Here is one of the earliest photographs taken at Glenforsa Airfield:
A brass plaque by Glenforsa Airfield gate reads:
Since its being built, an average of one patient a month has been airlifted from the strip, mainly by Britten-Norman Two Islander aircraft operated by Loganair pilots, and daytime Scottish Air Ambulance helicopters. Nighttime evacuations by Navy Sea Kings have occasionally taken place, and in all, over 400 patients have been airlifted from Mull.
For twelve years the airfield was licensed by the Civil Aviation Authority when Loganair operated a daily summer service from Glasgow to Connel (Oban), Coll, and Mull. The improved ferry sailings from Oban to Mull - six daily - probably contributed to the termination of the air service in 1980.
Many people, however, still remember that half-hour trip to Glasgow over the most beautiful countryside in the world, in the ultra-safe hands of Captains Duncan Macintosh, Jim Lee, Geoff Rosenbloom, Ken Foster, and Ben Thomas. Aztecs gave way to Islanders, then Skyvans and Trislanders, with the occasional Twin Otter, but the old BN2 outlasted them all for sheer rugged efficiency and safety in all kinds of weather.
With an average of some four hundred visiting light aircraft yearly, the highlight is the annual Mull Air Rally - its 36th in 2002. Sometimes as many as 150 aircraft arrive over that Bank Holiday weekend at the end of May when Glenforsa operates a ground-to-air advisory radio on the ubiquitous microlight frequency of 129.825.
As for name-dropping, some of the famous (and discriminating) air visitors to Mull have included Ted Dexter, Russell Harty, Robert Wagner, David Coulthard, Winnie Ewing, Donald Sutherland, Dave Gilmore, Phil Collins, and Tom Cruise, to name but a few.
A celebrity incident which David doesn't mention above is the time when Sir Hugh Fraser of Harrods fame turned up with several men in a helicopter, they all jumped out, and the aircraft went off somewhere else. Old "Fa" Howitt demanded a landing fee, and they refused to pay on the grounds that the aircraft hadn't actually touched down. Finally it was settled when Sir Hugh bought doubles for everyone in the bar.
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Here, a cutting from the Northern Echo (14 Sept. 1966) commemorates the landing of G-ASER as it brings the CO of the Royal Engineers unit to inspect their handiwork. David Howitt had the honour of being on board.
At about that time, this photograph was taken showing the strip from the east. The old Glenforsa Hotel (of which more later) is visible in the background.
Here, the camera aircraft is approaching the field from the west. Nestling in the trees, the Glenforsa Hotel is within taxying distance of the runway - how many small airfields can offer such a facility?
In the distance, we see the Forsa river delta, and beyond it, the Scottish mainland. A slight hazard is a 500-foot hill at the camera aircraft's 4 o'clock, a couple of miles from the 06 threshold. When taking off to the west, pilots must make a climbing turn to avoid this, and a similar turn on final when landing to the east.
Ireland is not far away, and many visiting aircraft come over from the Emerald Isle. As a result, the atmosphere in the hotel bar can at times become highly convivial. Sometimes, the excitement is too much for one of the locals:
In his brief history of the airfield at the top of this page, David Howitt makes no mention of the strange event that took place on Christmas Eve, 1975, which has become known as The Great Mull Air Mystery. Why, on that evening, after dinner with his girl-friend and a bottle of wine, did hotel guest Peter Gibbs decide to take off and do a night circuit? Why did his aircraft vanish, and his corpse turn up several months later 400 feet up the hill within a couple of miles of the hotel?
Local writer Scott MacAdam has published a short book giving the facts about this extraordinary happening. The event also inspired a surreal novel, These Demented Lands, by Oban author Alan Warner, in which the Glenforsa appears transparently disguised as the Drome Hotel. Click here to read an excerpt from the book. Alan Warner has embroidered the Peter Gibbs tragedy to the extent of having two aircraft doing night circuits in opposite directions and colliding.
For years after the tragedy, wild rumours abounded as to Peter Gibbs' motive in performing this apparently insane act. It was speculated that he was an agent of MI5, doing cloak-and-dagger work in Northern Ireland. He succeeded in flying over there, but his cover was broken and the terrorists (or whoever) murdered him, brought the body back, and dumped it on the hill as a grim warning to his superiors.
The body was not discovered till the following April. According to the pathologists' report as quoted in Scott MacAdam's book, its condition was " ... entirely consistent with lying out there for a period of four months." But in my personal experience as a farmer, any corpses lying around, whether cattle, sheep, or deer, are soon attacked by scavengers and reduced to piles of bones. A shepherd (Robert Duncan) told me that he had been past that place several times with his dogs in the intervening period, and found nothing. Also, there had been a huge land/air search of the area in the days following the disappearance which also drew a blank.
