared, grinning, and pressed the coconuts into my hands. “By order of the Spanish Inquisition, these are yours. And with them, a companion.”
From behind him stepped Patsy, humble and steadfast, now part of our loadmaster’s crew, callsign “Steed.” From that moment, whenever we strode afoot or rumbled in the Gopher Tanks, Patsy clanged the coconuts, the sound echoing like the charge of a thousand Highlanders. The English may have their horses and their pageantry, but we Scots have ingenuity, coconuts, and a Steed who never needs feeding.
It was then, standing atop the Gopher Tank, coconuts in hand, that I roared to the festival throngs:
“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom—or our coconut halves!”
After landing, we made for “Nudge Nudge Noodle.” The chef, inspired by our exploits, presented a special “William Wallace Ramen”:
• A robust pork bone broth, hearty as a Highland stew
• Thick, chewy noodles for strength
• Double eggs, soft and poached, for stamina
• Thick slices of chashu pork, seared with a torch like a battlefield
• A dash of fiery chilli oil for courage
• A sprinkle of green onions and nori, and—aye—a slice of fried Spam, in tribute to our journey
•
I faced the bowl with my claymore, declaring,
“Every man dies, not every man truly lives. But every man who eats this ramen will know the taste of freedom!”
Lani triggered the “Slàinte mhath! Button,” and everyone shouted:
“Let the English keep their tea and crumpets—tonight, we feast like Scots on freedom, whisky, ramen, and the thunder of coconuts!”
Closing Thoughts
Let it be known: a true Scot rides not alone, but with a loyal Steed at his side, coconuts clattering, and freedom in his heart. The pipes played, the coconuts echoed, and the laughter of friends rang louder than any festival crowd. If the English think they can outdo us in spirit, they’re welcome to try—though they’ll need more than tea and crumpets to match a Scot on a mission. Onward, to the next adventure!
End log.Read more
EGPF - Glasgow Airport, Scotland, GB
June 12, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ ☁️ 72 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers
Aircraft: de Havilland Canada DHC-5 Buffalo "Pipi" (N8086K)
Guest Co-Pilot: Robert Carlyle
– “The Caerbannog Circuit”
Date: Wednesday, June 11, 2025
Weather: Scottish drizzle, with a forecast of flying cows and the odd French taunt
This episode is proudly sponsored by:
“Sir Robin’s Modestly Brave Strip & Snack Emporium™”
Home of Courageous Cuisine and Daring Disrobing!
Whether you’re running away from killer rabbits, storming castles in your underpants, or just fancy a cheeky nibble after a hard day’s quest, Sir Robin’s has you covered (or uncovered, as the case may be).
Try our signature “Full Monty Meat Pie”—guaranteed to make you drop everything for seconds!
And don’t miss the “Minstrels’ Bottomless Buffet”—where the only thing more endless than the food is the embarrassment.
Sir Robin’s: “Because sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is take it all off and have a snack.”
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Flight Plan
• Route: Edinburgh (EGPH) → Terrain landing at Caerbannog Cave (Tomnadashan Mine, 56.5140N/-4.1279W) → Terrain landing at Castle Aaaargh (Castle Stalker, 56.571533N/-5.386232W) → Castle Anthrax (Doune Castle, 56.1852N/4.503W) → Bannockburn → World Heritage Site: New Lanark → Cumbernauld (EGPG) → World Heritage Site: Antonine Wall → Overfly 55°51'59"N/4°14'37"W → Arrival Glasgow (EGPF)
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Narrative Log Entry
Oi, it’s Gaz here—yeah, that Gaz, scribbling in the logbook with a pen I nicked from a Glasgow noodle shop. If you’re reading this, you’re either part of the crew or lost in the archives looking for the Holy Grail. Good luck with that—last bloke who tried ended up at Castle Aaaargh and he’s still arguing with a Frenchman about the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow.
Edinburgh Departure – The Quest Begins
We launched from Edinburgh, engines roaring like Sir Lancelot after a double espresso. The city’s still buzzing after the Book Festival, and the local news is all smiles—school leavers smashing it, air cleaner than a monk’s laundry. Spirits high, we set course for the wilds of Scotland, where the map’s got more castles than a chessboard after a bar brawl.
Caerbannog Cave – Wheels Down in Rabbit Country
First stop: Caerbannog Cave, infamous for the Beast that guards the Holy Grail. Not a legend, mind—ask any local, they’ll tell you about the tourists who went in for a selfie and came out minus a camera, a shoe, and their dignity. This time, instead of just buzzing the place, we brought “Pipi” in for a proper terrain landing, right in the open field near the cave—just as she was built to do.
We were greeted by none other than Tim the Enchanter himself (or at least a local with a wild beard and a pointy hat), who gave us the classic warning:
“There are some who call me... Tim.
You seek the Cave of Caerbannog?
Inside, there lurks a creature so foul, so cruel, that no man yet has fought with it and lived! Bones of full fifty men lie strewn about its lair. So brave knights, if you do doubt your courage or your strength, come no further, for death awaits you all with nasty, big, pointy teeth!”
Lani and Kai, our canine crew, were undeterred. Kai, with his Australian Search & Rescue nose, picked up the scent of something suspiciously fluffy and faintly of Irn-Bru. Lani, tactical as ever from her Malay SF days, took point. The rest of us, being of sound mind and questionable bravery, kept a safe distance and prepared for the worst.
Sure enough, as the tension peaked, Lani signaled, Kai dashed, and together they snatched the legendary Rabbit’s foot—just as the Beast’s shadow loomed. That’s when Cropduster gave the order: “Run away!” And run we did, in full Holy Grail style, legs flailing, coconuts clopping, and the sound of AC/DC blasting from the cockpit as we scrambled back to “Pipi” and took off before the killer bunny could claim another victim.
Castle Aaaargh – Boots on the Ground
From Caerbannog, we hopped back in “Pipi” and pointed her west for a proper field landing at Castle Aaaargh—that’s Castle Stalker to the locals, at 56.571533N, -5.386232W. Perched on its own wee island in Loch Laich, shrouded in mist, it looks every bit the legendary stronghold you’d expect from a place holding the last clue to the Grail. We found a patch of open ground, dropped in smooth as you like, and trekked out for a closer look.
Lani and Kai hit their mysterious buttons—this time, a blast of coconut clopping and a distant “Ni!” echoed across the loch. I nearly dropped my flask. Cropduster led the way, and if there was a sign reading “Castle Aaaargh,” it must’ve blown away in the last storm. Legend says the last person to shout the castle’s name three times in a row got a faceful of herring and a lifetime ban from the local chippy.
Castle Anthrax – The Perilous Rescue
Next, a daring flyover of Castle Anthrax, standing proud in the mist. Locals say it’s Doune Castle, but don’t be fooled: this is the real deal, home to the maidens who’ll nurse you back to health, whether you need it or not. Two of our support crew got “captured” (voluntarily, I might add), and it was up to me and Cropduster to stage a rescue. Sir Lancelot himself judged our efforts, though he seemed more interested in the catering.
I tried distracting the maidens with my Full Monty routine—shirt off, hat on, socks… well, best not to mention the socks. Cropduster went full gallant knight, while Lani and Kai pressed their buttons again, setting off a foghorn and a disco ball. We escaped with the crew, our dignity mostly intact, and a new appreciation for the dangers of “peril.”
Bannockburn, New Lanark, and the Antonine Wall – History at 1,000 Feet
We soared over Bannockburn, where Robert the Bruce gave the English a right good seeing-to. You can still hear the echoes of battle—or maybe that’s just the sound system in “Pipi” rattling loose. Onward to New Lanark, a World Heritage Site where social reformers built a utopia with cotton mills and common sense. We waved at the ghosts of millworkers and pressed on to the Antonine Wall, Rome’s last stand before the Scots convinced them to pack up and head home for tea.
Support Crew Antics and the Gopher Tank Invasion
Meanwhile, on the ground, Tyrell “Slip” Grisi and Fiona “Ferret” McDougall tried to drive the EM-50ex “man cave” across a field, only to get bogged down in what locals call “the squelch.” They bartered a lift from a farmer in exchange for a crate of Irn-Bru and a lesson in how to pronounce “Edinburgh.” The Gopher Tank staged a mock Roman invasion along the Wall, cardboard helmets and all—Julius Caesar would’ve wept.
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World Heritage Site Highlights
• New Lanark: An 18th-century mill village that’s all about social reform and industrial innovation. Robert Owen’s vision made it a beacon for workers’ rights and education—makes you think what a bit of dignity and fair pay can do for a place.
• Antonine Wall: Rome’s boldest push into Caledonia. You can still see the turf ramparts and ditches—a reminder that even empires have to call it quits sometimes.
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Collectible
• Rabbit’s Foot of the Beast of Caerbannog Cave:
Thanks to Kai’s scent skills and Lani’s tactical training, we nabbed the (suspiciously plush) rabbit’s foot and lived to tell the tale, sprinting back to “Pipi” in classic “run away!” fashion.
