My favourite aircraft is the Balerit (rhymes with gallery), a tandem wing aircraft that has no rudder pedals. The original plane, the Flying Flea was built by Henry Mignet.
THE LITTLE BIRCH WOOD
SUR LES TRACES DU POU DU CIEL
(On the Flying-Flea’s trail)
Henri Mignet wrote in his Camping Book (Le Sport de l’air, 1934, p. 190):
8 September 1933:
The plain of Beaurepaire, located in the triangle Vailly-Condé-Chassemy, is the place where I put up my tent for the third time. My caravan is back, in the middle of the plain, in the Birch Wood…The country’s loneliness and solitude… the hard life is starting.
Here below are the pages from Henri Mignet’s Book "Le Sport De L’Air", in which the Patron Saint relates the first round trip he made over the country around the "Little Birch Wood". The geographic landmarks are underlined.
I move off to the East, take off correctly and pull the stick. I am 50 feet high. There is still time to land if I want to. No, let’s go!
I do not want to climb too fast, I let the Pou do its way.
Vailly, the road (1), the power lines (2), the canal (3), the river (4), marshes (5)…. There is no place to land if…I aim at the towpath, just in case…I have an eye on the airspeed and on the R.P.M. I listen to the engine sound, I have no time to worry about the ground. This pass near Vailly between two plateaus more than 300 feet high seems to be so long!
Well, I am passing over the plateaus by a narrow margin. Propeller R.P.M: 1400, speed: 50 mph, The gearbox axis is pointed to the sky!
The plateaus disappear behind me, the relief becomes indistinct. Not a breath of wind in the air as on the ground, I am suspended in a green crystal, the sun is low on the horizon. The shadow of my head reflects on the windshield, surrounded by a red halo.
I should be high enough to turn. Let’s see… stick on the left, just a little bit, the wing slightly leans down. I tilt the stick a little more and I feel the weight of my body over a drop. I can see vertically without leaning out. This excess of visibility scares me a little. I pass just over a village, whose houses are grouped around a pointed church steeple and surrounded by small gardens…. Don’t look at it, you fool! Keeping the speed, always tilted, I gently pull on the stick. One wing below the horizon, the other one high in the sky, I turn 180 degrees. A rather long journey Westwards leads me in sight of Soissons (6); the familiar monuments and buildings of the city emerge from the mist, under the sun’s red disk. The air seems to be adorned with a pink blur. It is a very ethereal feeling. I feel as secure as if I was a passenger in my plane…
Gosh! I am alone aboard! No messing about! A sudden feeling of anguish grips me. Very gently, I push, pull, and stir the stick. Docile and obedient, the Flying-Flea responds to my orders. My mind is put at ease again.
By the way, what is my altitude? The altimeter is in the right pocket of my jacket. A problem! How to draw it out with my left hand without moving my right arm? Slowly, slowly, here it is! 1400 feet! I would not have believed it!
I lean overboard to look at the ground. The altitude feeling in a Pou and in a conventional aircraft is quite different.
My plain is behind me. A dark square: the birch wood (7), a white dot: my tent. A quick glance at my bed, my table, my notebook, my radio-set, my tool-box.. And I realize that I am so close and in the same time so far away. Up in the sky, with the engine roaring and the wind of the speed, it seems to me that flying down will be very difficult.
A second steep turn, like a master! It is a real pleasure to turn with this plane!, but, not too steep! Stick to the right. The Flying-Flea comes back to the horizontal as if it was pulled back by a return spring. What energy!
I do it once more.
The Birch Wood (7) is now in front of me, 2.5 miles below the engine…. I fly over Missy-sur-Aisne (8) and its brand new church tower.
I throttle down to 1,000 RPM. At this speed, the propeller becomes "transparent". I sink below the level of the plateaus. I have the clear feeling to leave the sky and to plunge into the dark. Although the valley is rather wide, it looks like a corridor in the twilight. I pass Condé, Cirry, and the Vesle River, curled like a lace. The poplars near my strip are 100 feet below my wings. Their last little yellow leaves, at the tip of their branches, shiver to the light evening breeze. Are they clapping at me? My final approach is now less steep, I round out. I am gliding down slowly, keeping some engine, as I am very short. A small push on the throttle. The engine regains power, 60 mph at less than a wingspan above the ground. A "very speedy" feeling.