One wonders how much experience the pathologists had of bodies exposed for such periods. Supposing they had reported that its condition was not consistent with this period of exposure, what would the repercussions have been? Best to give the expected answer and allow the whole tragic affair to be quietly forgotten.
Also, forensic tests detected no salt or marine organisms in the body's clothing and boots. If he had crashed into the sea and swum ashore, some traces would remain in spite of heavy winter rainfall. But then, if he had crashed into the sea and was uninjured to the extent of being able to swim ashore, why would he cross the main road and stumble 400 feet up the hill to die of exposure, when all he had to do was to follow the road back to the hotel?
The conspiracy theorists suffered a blow when a diver discovered the aircraft wreckage in the sea, a short distance east of the airfield. It is conceivable that the IRA (or whoever) might bring the corpse back, drag it up the hill and dump it, but would they go to the trouble of bringing the aircraft back from Ireland to plant it in the sea? This does sound somewhat beyond the bounds of reason, even of Irish reason.
Another theory is that Gibbs became lost - ahem, temporarily uncertain as to his position - and jumped from the aircraft over what he thought might be a soft place. Apart from the difficulty of exiting the aircraft while maintaining some control, the accepted wisdom is that one is better off staying with it and making an emergency landing. He would not have had a parachute.
Speculation aside, the fact remains that Peter Gibbs performed an act of extreme foolhardiness; his motives will remain forever unknown to us.
Finally, through the gloom the cottage came in sight, down on the shore of a desolate inlet. There was smoke from the chimney - so at least he was alive and kicking. Goats huddled behind rock outcrops. We knocked at the door - no response - so pushed the rotting timber aside and strode in. "Wha' the hell do you b*ggers want?" asked the decrepit figure, hunched by his smouldering peat fire with a bowl of porridge in his lap. "Scott," asked David, "we're doing a thing called a web site, which people can see on their computers, and thought you might like to write something for it about the air mystery - you know, Peter Gibbs."
"Peter, eh?". He brightened slightly at the mention of the name. "Poor fellow." He shook his head. "Why should I bother?"
"Well," I said, "it might help sell a few copies of your book ...". I half-pulled a bottle of whisky from my oilskin pocket and turned, allowing him to see it. "Ach well, I might just manage something." Scott rose arthritically to his feet and shuffled to the back of the room, dislodging some chickens come in for shelter. Rummaging through an old wooden fish-box, he produced an elderly typewriter, found some sheets of damp paper, and wound one of them in.
Glasses appeared, and a kettle placed over the glowing peats. We sat quietly sipping our drinks while the old fellow pecked away at the machine. Night was falling; I found a Tilley lamp and lit it. The only sounds were the roaring of the gale, the hissing of the lamp, and the occasional grunts that go with literary composition. The chickens had flown up into the rafters and, heads under wings, settled down for the night.
Finally, Scott ripped the last of the sheets out of the machine and handed them to David. "Will that do you?" David scanned rapidly through them with raised eyebrows - "excellent, Scott," he said. "This'll do us just fine." Leaving another bottle on the table, we took our leave of the old boy, who was by now quite affable. "See and go careful over the hill," he said. "We have a torch," I replied. As we left, a goat tried to snatch the precious papers from David's hand.
By now the wind had dropped, clouds cleared, and there was a full moon so the torch scarcely needed. As we walked back to the car, pleased with our success, David remarked "wait till you see this. Say what you like about Scott, he still writes well." When we finally reached the cosy Glenforsa bar, I read it myself and agreed. The manuscript is being transcribed, and in due course will appear here.
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He had been ferrying an aircraft over from the States, run into dificulties over Mull, and not knowing of the Glenforsa airstrip, made a tolerable emergency landing on the hill nearby (we prefer not to use the term 'crash' landing). Anyway, he walked away from it, and was working for his keep as a barman at the hotel. Needless to say, having a character like Roger around for a few weeks while the insurance was sorted out did much to enliven our winter social life. Recently, I saw that he is writing occasionally for Pilot magazine. If you happen to read this, Roger, more power to your elbow and good luck to you wherever you are! |
Tough Guy Roger |
Above we see an old Valentine's postcard of the original Glenforsa Hotel, which David found after some rummaging. This was unfortunately burnt down in 1968, and the Howitt family replaced it with the present log-cabin-style building, which was imported in kit form from Norway and assembled on site. It is very well insulated, as one would expect from Scandinavia, and must be one of the most comfortable buildings in the island. The timber is thoroughly fire-proofed.