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Challenge of the Day
Rescue at Castle Anthrax:
Two of our support crew got “captured” by the “maidens” of Castle Anthrax. The challenge: extract them without succumbing to “peril.” Sir Lancelot judged our efforts. I tried my old Full Monty routine as a distraction—worked a treat, though I’m not sure the locals will ever recover.
Outcome:
• Cropduster: “Bravest in the Face of Temptation.”
• Gaz: “Most Likely to Cause a Scene.”
• Lani and Kai: “Best Use of Mysterious Buttons” (triggered a foghorn and a disco light show).
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Music & Food
• Song of the Day: “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ’n’ Roll)” – AC/DC
(A nod to the Young brothers’ Glasgow roots and Bon Scott’s Scottish heritage—nothing says “adventure” like bagpipes and electric guitars.)
• Culinary Highlight: Cropduster, our Grill Master, looked up the perfect Scottish Grilled Rabbit recipe—herbs, whisky marinade, and a proper fire—for our tarmac BBQ in Glasgow.
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The Great Glasgow Scotch Score – Tarmac BBQ Celebration
As the sun dipped behind the hangars, our tarmac BBQ became the stuff of crew legend. The support teams from the C-17 and C-130 had scoured the region and returned with a haul of local Scotch that would make any Highlander weep with joy:
• Aultmore Oloroso Sherry Cask GTR 25 Years Old: Deep sherry, dried fruits, chocolate, velvet finish—pure luxury.
• Glenturret Triple Wood 2022 Release: Vanilla, caramel, spice, silky and sweet.
• Glengoyne 18 Years Old: Marzipan, apple, raisin, nutty sherry depth.
• Auchentoshan 12 Years Old: Caramel, toasted oak, citrus, smooth and easy.
• Oban 14 Year Old: Fruity, coastal, lightly smoky, honeyed finish.
• Highland Park 18 Year Old: Balanced spice, mild peat, honeyed warmth.
• Arran 10 Year Old: Bright, citrusy, malty, clean finish.
• Dewar’s Double Double 37 Years Old: Rich, layered, honey, dried fruit, oak.
• Aberlour A’bunadh: Dark fruits, spice, robust and powerful.
• Talisker Storm: Maritime peat, black pepper, gentle fruit.
With AC/DC’s “High Voltage” and “Thunderstruck” blasting, Cropduster plated up the grilled rabbit, and the crew toasted with drams in hand. Cuban cigars made the rounds, and even Lani and Kai lounged nearby, eyeing the grill and hoping for a taste. We swapped stories, laughed about Tim the Enchanter, killer rabbits, and wild landings, and plotted the next leg.
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Closing Thoughts
If there’s a better way to end a Scottish aviation adventure—grilled rabbit, world-class whisky, rock anthems, and crew camaraderie—I haven’t found it yet. Slàinte mhath! Here’s to the next leg, more wild landings, and the endless hunt for the perfect dram.
Somethings ya gotta go FULL MONTY..... Python.
Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, ya know what I mean, you know what I mean, say no more, say no more!
Flight Log End.Read more
EGPI - Islay Airport, Scotland GB
June 14, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ 🌧 57 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers
Operation Highland Haul: The Great Scottish Sweep
Aircraft: DHC-5 "Pipi" (N8086K)
Date: June 14, 2025
Guest Co-Pilots: Graham Chapman, Billy Connolly, David Attenborough
Mission Overview
While the DHC-5 "Pipi" only landed at three primary airports—Campbeltown, Gigha, and Islay—our support crew executed additional landings and sorties wherever feasible, utilizing the versatile EM-50ex and the rugged Gopher Tanks to reach remote distilleries and outposts, ensuring that no bounty was left behind. These support vehicles allowed the squadron to collect whisky, supplies, and local delicacies from locations inaccessible to the main aircraft, maximizing the haul and the adventure for all involved.
Phase 1: Glasgow to Campbeltown – Graham Chapman
Right! This is your guest co-pilot, Graham Chapman, commandeering the logbook as we depart Glasgow with Cropduster at the helm—his moustache and goatee impeccably groomed, already glistening with anticipation for the next bowl of noodles—and the crew in high spirits. Before we get too far, I must announce that today’s leg is proudly sponsored by Scott Pallets: Raising Scotland’s Spirits, One Barrel at a Time. ‘If it’s not on a Scott Pallet, it’s not going far!’ Rather like some of our crew, I suspect.
As the city slips away beneath our wings, the gentle strum and warm vocals of Dougie MacLean’s ‘Caledonia’ drift through the DHC-5’s speakers. The melody wraps us in a sense of homecoming and longing, the kind that makes even the most hardened aviator pause and gaze out at the misty hills beyond the window. Lani and Kai, our four-legged morale officers, have already returned from a brisk preflight romp in the drizzle, and now the unmistakable, earthy scent of wet dog—pungent, musty, and oddly comforting—lingers in the cabin, mingling with the aromas of malt and anticipation.
Glasgow Stop:
Before departure, Cropduster insisted on a visit to ‘Ramen Dayo!’ on Ashton Lane, Glasgow’s original ramen shop. He slurped down a steaming bowl of ‘Clydebank Curry Ramen’—a rich chicken and curry broth with thick noodles, Scottish chicken, soft-boiled egg, leeks, and a dash of local curry sauce. ‘Nothing like a bowl of noodles to start a Highland haul,’ he declared, broth dripping from his moustache and goatee.
At Prestwick, we acquired Ayrshire cheese, Turnberry golf balls, and a crate of haggis—none of which, I assure you, the dogs have managed to liberate. Campbeltown brought barrels of Springbank and Glen Scotia, plus smoked salmon for the crew’s midnight rations. The DHC-5 now smells of adventure, malt, and that persistent fug of damp canine—a scent that clings to flight suits and memories alike.
Support Crew Operations:
While the DHC-5 landed only at Campbeltown, the support crew, using the EM-50ex and Gopher Tanks, made tactical landings and sorties to nearby distilleries and supply points, ensuring the cargo hold was filled with the region’s finest offerings. These vehicles, renowned for their off-road and short-field capabilities, allowed the team to access locations that would otherwise be out of reach for the main aircraft.
With the hold filling and the crew’s accents thickening, we set course for Gigha, where my kilted replacement awaits, and I remind all: ‘No golf on the flight deck!’ Lani’s paw hovers over the ‘Nessie Alert’ button, and anything could happen next.
Phase 2: Gigha & Jura – Billy Connolly
Billy Connolly here, takin’ over the logbook and the right-hand seat! Before we go any further, let me give a big shout out to our sponsor for this leg: the Hebridean Oatcake Cooperative – Fuelling Island Adventures Since 1873. ‘Oatcakes: The only thing more rugged than the landscape.’ Never let it be said we flew these islands on an empty stomach—or an empty sense of humour!
Just as we taxi out, the unmistakable stomp and infectious chorus of The Proclaimers’ ‘I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)’ erupts from the sound system. The whole crew can’t help but join in, voices rising with each chorus, the rhythm matching the bounce of the Buffalo’s wheels along the island airstrips. There’s laughter, clapping, and a sense that, no matter how far we roam, we’d walk—or fly—five hundred miles for a dram and a story in these isles.
Gigha Stop:
On Gigha, Cropduster led us to ‘Noodle Nirvana’—a tiny hut with a view of the sea. Their ‘Hebridean Surf & Turf Ramen’ features a dashi broth with local crab, wild garlic, Stornoway black pudding, and hand-pulled noodles. Cropduster inhaled two bowls, his moustache and goatee now sporting a fresh sheen of broth and satisfaction. ‘If I ever disappear, check the noodle shops first.’
As we prepared to load up the next round of Jura barrels, Sergeant Major Palin’s unmistakable bellow rang out across the apron:
“Right! Today we’re going to do marching up and down the square. That is, unless anyone’s got anything better to do? Anyone? No? Good! Left, right, left, right—no slouching, and no nipping off for ramen until I say so!”
Several crew, including Rick ‘Powder’ Burgess and Kacie ‘O-Ren’ Liu, tried to slip away to the noodle hut, but were promptly excused by the Sergeant Major, who then found himself alone and muttering about democracy and the decline of discipline.
Support Crew Operations:
During this phase, while the DHC-5 landed at Gigha, the support crew fanned out in the EM-50ex and Gopher Tanks, landing or driving wherever possible to collect whisky barrels, oatcakes, and local specialties from Jura and other nearby islands. The flexibility of these vehicles ensured that the squadron’s haul was both bountiful and diverse, even from the most remote corners.
Jura next—barrels from the distillery, plush Highland coos for the squadron mascot shelf, and peat bricks for emergencies. The cargo bay is a riot of whisky, oatcakes, and laughter. Meanwhile, Lani and Kai, still slightly damp from their earlier escapades, shake off another round of Hebridean drizzle. The smell of wet dog—earthy, swampy, and reminiscent of sodden wool and rain-soaked carpets—permeates the cargo bay, a constant reminder that adventure is never entirely clean or tidy. Spirits are high, and the crew’s on patrol for stray haggis. Islay, here we come!