I stop the engine and gently touch down, next to the Little Birch Wood.
THE LITTLE BIRCH WOOD
SUR LES TRACES DU POU DU CIEL
(On the Flying-Flea’s trail)
Henri Mignet wrote in his Camping Book (Le Sport de l’air, 1934, p. 190):
8 September 1933:
The plain of Beaurepaire, located in the triangle Vailly-Condé-Chassemy, is the place where I put up my tent for the third time. My caravan is back, in the middle of the plain, in the Birch Wood…The country’s loneliness and solitude… the hard life is starting.
Here below are the pages from Henri Mignet’s Book "Le Sport De L’Air", in which the Patron Saint relates the first round trip he made over the country around the "Little Birch Wood". The geographic landmarks are underlined.
I move off to the East, take off correctly and pull the stick. I am 50 feet high. There is still time to land if I want to. No, let’s go!
I do not want to climb too fast, I let the Pou do its way.
Vailly, the road (1), the power lines (2), the canal (3), the river (4), marshes (5)…. There is no place to land if…I aim at the towpath, just in case…I have an eye on the airspeed and on the R.P.M. I listen to the engine sound, I have no time to worry about the ground. This pass near Vailly between two plateaus more than 300 feet high seems to be so long!
Well, I am passing over the plateaus by a narrow margin. Propeller R.P.M: 1400, speed: 50 mph, The gearbox axis is pointed to the sky!
The plateaus disappear behind me, the relief becomes indistinct. Not a breath of wind in the air as on the ground, I am suspended in a green crystal, the sun is low on the horizon. The shadow of my head reflects on the windshield, surrounded by a red halo.
I should be high enough to turn. Let’s see… stick on the left, just a little bit, the wing slightly leans down. I tilt the stick a little more and I feel the weight of my body over a drop. I can see vertically without leaning out. This excess of visibility scares me a little. I pass just over a village, whose houses are grouped around a pointed church steeple and surrounded by small gardens…. Don’t look at it, you fool! Keeping the speed, always tilted, I gently pull on the stick. One wing below the horizon, the other one high in the sky, I turn 180 degrees. A rather long journey Westwards leads me in sight of Soissons (6); the familiar monuments and buildings of the city emerge from the mist, under the sun’s red disk. The air seems to be adorned with a pink blur. It is a very ethereal feeling. I feel as secure as if I was a passenger in my plane…
Gosh! I am alone aboard! No messing about! A sudden feeling of anguish grips me. Very gently, I push, pull, and stir the stick. Docile and obedient, the Flying-Flea responds to my orders. My mind is put at ease again.
By the way, what is my altitude? The altimeter is in the right pocket of my jacket. A problem! How to draw it out with my left hand without moving my right arm? Slowly, slowly, here it is! 1400 feet! I would not have believed it!
I lean overboard to look at the ground. The altitude feeling in a Pou and in a conventional aircraft is quite different.
My plain is behind me. A dark square: the birch wood (7), a white dot: my tent. A quick glance at my bed, my table, my notebook, my radio-set, my tool-box.. And I realize that I am so close and in the same time so far away. Up in the sky, with the engine roaring and the wind of the speed, it seems to me that flying down will be very difficult.
A second steep turn, like a master! It is a real pleasure to turn with this plane!, but, not too steep! Stick to the right. The Flying-Flea comes back to the horizontal as if it was pulled back by a return spring. What energy!
I do it once more.
The Birch Wood (7) is now in front of me, 2.5 miles below the engine…. I fly over Missy-sur-Aisne (8) and its brand new church tower.
I throttle down to 1,000 RPM. At this speed, the propeller becomes "transparent". I sink below the level of the plateaus. I have the clear feeling to leave the sky and to plunge into the dark. Although the valley is rather wide, it looks like a corridor in the twilight. I pass Condé, Cirry, and the Vesle River, curled like a lace. The poplars near my strip are 100 feet below my wings. Their last little yellow leaves, at the tip of their branches, shiver to the light evening breeze. Are they clapping at me? My final approach is now less steep, I round out. I am gliding down slowly, keeping some engine, as I am very short. A small push on the throttle. The engine regains power, 60 mph at less than a wingspan above the ground. A "very speedy" feeling.
I stop the engine and gently touch down, next to the Little Birch Wood.