To see the present hotel, click here. This site includes a 360-degree panorama around which you can scan.
Here we see the Glenforsa Air-Sea Rescue Squad in action, towing the aircraft ashore with their rowing-boat. Amazingly, the man cleaned it up and flew it home. We are pleased to report that in the entire history of Glenforsa to date, there have been no fatalities or severe injuries actually on the airfield; though there have been several tragedies involving aircraft on their way to or from Mull. In almost every case, the weather was responsible. Let us hope that this record can be maintained. The general availability of GPS is a great contribution to air safety.
For the record, we have compiled a page detailing the more serious incidents which have taken place at Glenforsa. Click here to see it.
Then in another case of running out of fuel, the pilot managed to find a fairly flat but very rough bit of the hill, and got it down somehow. This is a dear old Tiger Moth such as I used to fly.
A local landowner once decided to try landing on one of his own fields. Unfortunately, he did not check the state of the surface beforehand. It must have been after a spell of exceptionally wet weather:
Just look at those ruts! This must have been a record short landing distance for the type, but take-off in those conditions ...
The same man made another landing elsewhere in the island, and this time merely succeeded in bending his stabiliser:
He flew it back to Glenforsa in this condition.
More prangs to go here.But enough of the minor contretemps that sometimes afflict the intrepid aviators of eclectic taste who choose to visit Glenforsa. We are assembling more pages showing some of the more interesting routine movements of aircraft that have taken place in the airfield's history, and unusual types of aircraft that have turned up.
To see these, click here.
Speaking of wet runways, Mull has its share of freshwater lochs, of which Loch Uisg (pronounced "ooshk") in the south of the island has been used by float-planes and amphibians. Here, another local pilot has pulled his machine up onto the loch shore, preparatory to removing the wings and taking it home on a trailer for the winter. He considers this type of aircraft to be safer, because in the event of engine failure, there is nearly always some water in gliding distance around the West Highlands. And the water surfaces tend to be rather flatter than the land ones.
Loch Uisg is about 2 miles long by a quarter mile wide, which is adequate for most light float-planes and amphibians. But the hills are high and steep on both sides, causing dangerous downdraughts and rotors if there is any significant wind. Landing on the loch should be attempted only in very calm conditions, and with the permission of Mr. Corbett, Lochbuie (tel. 01680-814214). I understand that the main larger lochs in North Mull (Lochs Frisa and Ba) have also been used by water-craft. Sea landings are only for emergencies, due to the corrosive nature of salt water.
Regarding the amphibian shown above, later the owner removed the wings, took them home on his car roof, then came back with a hitch he had had made up and towed the aircraft home on its own wheels. Regrettably I was not on hand with a camera to capture this remarkable sight on our single-track roads.
With its present 730-metre grass strip, Glenforsa cannot take heavy aircraft or jets. What chance is there that we could persuade the Council to extend the runway and tarmac it? This would certainly be necessary if we were to receive visits from NASA's projected X-43C scramjet aircraft, shown above. (Source: Focus magazine, Oct. 2002, acknowledged with thanks). The scramjet engines do not kick in until about Mach 5, so rocket-assisted take-off is needed to reach this speed. If it took off from Glenforsa towards the east, there would be some singed eyebrows in nearby Salen. The X-43C is expected to do London-Sydney in two hours; would anybody be in that much of a hurry to get to Mull? We locals consider that when the good Lord made time, He made plenty enough of it to go round.
Years ago, there was a scheme to put a radio beacon on the Green Isles, some low rocks in the middle of the Sound of Mull. This would have made Glenforsa much easier to find, and possibly enabled all-weather operations. But it was turned down on the grounds that it would be an 'eyesore'. Honestly - a small shed and mast. The beacon would also have been usable by shipping in the dangerous waters of the Sound. Maybe one day this scheme will be brought up again, in which case I hope that sanity will prevail.
At present there is no covered accommodation for aircraft; but after years of wrestling with the bureaucrats, a local pilot (he with the amphibian) has secured planning permission for - wait for it - a hangar! I do not know what objections there were; the site is scarcely visible from the hotel or the road, being screened by trees. Even so, there's many a slip as they say. I shall believe the hangar when I have walked into it to get out of the rain.
Looking further ahead, David at present works from a caravan that is not well sited for views of the circuit. Does one dare dream of - a control tower?? An officially-assigned radio frequency? Some met. instruments? Where there's life there's hope.