Phase 3: Islay Finale – David Attenborough
This is David Attenborough, joining Cropduster for the final approach to Islay. Before we touch down, allow me to thank our sponsor for this concluding phase: Peat & Peeterson’s Islay Mud Spa and Barrel Rejuvenation Clinic. ‘Where whisky barrels and weary aviators alike come for a restorative peat bath and a dram of the good stuff. Our secret? It’s all in the mud!’
As the DHC-5 descends over the rugged coast, Runrig’s sweeping version of ‘Loch Lomond’ fills the cabin—pipes and electric guitars blending into a soaring anthem. The music seems to lift the aircraft itself, every note echoing the grandeur of the landscape below and the bittersweet joy of a journey’s end. The crew grows quiet, taking in the view, the song, and the significance of the moment.
Islay Stop:
Upon landing, Cropduster made a beeline for ‘Broth & Beyond’—Islay’s only ramen shack, run by a retired fisherman. Their ‘Peat-Smoked Whisky Ramen’ is legendary: a smoky chicken and kelp broth, barley noodles, Islay whisky-cured pork, soft egg, and a drizzle of peated whisky oil. Cropduster, eyes misty and moustache-goatee combo glistening with broth, declared, ‘This is the taste of Scotland in a bowl.’
The DHC-5, expertly piloted, arrives with a cargo hold brimming with Scotland’s finest: legendary whiskies—Lagavulin, Laphroaig, Ardbeg, Bowmore, Bruichladdich, Bunnahabhain, Caol Ila, Kilchoman, Ardnahoe, Port Charlotte—plus tartan scarves, clan banners, plush Highland cows, mysterious ‘Nessie’s Eggs,’ and the revered ‘Angel’s Share’ barrel. Lani and Kai, ever attentive, oversee the offloading with the dignity befitting seasoned aviators, their fur still radiating that persistent, unmistakable ‘eau de wet dog’ that now seems as much a part of the squadron as the sound of coconuts and the clink of whisky glasses.
Support Crew Operations:
On Islay, as at each stop, the support crew continued their mission, landing or deploying wherever possible in the EM-50ex and Gopher Tanks to gather additional bounty from outlying distilleries and villages, ensuring the squadron’s celebration was truly comprehensive.
But as any Tiger Shark Squadron pilot knows, a mission’s not complete until the ground crew have had their fun. And on Islay, they outdid themselves.
End of the Day – Observed by David Attenborough
Here, on the windswept tarmac of Islay, an extraordinary spectacle unfolds. As the sun begins its descent, anticipation builds for the First Annual Barrel Relay—a contest of wit and strength between aviators and locals alike. Barrels, polished to a gentle sheen, await their moment. At the signal, they roll and tumble across the airfield, watched intently by Lani, whose herding instincts ensure order is maintained. Kai, ever exuberant, inadvertently causes a minor pile-up with a Gopher Tank, prompting a ripple of laughter that carries on the breeze.
Not to be outshone, the Gopher Tanks become the centrepiece of a tartan-festooned ceilidh parade. Under the guidance of Rick ‘Powder’ Burgess and Kacie ‘O-Ren’ Liu, the tanks wheel gracefully, confetti bursting in time to the familiar refrain of ‘Donald Where’s Your Troosers?’ The air is alive with laughter and the unmistakable aroma of damp dog fur.
The Haggis Drop Challenge follows. The EM-50ex, piloted by Tyrell ‘Slip’ Grisi, launches parcels skyward, while Kai retrieves each one with remarkable enthusiasm, earning applause and the occasional oatcake.
Meanwhile, the Nessie’s Egg Scavenger Hunt is underway. Plush, squeaky eggs are discovered in the most unlikely places—beneath the EM-50ex, inside a whisky barrel, even atop the nose of the DC-3—thanks in no small part to the keen noses of Isabella ‘The Wiz’ Hermosa, Su-Jin ‘Choo-Choo’ Cho, and Lani.
As dusk settles, the entire squadron assembles for the Tarmac Toast and Ceilidh. Tartan blankets are unfurled, and Cropduster’s legendary grill sends forth the aromas of whisky-marinated rabbit and wild boar sausages. Drams are raised, arms linked, and as Runrig’s ‘Loch Lomond’ swells, all—aviators, ground crew, and dogs—join in a final, exuberant ceilidh. The air is thick with the mingled scents of peat, whisky, ramen, cheese, smoked fish, and, inevitably, wet dog, as laughter and music drift into the Islay night.
Amidst the revelry, Reg, self-appointed leader of the People’s Front of Alba, could be heard raising his voice over the crowd:
‘All right, but apart from the sanitation, the medicine, education, public order, irrigation, roads, a fresh water system, public health, gin, cider, and IPA… what have the Brits ever done for us?’
Closing Scene: David Attenborough
As the festivities wind down and the last rays of sun gild the barrels, the music fades to a gentle hum, and one observes the harmony of crew, canines, and community—brought together by adventure, laughter, and the enduring spirit of Scotland. The DHC-5 ‘Pipi’ rests, her mission complete, as we raise a final toast, the scent of wet dog lingering as a badge of camaraderie and a memory of journeys shared.
And so, as night falls over Islay, the Tiger Shark Squadron and their companions look to the horizon, where a new adventure beckons—across the sea, to the green fields and wild coasts of Ireland.
‘Slàinte mhath and aloha, Islay!’
End Log.
Graham Chapman: “If you’ve read this far, you probably need a drink.”Read more
EGAE - Eglinton Airport, Ireland, GB
June 15, 2025 in Northern Ireland ⋅ ☁️ 59 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers – Clairseach and Chopsticks Edition: Flight Log #001
Date: Sunday, June 15, 2025
Weather: Atlantic mist. Crosswinds. Visibility: just enough to see trouble coming.
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Flight Plan
• Route: Islay Airport (EGPI) → Rathlin Island → Ballycastle → Castlerock → Eglinton (EGAE)
• Aircraft: DHC-5 Buffalo “Pipi”
• Crew: Cropduster (Pilot), Liam Neeson (that’s me—yes, with a very particular set of skills), Fiona “Ferret” McDougall (Logistics), Lani “Sky” (K9), Kai “Sea” (K9), Tiger Shark Squadron support
• Support: The Scottish contingent—Wallace, MacGregor, and Angus—lingering at the edge of the action, arms folded, eyes wary.
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Narrative Log Entry
By Liam Neeson
I don’t do things by accident. I chose to board the Buffalo at Islay. Not for convenience. Not for the view. I needed time—time to prep Cropduster for what was coming. You see, if you’re going to cross into Ireland with me, you need to be ready. Ready for the real lessons. The kind you don’t get from a guidebook or a tourist pamphlet. The kind that matter.
Islay gave me the perfect window. Scotch country. Cropduster’s comfort zone. I wanted him off-balance, open to new ideas—Irish ideas. As the props spun up and the Scottish coast faded behind us, I started the briefing. “You’re about to enter a world where whiskey is spelled with an ‘e’ and hospitality isn’t a suggestion—it’s a requirement. You want to survive, you listen. You want to thrive, you learn. And if you don’t, well… I will look for you, I will find you, and I will convert you.”
We took off from Islay. I don’t like loose ends, so I checked the cargo twice. Cropduster’s hands were steady on the controls, but I could see the doubt in his eyes. He’s a Scotch man. That’s a weakness I intend to fix.
As we banked over Rathlin Island, I laid it out for him. “Cropduster, Irish whiskey is triple distilled. That means it’s smoother. Cleaner. It doesn’t burn bridges. It builds them.” Kai, the only dog I trust with avionics, hit the green button. “Whiskey in the Jar” blasted through the speakers. Lani, sharp as ever, pawed the red button. A hidden panel slid open. Inside: full-sized bottles of Redbreast 21 and Bushmills 16, and a six-pack of O’Hara’s Irish Red Ale. My contacts in Dublin came through. They always do.
Below us, the North Channel stretched wide—on a clear day, you can almost see Wales on the horizon. Of course, the only whales we spotted today were the kind you tell stories about in pubs. But that’s another tale for another dram.
I handed Cropduster the Redbreast. “Smell that. Tropical fruit. Honey. Toasted nuts. Finish so long, you’ll forget what you were arguing about.” Then the Bushmills. “Honey, caramel, dark chocolate, and sherry. This isn’t a drink. It’s a promise.” The O’Hara’s? “Caramel, roasted malt, a pint that means business.”
We flew low over Ballycastle. I told Cropduster I’d find him the best Irish ramen. “I have the skills. I have the contacts. I will find it. And if anyone gets in my way, well, you know how that ends.” At Castlerock, I radioed ahead. “Keep the broth hot. We’re coming in.”
Landing at Eglinton, the news was full of Tall Ships and a parade float blocking the runway. That’s not my problem. My problem is hunger. We went straight to The Emerald Broth: Ramen & Whiskey House. My Belfast contact had the bowl waiting. Not just any ramen—this was Gaelic Firestorm Ramen. The kind of dish that tests your resolve.
This bowl was a force of nature: springy noodles in a broth forged from slow-cooked pork and chicken bones, a double-shot of Bushmills for heat, and a secret blend of Irish chilies and smoked paprika that could wake the dead. Plump West Coast mussels, wild Atlantic seaweed, scallions, a soft egg, toasted sesame, and a slick of house-made chili oil that shimmered like molten gold. The aroma alone could start a revolution.
First bite: silky, then a surge of smoke and brine, then the fire—relentless, building with every mouthful, the whiskey’s honeyed sweetness riding shotgun with the heat. By the third slurp, Cropduster’s eyes were watering. By the fifth, he was reaching for the Redbreast. Me? I’ve faced worse. But even I had to respect the Gaelic Firestorm.
Meanwhile, the Scottish crew—Wallace, MacGregor, and Angus—kept their distance. Old habits, old rivalries. I could see them, arms folded, watching the whiskey pour and the ramen bowls empty. I called them over. “You’re in Ireland now. You want to stay on this squadron, you open your minds—and your glasses. If you don’t, well… I will find you. And I will convert you.” I let that settle, then couldn’t resist: “Don’t worry, lads—Irish whiskey won’t make your kilts shrink, but it might make you smile for once.”
They hesitated. Then the aroma of the Gaelic Firestorm and the promise of Irish liquid hospitality did the rest. Resistance is futile when you’re up against a Neeson with a mission.
________________________________________
Collectibles & Barter
• Acquired: Redbreast 21 Year Old. Bushmills 16 Year Old. O’Hara’s Irish Red Ale. All full-sized. All hard to find. All mine, for now.
• Traded: Fiona “Ferret” McDougall didn’t just negotiate for the chef’s secret Gaelic Firestorm Ramen recipe—she honored the moment. She handed the chef a Tiger Shark Squadron Challenge Coin, the mark of respect in our world, and followed it with a squadron patch. “For the fire you’ve unleashed,” she said. The chef just nodded, eyes shining. Some things don’t need words.
________________________________________
Challenge of the Day
The Gaelic Firestorm Gauntlet:
Fiona “Ferret” McDougall finished first. She didn’t sweat. She negotiated for the recipe before Cropduster finished his second bite. Cropduster survived, but needed a chaser of Redbreast 21. I finished mine with the calm of a man who’s been through worse. The Bushmills in the broth? It reminded me of home—if home was on fire.
________________________________________
Support Crew Antics
Over at the C-130H, “Wrench” Crescent and Fiona tried to turn the Gopher Tank into a mobile whiskey bar. Result: one tipsy golf cart, a cargo hold that smelled like an Irish pub, and a lot of bad jokes about “runway refreshments.” I’ve seen worse.
________________________________________
Music & Food
• Song of the Day: “Whiskey in the Jar.” Loud. Proud. Irish.
• Culinary Highlight: Gaelic Firestorm Ramen from The Emerald Broth. Silky, savory, smoky, briny, and a fire that doesn’t ask permission. Bushmills in the broth. Mussels and seaweed from the coast. A bowl that means business.
________________________________________
Closing Thoughts
I came here to teach Cropduster about Irish whiskey. I’ll stay until he learns. With Fiona’s skills, Lani and Kai’s intuition, my contacts, and a hold full of the best whiskey in Ireland, we’re just getting started. The Scottish crew? They’ll learn too—one way or another. Next up: deeper into the heartland. More whiskey. More ramen. More lessons. If you’re smart, you’ll stay tuned. If you’re not, well… I will look for you. I will find you. And I will convert you.
Until the next mission—keep your eyes open, your glass full, and your wits about you. Because I have a very particular set of skills… and I’m just getting started.
End log.Read more
EINN - Shannon Arprt, Clare, Ireland
June 22, 2025 in Ireland ⋅ 🌬 63 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers – Clairseach and Chopsticks Edition: Flight Log #002
Date: Sunday, June 22, 2025
Weather: Low clouds. Atlantic drizzle. Crosswind strong enough to straighten a curly sheep. Visibility: just enough to see trouble coming.
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O’Malley’s Emergency Sheep Detangler—untangling Ireland, one ewe at a time.
________________________________________
I don’t fly for fun. I fly for a mission. Today, the mission was whiskey and castles. If you’re with me, you’d better be ready.
We left Donegal in the DHC-5 Buffalo, wind howling, surf crashing, sheep watching us with that look—half judgment, half boredom. Cropduster was steady on the controls. He’s learning. He knows what happens when you let a Neeson near a whiskey run.
First stop was St Angelo. We landed, loaded up the hold with enough Irish whiskey to make a customs officer weep. Fiona checked the manifest twice. Lani sniffed every barrel. Kai, as usual, tried to stow away with the single malts. Mission: accomplished.
I made sure we had the good stuff. Bushmills 21 Year Old Single Malt, aged in Oloroso Sherry and bourbon casks, finished in Madeira. Deep amber, dried apricot, fig, toffee, toasted oak. Redbreast 27 Year Old Single Pot Still, matured in bourbon, sherry, and ruby port casks. Cask strength, tropical fruits, toasted oak, a finish that lingers and reminds you why you came. And Clare Island Single Malt Spirit Drink, small-batch, aged at sea, with a maritime character and a story in every sip.
We climbed south. Clouds low, green fields rolling beneath us. Castles and towers poked through the mist—bones of Ireland’s history. Over Sligo, Benbulben loomed. Over Galway, the Corrib sparkled and the Spanish Arch winked through the drizzle. Birr’s Great Telescope caught a glint of sunlight, reminding me that in Ireland, someone’s always watching.
But today, the castles called. Bunratty Castle, near Shannon, rising from the fields like a fortress from a dream. The O’Briens ruled here once. Now, it’s tourists and ghosts. I tip my hat to both. Dromoland Castle, gothic towers and lush lawns, eight generations of O’Briens, now a five-star retreat. I’ve stayed there. The whiskey is older than the bellhops. And Dromore Castle, hidden in wild woods, a ruin wrapped in silence. Built by Teige O’Brien, now claimed by moss and wind. If you listen close, the stones whisper secrets.
We flew low, VFR all the way, skimming over rivers and ruins, towns and towers. Every landmark a lesson. Every castle a warning. Ireland remembers.
We landed at Shannon. The rain eased just enough for us to taxi in. The hold was full. The logbook fuller. The whiskey secure. For now.
We barely had the wheels chocked before Fiona caught a scent on the Atlantic breeze—umami, ginger, chili. “Ramen,” she said. She’s never wrong. We followed the trail through the terminal, past the usual fry-ups and pints, and found it: a ramen bar tucked away, steam rising, bowls deep, locals watching.
The signature bowl was the Shannon Atlantic Ramen. Pork and chicken bone broth, simmered slow, a dash of local seaweed for that wild Atlantic tang. Handmade noodles, waiting. West Coast mussels, fresh from the morning haul. Slices of slow-roasted pork belly, caramelized at the edges. A soft egg, marinated in soy and Bushmills 21. Scallions, pickled ginger, toasted sesame, house chili oil shimmering like a Limerick sunset. And on top, a dram of Bushmills 21, poured at the table. That’s how Shannon does it.
First bite, briny and smoky, sea and land in perfect balance. The whiskey in the broth and egg gave it a warmth that lingered, like a good story told by the fire. By the third slurp, even the dogs wanted in. By the time the bowls were empty, we’d forgotten the rain, the wind, and the crosswinds that tried to chase us out of the sky.
If you try to take my ramen, I will find you. And I will order another bowl.
We picked up more than whiskey today. Three castle postcards, one already damp from the drizzle. Fiona traded a Tiger Shark Squadron patch for a private Dromoland Castle kitchen tour. Lani and Kai scored smoked salmon treats from the Bunratty gift shop. Seamus tried to fit a whiskey barrel in the Gopher Tank. Result: one happy gopher, one sticky cargo bay, and too many jokes about “liquid assets.”
The challenge was simple: the Triple Castle Challenge. Fiona mapped the route. Lani spotted turrets. Kai sniffed the whiskey. Cropduster landed smooth, but he owes the first round next time. I finished the challenge with the calm of a man who’s seen worse—and drunk better.
Today was about more than whiskey and castles. It was about legacy—O’Briens, Neesons, the stories we carry. The crew learned more about Ireland. I learned the hold can, in fact, fit three barrels and a gopher. Next, we go deeper into the heartland. More whiskey. More castles. More lessons. If you’re smart, stay tuned. If not—well, you know the rest.
End log.Read more
Waterford Airport
June 23, 2025 in Ireland ⋅ ⛅ 66 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers – Clairseach and Chopsticks Edition
Flight Log #003
Date: Monday, June 23, 2025
Weather: Sun dodging clouds, Atlantic breeze with a whiff of distant rain, visibility: clear enough to spot a gopher plotting mischief on the far side of the runway.
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This episode is brought to you by McSorley’s All-Weather Aviator Apron—For Pilots Who Grill Like They Fly: Bold, Fast, and With a Certain Disregard for the Laws of Physics.
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McSorley’s: Because when the crew’s hungry, failure is not an option.
________________________________________
If you’re reading this, you’re in for a tale that starts at 3,500 feet above the green heart of Ireland and ends with the kind of night that makes legends. I’m Liam Neeson, and today, Cropduster and I—plus Lani and Kai, the happiest dogs in the country—flew from Shannon, over Kerry, circled the ancient stones of Sceilg Mhichíl, and landed in Waterford with a bottle of Redbreast 12 Year Old and a hunger only ramen and fire-cooked beef could satisfy.
We left Shannon with Van Morrison’s voice swirling through the cockpit, the sky a patchwork of sun and shadow. Cropduster’s hands were steady, the dogs alert, and the world below looked like it had been freshly painted for our benefit. Kerry slipped by beneath our wings, and then Skellig Michael rose from the Atlantic, beehive huts clinging to the rock like secrets only the wind could hear. I looked down and promised—if anyone tried to take this place, I’d find them.
Cork was a quick stop, but a vital one. You don’t pass through Cork without securing a bottle of Redbreast 12. I took possession of it like it was a national treasure, whispered a few words of reassurance, and stowed it safely for the journey east.
Waterford greeted us with open arms and the scent of something unexpected: ramen, Irish style. Sláinte Ramen served up a bowl that could bring a tear to a samurai’s eye—Waterford beef, wild mushrooms, Tramore seaweed, an egg so perfect it could’ve been painted by a monk, and a broth with just enough Redbreast to make you believe in miracles. Cropduster devoured his, Lani and Kai got their share, and I kept one eye on the door, just in case.
But the day wasn’t done. The C-130H thundered in, followed by the DC-3 sliding down like a memory. Their crews joined us, laughter and stories flying as fast as the planes themselves. Cropduster fired up the grill, McSorley’s apron flapping in the breeze, and soon the air was thick with the smell of charred vegetables, Waterford beef, and the kind of potatoes that make you believe in the land itself.
Then it happened: the sound systems on every aircraft synced as one, and Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” poured out across the tarmac. The sun was setting, painting the sky with gold and violet, and for a moment, every pilot, every dog, every soul on that field stood still. We listened, we sang, and it was as if the whole world held its breath—caught between the earth and the sky, between memory and hope. “We were born before the wind,” the song began, and I knew, right then, we’d gone into the mystic together.
The dogs chased each other under the wings, the whiskey flowed, and for a moment, the world felt whole.
If you’re wondering what it’s like to belong to a crew, to feel the thrum of engines and the warmth of friends, let me tell you: there’s nothing like it. And if you ever try to take this from us—this music, this food, this fellowship—I will find you. And I will make you sing along.
The fire burned low, the last song faded, and as Cropduster raised a glass, I looked around and knew: we’re the lucky ones.
________________________________________
To close the night, as the Irish moon rose over wings and water, I thought of Yeats, and the peace he found in the heart of his homeland. So let his words carry us home:
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
—William Butler Yeats, “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”
End of log.
__ __ __Read more
EIDW - Dublin, Ireland
June 26, 2025 in Ireland ⋅ 🌬 64 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers – Clairseach and Chopsticks Edition
Flight Log #004
Date: Wednesday, June 25, 2025
Weather: Irish variable—clouds, sun, and a wind that could blow the horns off a Viking helmet.
This Episode Brought to You By...
Today’s log is sponsored by “McMurphy’s Pre-Landed Luggage Service”—the only baggage company that guarantees your bags will arrive at your destination before you do, possibly even before you book your ticket. Tired of waiting at the carousel? With McMurphy’s, your luggage is already enjoying a pint at the hotel bar, texting you updates like, “Hope you remembered to pack socks this time.” McMurphy’s: “We lose your luggage so you don’t have to!”
Departure and Crew
I don’t fly for fun. I fly for a mission, and today’s mission was a tapestry of history, hunger, and hard-earned respect—woven together at 3,500 feet and stitched tight by the Irish wind. We lifted the DHC-5 Buffalo “Pipi” out of Waterford, the crew settling into that unspoken rhythm you only get with shared hardship, good food, and better whiskey. Cropduster’s hands were steady, Lani and Kai alert—though they’d only get their strictly vet-approved rations, not a scrap more, no matter how much they eyed the galley. Fiona “Ferret” McDougall was double-checking the manifest, and the Scottish contingent—Wallace, MacGregor, Angus—kept their arms folded, but even they seemed less wary than usual.
Hook Head: The Oldest Sentinel
We banked low over Hook Head, the lighthouse standing sentinel at the tip of the peninsula, battered by centuries of Atlantic wind. This isn’t just a beacon; it’s a survivor. The story starts with St. Dubhán and his monks in the 5th century, lighting warning fires for sailors on perilous nights. But it was William Marshal—the greatest knight who ever lived, son-in-law to Strongbow—who built the great stone tower in the early 13th century. Eight centuries later, Hook Lighthouse is still guiding ships, its black-and-white bands a signal of safety and resilience. The walls, over four meters thick, have withstood storms, wars, and time itself. Every step up its 115 spiral stairs is a journey through Irish history: monks, knights, keepers, and shipwrecks—1,000 lost vessels remembered in the graveyard of the sea below.
Baginbun Head: Where Ireland Was Lost and Won
Baginbun Head came next, looking peaceful but holding the start of a new era. In May 1170, the Norman vanguard—just 100 men led by Raymond le Gras—landed here. They built ramparts and ditches still visible today, raided local cattle, and dug in for survival. When an Irish army of 3,000 arrived, the Normans drove stolen cattle into their ranks and won a victory that changed the island’s fate. Reinforcements soon followed, and Waterford fell. The name “Baginbun” itself comes from the Normans’ two landing boats: Le Bag and Le Bun. As the old saying goes, “By the creek of Baginbun, Ireland was lost and won.” The earthworks and ancient defenses still mark the site—a reminder that history here is written in stone and blood.
JFK Park, Kennedy Bridge, and Ballykissangel
JFK Park rolled beneath us, green and endless, a living memorial. Kennedy Bridge arched over the river—a crossing, a risk, a reminder that every journey has its moments of doubt. I checked the instruments, checked the crew. I don’t leave things to chance.
As we circled Avoca, the heart of Ballykissangel, I caught the look in Cropduster’s eye. He tried to play it cool, but I know the signs. Ballykissangel isn’t just a waypoint for him—it’s his favorite BBC/Irish show, hands down. He’s watched every episode, knows every line, and swears Fitzgerald’s Pub pours the best pint in fiction. But ask him about Irish films, and he’ll tell you—without hesitation—Snappers is the best. Not The Commitments. Not The Field. Snappers. He’s got a soft spot for the Curley family’s chaos and Sharon’s grit. The man’s got taste, I’ll give him that.
So as we circled the church spire and pub, I made a note in the log: Cropduster’s favorite show: Ballykissangel. Favorite Irish film: Snappers. Crew morale: optimal. Whiskey stores: holding. Gopher sightings: unconfirmed.
Arrival in Dublin and The Hairy Noodle
Landing at Dublin International was smooth—too smooth. I don’t relax. Not ever. Fiona “Ferret” McDougall checked logistics, and Pipi got a once-over. Lani and Kai sniffed out the perimeter—though not for scraps. Their diets are strictly vet-approved: only foods cleared by our trusted veterinarian, nothing from the table, and certainly none of the ramen, whiskey, or pub snacks for them.
Hunger was circling the crew like a pack of wolves. My contacts pointed us to Dublin’s not-so-secret culinary bunker: The Hairy Noodle—a ramen joint with a sense of humor, a chef with more tattoos than patience, and a menu that changes with the weather and the whiskey supply. The place is as Irish as it gets, with a mural of a sheep slurping noodles and a sign over the kitchen that reads, “If you can’t handle the broth, get out of the bowl.” But today, Chef Paddy “Noodle” McBarker had something special up his sleeve. He’d heard about Lani and Kai—our K9 crew, loyal, sharp, and strictly on vet-approved diets. Paddy is a man who respects a mission briefing. He grinned, wiped his hands on his apron (emblazoned with “Slurp Responsibly”), and said, “Give me ten minutes. No soy, no salt, no onions—just a bowl worthy of a pilot’s best friends.”
He set to work, hand-pulling noodles from lean minced chicken and egg white, piped into boiling water to create soft, protein-rich “noodle” strips. The broth was a clear chicken bone stock, simmered for hours, absolutely no added salt or seasoning—just pure, gentle flavor. He chopped carrots, celery, and a bit of baby bok choy, blanched until soft and safe for canine digestion, and topped the bowl with shredded chicken breast, a quail egg (optional, if approved by the vet), and a sprinkle of finely chopped parsley for color. No garlic, no onions, no soy, no miso, no nori—just wholesome, dog-friendly goodness.
Chef Paddy presented the bowls with a flourish: “For Lani and Kai, the only pilots in Dublin who can sniff out a crosswind before it hits the tower.” The dogs sniffed, tails wagging, and dove in—slurping up every last noodle, broth dribbling from their whiskers. The rest of the bar cheered. Even the Scottish contingent looked impressed. Lani and Kai’s meals are always strictly vet-approved—no table scraps, no ramen experiments unless cleared by our trusted veterinarian. Chef Paddy’s “Puppy Power Ramen” passed with flying colors: every ingredient wholesome, every slurp safe, and not a single drop wasted. The dogs got their bowl, the crew got their laughs, and for one shining moment, The Hairy Noodle was the happiest ramen shop in Dublin.
For the rest of us, the signature bowl was Spicy Miso Ramen: broth simmered with miso and Irish pork bones, handmade noodles, slow-roasted pork belly, a soft egg marinated in soy and a dash of Teeling whiskey, scallions, nori, chili oil, and fresh garlic on the side. First bite: silky, smoky, spicy. The whiskey in the egg hits you slow, like a memory. Cropduster survived the fire. I finished mine with the calm of a man who’s seen worse.
Dublin Drinks and U2
You don’t come to Dublin without sampling the best. Redbreast 12, Teeling Small Batch, Bushmills 21 for the connoisseurs. Green Spot for those who know, and Powers John's Lane for those who want to remember. If you want a proper dram, you go to The Palace Bar or Bowe’s—places where the whiskey list is longer than the runway at Shannon. Guinness is a given. But the crew’s favorites? Smithwick’s Red Ale for the malty, toffee notes. Five Lamps for a sweet, citrusy sip. Scraggy Bay’s golden ale for something with a kick. The Palace Bar pours them all, and Franciscan Well’s Friar Weisse brings a punch of zest you won’t forget.
Today’s soundtrack was U2. Dublin’s own. Bono’s voice and The Edge’s guitar filled the cockpit as we crossed the Liffey. “Where the Streets Have No Name” as we left Waterford. “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” as we circled Ballykissangel. “Beautiful Day” on final approach to Dublin. Their music is more than an anthem—it’s a promise. The city is full of their echoes: The Clarence Hotel, Hanover Quay, Temple Bar. If you want to understand Dublin, listen to U2.
Squadron Reunion: Dublin Tarmac Madness
As the sun dipped behind the hangars, the tarmac at Dublin International turned into a Tiger Shark Squadron block party. The C-130 Hercules rumbled in from the west, the C-17 Globemaster and AT-6 Texan taxied up with their propellers spinning, and the DC-3—old but never outdone—rolled to a halt with a proud snort of brakes. Out spilled crews from every corner of the sky, boots thumping on the tarmac, laughter echoing across the apron, and the unmistakable sound of someone already uncorking a bottle of Redbreast.
We loaded up on Dublin’s finest: boxes of Bewley’s tea, bags of Tayto crisps, fresh soda bread, and enough Barry’s tea to keep the night shift awake until next Tuesday. Someone found a crate of Butlers chocolates, and the Guinness kegs arrived on a baggage cart, already tapped. The Scottish contingent eyed the whiskey selection, but even they couldn’t resist a pint poured at sunset on Irish soil.
And then came the real fun—out rolled the Gopher Tanks and the legendary EM-50 Urban Assault Vehicle. The Gopher Tanks, painted in squadron colors, are more than just armored curiosities; they’re the pride of the ground crew, equipped with soft-serve dispensers, karaoke speakers, and a button marked “Do Not Press” (which, naturally, everyone pressed). The EM-50, straight out of “Stripes” lore, is a rolling fortress disguised as an RV: bulletproof panels, rocket launchers (strictly for fireworks, we’re told), and a hot tub bubbling on the roof. With the keys in hand, the crews took turns driving laps around the apron, honking at ground control and waving to bemused customs officers. Lani and Kai, safely buckled in their designated dog seats, supervised the chaos with professional detachment.
By the time the moon rose over the city, the Tiger Shark Squadron had turned the tarmac into a festival—pilots swapping stories, crews trading patches, and the unmistakable sound of U2’s “One” drifting from the EM-50’s sound system. We toasted the day with Irish whiskey and Dublin ale, a brotherhood and sisterhood of aviators, ground crew, and one or two gophers who may or may not have stowed away in the DC-3’s cargo bay.
Closing Thoughts
If you’re reading this, you know what I’m about. I use my skills to keep my crew safe, my whiskey smooth, and my ramen hot. If anyone tries to take this from us—this music, this food, this fellowship—I will find you. And I will make you sing along. We’re the lucky ones, flying low over a land that remembers. Every flight is a lesson. Every landing, a promise kept.
As the last laugh echoed and the EM-50’s hot tub steamed in the night, I remembered the words of Seamus Heaney:
"If we winter this one out, we can summer anywhere."
—Seamus Heaney
End log.Read more
EGNS - Isle of Man, GB
June 27, 2025 in Isle of Man ⋅ 🌬 61 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Bend of Boyne and Manx Melodies – Flight Log #005
Date: Friday, June 27, 2025
Weather: A patchwork of sun and cloud over Ireland and the Isle of Man, with a brisk breeze that could ruffle the wings of even the steadiest Buffalo. Visibility: clear enough to spot ancient stones and modern secrets alike.
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This episode is brought to you by X-Plane 12—the only simulator where you can experience ultra-realistic weather, clouds thicker than your last foggy memory, and runway landings that make your passengers question your pilot’s licence. Enjoy sparks from pavement collisions, ground spray from your questionable landings, and a camera that bounces around the cockpit just like your nerves on final approach. With X-Plane 12, every flight is an adventure—sometimes even on purpose.
And remember: in the virtual skies, it’s perfectly acceptable to enjoy a wee dram while flying. Just don’t spill it on the controls.
X-Plane 12: Because in the sky, the only thing more unpredictable than the weather is you.
Flight Plan:
We launched from Dublin, banking north over the green heart of Ireland. Our first highlight was a slow, reverent circle above Brú na Bóinne—the Bend of Boyne—where the ancient passage tombs of Newgrange, Knowth, and Dowth stood sentinel, as they have for millennia. The crew was in fine voice from the start, thanks to my not-so-subtle playlist of Bee Gees classics. I’d let slip that I’d invited a special guest to join us at Belfast City—someone looking for a ride home to the Isle of Man—and the soundtrack was my only clue.
Fiona “Ferret” McDougall and the Scottish contingent—Wallace, MacGregor, and Angus—took the musical bait. By the time we crossed the Boyne, the back of the Buffalo had become a disco inferno. Wallace’s falsetto was a force of nature, MacGregor’s disco finger points nearly took out a seatbelt sign, and Fiona’s “Ferret Howl” soared above the engines. Angus, as ever, provided a bass line that rattled the cargo hold. The only ones not joining in were Kai and Lani, who, halfway across to Belfast, padded up to the cockpit, ears pinned back, and closed the crew door behind them for some peace and quiet with Cropduster.
We landed at Belfast Aldergrove for a quick cargo pickup—a mysterious crate, contents to be revealed later—then made the short hop to Belfast City. There, my secret guest stepped aboard: Sir Barry Gibb, the legendary Bee Gee himself, ready for a lift back to his beloved Isle of Man. Barry’s arrival electrified the crew. He took one look at the musical mayhem and, with a grin, said, “Let’s take it up a key, lads.”
With Barry leading the charge, the Buffalo’s back half became a full-on Bee Gees revival. The Scots and Fiona matched his legendary falsetto as we crossed the Irish Sea, flying low over Andreas Airfield, circling Laxey Harbour and the Lady Isabella waterwheel, then past the ancient ramparts of Peel Castle and the dramatic cliffs of the Calf of Man. Ronaldsway welcomed us with a golden sunset and the island’s rugged beauty.
Manx Ramen: The Signature Bowl
No visit to the Isle of Man would be complete without a ramen stop. We made our way to Castletown’s Kizuna, where the chef presented the “Manx Sunrise Ramen”: a shimmering chicken-and-seafood broth brightened with local Manx crab and a splash of shoyu, thin curly noodles, slices of pork chashu, spinach, menma, a soft egg marinated in Manx sea salt, a crisp sheet of nori, a swirl of house-made chili oil, and a sprinkle of scallions. The broth sang with umami, the crab’s sweetness lingered, and the chili oil brought a gentle island heat. Even Barry declared it “Saturday Night Fever in a bowl.”
Collectibles & Barter
At journey’s end, we tallied our treasures. We’d picked up a sealed crate of mystery cargo from Belfast Aldergrove, traded a Tiger Shark Squadron patch with a local Manx historian for rare photographs of Peel Castle’s restoration, and presented Barry Gibb with a custom Tiger Shark Squadron challenge coin—a token of respect from the crew.
Challenge of the Day
The “Manx Melody Mix-Off” reached its peak with Barry at the mic. The Scottish contingent’s group falsetto nearly cracked the windows, but Barry remained undefeated, graciously awarding “Best Effort” to Wallace for sheer enthusiasm.
Music & Food
Today’s soundtrack was “Stayin’ Alive” (on repeat, by popular demand), with honorable mentions for “Tragedy” and “Dogs.” The culinary highlight was Manx Sunrise Ramen at Kizuna—broth, crab, and noodles that could make a Scot weep with joy.
Closing Thoughts
From the ancient stones of Brú na Bóinne to the storied shores of the Isle of Man, today was a journey through time, tradition, and—above all—music. With Barry Gibb’s voice weaving through the clouds, the Scots discovering their inner disco, and the dogs seeking sanctuary in the cockpit, I’m reminded that every flight is more than a mission—it’s a melody, a story, and sometimes, a high-altitude karaoke contest.
Crate Contents Disclosed
As promised, the secret crate from Belfast Aldergrove was opened at journey’s end. Inside: a special case of organic, vet-approved dog treats for Lani and Kai—because even the hardest-working K9s deserve the best, and only the best, as cleared by our trusted veterinarian. And for Cropduster, a custom case of “Taken”—a limited-edition Irish whiskey crafted in his honor, courtesy of yours truly. Triple-distilled, aged in sherry and bourbon casks, and bottled with a label that reads: “For the pilot with a very particular set of skills.” One sip, and you’ll know you’ve been converted—to whiskey with an E, and a love for the Irish.
End log.Read more
Aberporth, West Wales, GB
June 28, 2025 in Wales ⋅ 🌬 68 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers – Wales of a Good Time: Flight Log #006
Date: Saturday, June 28, 2025
Weather: Welsh coastal complexity—sun and shadow in equal measure, the wind carrying the scent of salt, slate, and ancient secrets.
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This episode is brought to you by McMurphy’s Psychological Culinary Collective—“Where every bowl is a test, and every flavor reveals a truth. Use promo code ‘CLARICE’ for a complimentary side of introspection.”
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Flight Plan:
EGNS (Isle of Man) → EGOV (Anglesey, Anthony Hopkins boards) → Overflight: Beaumaris Castle, Great Orme, Conwy Castle & Town Walls, Penrhyn Quarry, Caernarfon Town Walls, Castles and Town Walls of King Edward in Gwynedd, Caernarfon Castle → EGCK (Caernarfon, for lunch and Gopher Tank antics) → Overflight: Llyn Padarn, Dinorwig Quarry, Dyffryn Nantlle, Bwlch y Ddwy Elor Quarry, Snowdonia/Eryri National Park, Blaenau Ffestiniog, Porthmadog, Portmeirion, Harlech Castle → Llanbedr (EGFD, for Welsh whisky and provisions) → Overflight: Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, Cadair Idris, Abergynolwyn, Tywyn → EGFA (Aberporth, for rest and our signature ramen).
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Narrative Log Entry
By Sir Anthony Hopkins
Clarice... Cropduster. Today, the sky was our confessional, the Welsh landscape our tapestry of ambition and appetite. From the unfinished perfection of Beaumaris to the brooding silence of Harlech, I watched you—steady at the controls, your mind circling the same questions as the ravens above those ancient walls.
Do you hear them, Cropduster? The stones no longer scream. The lambs have found their rest. But the hunger... the hunger never sleeps.
Aerial Feast of Fortresses and Slate
We traced the geometry of conquest: the concentric rings of Beaumaris, the iron will of Conwy, the imperial symbolism of Caernarfon, and the scars of the slate quarries that once roofed the world. The Ffestiniog Railway wound below us, a steel vein pulsing through the mountains, carrying the memory of men who carved cathedrals from stone and silence.
The Scottish crew, arms folded, watched as you navigated the valleys. I observed their loyalty—rooted in old wounds, wary of new flavors. Fiona, ever the tactician, bartered for a vial of well water at Harlech and a slate chisel at Blaenau Ffestiniog. Lani and Kai, our K9s, surveyed the world with the serene certainty of those who know their place in the pack.
Landing at Caernarfon (EGCK): The Eagle’s Nest
Caernarfon Airport welcomed us with its modest runway and spectacular surroundings. This former RAF station sits just 7 kilometers from that most imposing of Edward’s Welsh castles. Caernarfon Castle itself is “recognised around the world as one of the greatest buildings of the Middle Ages”—a fortress-palace whose polygonal towers and multi-colored masonry deliberately echoed the walls of Constantinople.
The symbolism was calculated and profound. Edward wasn’t simply building a fortress; he was creating a new Rome in Wales, complete with echoes of the Welsh myth of Macsen Wledig. The Prince of Wales was born here—Edward II, the first English Prince of Wales—in what was surely one of history’s most pointed political statements.
The Gopher Tanks rumbled out for reconnaissance, the Scottish contingent’s wariness thawing as they clambered over battlements and traced arrow loops with their fingers. Even the dogs seemed to sense the gravity of these stones—silent now, but once echoing with the cries of siege and ambition.
EGFA: The Ramen Revelation
But it was at Aberporth, as the sun bled into Cardigan Bay, that our true test began. I insisted on a meal worthy of the day’s journey—a bowl that would reveal what lies beneath the surface.
We entered a seaside ramen house, the kind of place where the chef’s knife is as sharp as his gaze. I requested a signature bowl—Welsh lamb instead of pork, Cardigan Bay crab, and every local treasure the coast could offer.
The chef obliged. The result:
• Broth: A 24-hour simmered stock of Welsh lamb bones, crab shells, and wild seaweed, layered with ginger, leeks, and a whisper of Penderyn whisky—clear, golden, and hauntingly complex.
• Noodles: Hand-pulled, springy, infused with the faintest touch of laverbread for a taste of the sea.
• Toppings: Slices of lamb chashu, tender and subtly smoky; sweet Cardigan Bay crab meat; a soft egg marinated in soy and a dash of whisky; wild mushrooms, scallions, pickled daikon, and a swirl of chili oil patterned like the concentric walls of Beaumaris.
• Garnish: Toasted sesame, microgreens, a crisp sheet of nori, and a single edible violet—a nod to the fleeting nature of beauty, and of life.
•
I watched you, Cropduster, as you tasted the broth. “It’s... different,” you said, searching for words. I smiled, “Different can be revealing. Sometimes, the most unexpected flavors are the ones that linger. Tell me, do you still hear the lambs screaming?”
The Scottish contingent approached their bowls with suspicion, but hunger is the great equalizer. Soon, even Wallace was slurping with abandon, the fire of the chili oil bringing a rare smile to his face.
Lani and Kai received their own vet-approved bowls—clear lamb broth, hand-pulled noodles, and carrots, no seasoning. Even apex predators appreciate a meal prepared with care.
Collectibles & Barter
Fiona traded a Tiger Shark Squadron patch for the chef’s secret recipe. The Gopher Tanks, meanwhile, were pressed into service as mobile ramen delivery vehicles, distributing bowls to the ground crew and a few lucky locals.
The Ffestiniog Railway and Slate Heritage
Our aerial route took us along the path of the famous Ffestiniog Railway, the "world's oldest narrow gauge railway with almost 200 years of history." This remarkable 13½-mile journey from Porthmadog harbor to Blaenau Ffestiniog climbs over 700 feet through what can only be described as a landscape carved by human ambition.
From our aerial perspective, the engineering achievement was breathtaking. These narrow-gauge railways provided the technological foundation for similar railways in mountainous regions across the globe. Welsh quarrymen became global ambassadors of slate extraction technology, carrying their skills to quarries across Europe and North America.
The railway's route wound along the contours in sharp curves, made a U-bend around a side-valley, crossed embankments built to a height of 60ft—all to serve the appetite for slate that was literally roofing the Industrial Revolution.
Portmeirion: Mediterranean Dreams in Welsh Reality
We couldn't resist a low pass over Portmeirion, that extraordinary Italianate village created by Sir Clough Williams-Ellis in the 1920s. This "Italian Riviera inspired paradise nestled on the Welsh coastline" demonstrates what happens when architectural vision meets absolute determination.
Williams-Ellis wanted to "capture the atmosphere of the Mediterranean" on the Welsh coast, and succeeded in creating something that transcends mere imitation. The village's clever use of perspective and scale creates the impression of being much larger than it actually is—rather like the way memory can magnify certain experiences, making them seem grander and more significant than their actual dimensions would suggest.
From above, the colorful buildings scattered along the estuary looked like pieces from an elaborate board game, each one placed with careful consideration for both aesthetic effect and psychological impact.
Harlech Castle: Songs of Siege
Harlech Castle commanded our respect as we banked over its clifftop position. This fortress, completed "from ground to battlements in just seven years under the guidance of Master James of St George," represents medieval defensive perfection. Its position on "a sheer rocky crag overlooking the dunes far below" with "the rugged peaks of Eryri (Snowdonia) rising as a backdrop" creates what may be "the most spectacular setting for any of Edward I's castles in North Wales."
The famous "Way from the Sea"—108 steps rising steeply up the rock face—allowed besieged defenders to be supplied by ship even when completely surrounded. During the Wars of the Roses, Harlech was held for seven years in the longest siege in British history. The castle's resistance became immortalized in the song "Men of Harlech," though I suspect the reality of those seven-year sieges was rather less musical than the ballad suggests.
Llanbedr: Whisky, Ales, and Local Provisions
Landing at Llanbedr Airfield (EGFD), we found ourselves at one of the finest airfield locations in the UK. This former RAF station, with its three hard runways, provided the perfect setting for acquiring several cases of premium Welsh spirits and local provisions.
The selection included bottles from Penderyn Distillery, Wales's pioneering whisky producer located in the Brecon Beacons. Penderyn's unique distillation process produces spirit at 92% ABV, creating whiskies with distinctive character that have won international acclaim. We secured several bottles of their award-winning single malts, each one matured in ex-Bourbon barrels and finished in ex-Madeira casks, imparting flavors ranging from tropical fruit and honey to rich sherry notes.
Cropduster supervised the loading with his usual attention to detail. I noticed his growing appreciation for the finer aspects of our mission—the careful curation of experiences, the attention to provenance, the understanding that quality ingredients form the foundation of any memorable meal.
Pontcysyllte Aqueduct: Engineering as Art
Our route south provided magnificent views of the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, that remarkable feat of engineering that carries the Llangollen Canal 126 feet above the River Dee. Designed by Thomas Telford and completed in 1805, this UNESCO World Heritage Site represents "the first great masterpiece of civil engineer Thomas Telford" and remained "the tallest navigable aqueduct in the world" for two centuries.
The aqueduct's nineteen cast-iron spans, supported by hollow stone pillars and built with innovative mortar containing lime and ox blood, demonstrate the technological advances that drove the Industrial Revolution. From our aerial perspective, the structure appeared almost impossibly delicate—a thread of water suspended across the valley, defying gravity with Georgian confidence and precision.
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Aberporth (EGFA): Evening Reflections
Our final landing at Aberporth Airport (EGFA) brought us to this former RAF station now serving as West Wales Airport. As the sun set over Cardigan Bay, painting the sky in shades that would challenge even the most skilled chef's color palette, I reflected on the day's journey.
The crew gathered for dinner at the ramen house, savoring bowls that told the story of land and sea—Welsh lamb, Cardigan Bay crab, wild seaweed, and Penderyn whisky, each ingredient a memory, each slurp a meditation. Lani and Kai, as always, received their own vet-approved feast.
Closing Thoughts: Memory and Appetite
As dusk settled over Cardigan, I reflected on the day’s journey. Castles fall silent, quarries fill with water, and even the fiercest appetites are, for a moment, sated. But the hunger for discovery—for new flavors, new stories—remains.
You’ve done well, Cropduster. You faced the unknown, tasted the unfamiliar, and found silence where once there was only screaming. The lambs, it seems, are at peace. For now.
And remember: “This Welsh lamb pairs beautifully with a robust Chianti... though I’ve always found fava beans complement liver particularly well.”
Until our next course,
Sir Anthony Hopkins
End log.Read more
EGFF - Cardiff Airport, Wales, GB
June 29, 2025 in Wales ⋅ ☁️ 73 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers – The Lambs’ Last Waltz
Flight Log #007
Date: Sunday, June 29, 2025
Weather: Mild Welsh summer—19°C by day, 11°C at night. Scattered clouds drifted over lush green hills, with sunbeams glancing off slate and sea. A gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and distant rain; the air was vibrant, fresh, and alive with the promise of summer.
Log Entry by Sir Anthony Hopkins.
The day began as all good things do: with patience and appetite. I watched you in command from the co-pilot seat at Aberporth, the runway momentarily surrendered to a flock of Eurasian oystercatchers—black and white, beaks as red as a fresh fillet. Only when the field was clear did you advance the throttle, the music system filling the cockpit with the opening strains of my own The Masque of Time—a composition of shifting moods and intricate melancholy, perfectly suited to the drama of departure and the promise of the journey ahead.
We climbed into a sky streaked with memory and mist, the Welsh landscape unfurling beneath us like a well-set table, each course arranged with deliberate care. Rhos-Y-Gilwen—a rustic amuse-bouche; Pembrokeshire’s cliffs, a charcuterie of stone and salt; Strumble Head, the lighthouse solitary as a mind in contemplation. Over Aberreiddy’s ancient promontory fort, Cawdor Barracks, and the crumbling crown of Haverfordwest Castle, the music and the land seemed to converse in a language only the hungry understand.
As we approached Margam—my birthplace—the playlist shifted seamlessly to Margam, my orchestral tribute to the place where curiosity first gnawed and appetite first whispered. Margam. Ancient woods, gothic stone, and the hush of childhood afternoons. “We begin by coveting what we see every day,” I mused, voice low, eyes distant. Margam was my crucible, a house with rooms best left locked. There’s no place like home, especially when home is haunted by appetite.
We pressed on—Nash Point’s lighthouse, Taff Ely’s turbines spinning like the gears of some great, unseen clock. The Brecon Beacons, Crickhowell, and then, at last, Blaenavon: the iron heart of Wales, still pulsing beneath the surface. As we circled above the Blaenavon Industrial Landscape, I allowed myself a moment of reflection. This, Cropduster, is the final World Heritage Site in Wales for this journey—a fitting coda, the last note in a symphony of stone, steam, and memory. The end of a chapter, but never the appetite.
From there, Llandegfedd Reservoir, Newport, Castell Coch, Cardiff Docks, and Flat Holm Lighthouse slipped beneath our wings, the city’s pulse quickening as you brought us down at Cardiff with surgical precision, the runway gleaming under a sky the color of slate and old secrets. The crew gathered on the tarmac, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of charred meat.
I, ever the master of the understated exit, excused myself with a nod—never one for protracted goodbyes—and boarded the C-17, Florence-bound, as the engines began their low, promising growl. But I am not without sentiment. As the aircraft rolled, a delivery van slipped onto the tarmac, unseen by most. Inside: a discreet parcel, still steaming, addressed to you and the crew. My final gift, arranged with all the subtlety and care one expects from a true gourmand.
The Silence of the Lamb Broth—a ramen of my own design. Welsh lamb, simmered twenty-four hours with wild seaweed, leeks, ginger, and a generous pour of Skirrid Welsh Bitter—a local ale as smooth and full-bodied as the valleys themselves. Hand-pulled noodles with laverbread, lamb chashu, marinated egg, wild mushrooms, pickled daikon, scallions, toasted sesame, microgreens, a swirl of chili oil, and a single edible violet—beauty, fleeting as memory.
Even Lani and Kai received their own bowls—clear lamb broth, noodles, carrots. Loyalty, Cropduster, must always be rewarded.
Tucked beneath the bowl, a note in my hand:
Cropduster,
I trust you’ll find the ramen shop—Broth & Whisper—to your liking. A place where every bowl is a conversation, every slurp a secret. Where flavor lingers, softly, long after the meal is done.
As the C-17 rolled toward the horizon, the final track began: And the Waltz Goes On—my waltz, written in youth and now swirling through the cabin, a fitting coda for this chapter.
Epilogue by Cropduster
But the evening had one last course for me. As the last laughter faded and the tarmac at Cardiff fell silent, I made my way back to Pipi, my steadfast companion in the skies. The cockpit was bathed in the hush of a journey’s end, the air tinged with the memory of lamb broth, camaraderie, and the peculiar ache of parting.
There, in the co-pilot’s seat, something glinted beneath the soft glow of the instrument panel: a bottle of Azienda Agricola Castell’In Villa Chianti Classico Gran Selezione, the most coveted Chianti in the world—its label whispering of rarity and intent, a trophy among Tuscan reds. Next to it, a single Cohiba Behike 56, the pinnacle of Cuban cigars, its wrapper promising earth, cedar, and a touch of spice—widely regarded as the perfect companion for a glass of Chianti. Resting beside these treasures, a note—handwritten in a script both elegant and unmistakable:
Cropduster,
In this world of fleeting flavors and vanishing horizons, true friendship is the rarest vintage. You have proven yourself a companion of discernment and courage—a pilot with an appetite for life, and, I suspect, a very long one ahead.
Should you ever find yourself in Florence, seek me in the market’s shadow. Until then, savor the silence, the wine, and the smoke.
— A.H.
As I sat with the bottle cool in my hands, the Cohiba’s cedar box smooth beneath my thumb, and the note’s words lingering like the finish of a perfect meal, the last notes of And the Waltz Goes On drifted through Pipi’s speakers—a fitting coda for this chapter. In the quiet of Pipi’s cockpit, I understood: some gifts are more than tokens—they are invitations. To memory, to friendship, and to the promise of future adventures, somewhere beneath the Tuscan sun.
I smiled, alone but not lonely, and for a moment, the world was utterly, exquisitely silent.
Flight 007: The appetite endures. The journey continues. Broth & Whisper awaits. And perhaps, Florence…
End LogRead more
