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This is the tale of my CPL qualifying cross-country, in which I take my 1947 Aeronca Chief from White Waltham, in West London, UK, to Devon in the west of England. Not a pilot to take the easiest route, I’ve decided to detour via Cherbourg, Normandy, and fly direct to Devon from there. This is the story of the Cherbourg-to-Devon leg.
This is not an “I was there” account or a time I scared myself to my wits’ end. Rather, it’s the story of how extensive planning and research can turn what appears to be a reckless idea—taking a vintage single-engine aircraft over an extensive body of water for no reason other than the fun of it—into a safe and well-executed sortie.
The destination for this leg is Bolt Head, on the southern tip of Devon. As far as I know, Bolt Head is a bucket-list airfield for many UK GA pilots. Situated on the clifftops next to Salcombe, once a bustling fishing village and now a tourist hotspot, the airfield is a former WWII base for RAF pilots fending off Luftwaffe attacks from Normandy and Brittany.
I am flying the leg with my friend Sam. A naval architect by trade and experienced yachtmaster, he has not been chosen to accompany me by accident. His nautical knowledge and sea-survival training make him the ideal partner if the plan goes awry over the Channel.
Sporting a dashing drysuit at Cherbourg, Sam is ready to board.
The Cherbourg–Bolt Head route is just over 100 nm, with 80 nm over water—slightly farther than flying from Detroit to Cleveland over Lake Erie. With a 16-kt headwind component forecast today, that’s about 90 minutes over the sea, most of it beyond gliding range. The Continental A-65 predates the Aeronca itself, having been built in 1943. For that reason, Sam and I are on the ramp at Cherbourg tucking into our dry suits and packing rocket and smoke flares into the back of the Aeronca, ready for the worst. Despite the warm temperatures of the English Channel in summer 2025 (18°C / 64°F), we’re following the “dress for egress” principle, ensuring we can survive in the sea for several hours.
It takes the Chief two full minutes to reach the opposite end of the runway.
Departing from the 2,440-meter runway at Cherbourg, it takes the Chief two full minutes to reach the opposite end. Banking left, we route south around the local prohibited areas—the naval port in central Cherbourg and the nuclear power station on Cap de la Hague to the west. Passing over the Normandy beaches, we have 80 nm of water ahead, save for an interlude over Alderney, one of the Channel Islands, 18 nm west of the Normandy coast. With the forecast winds, that’s over 90 minutes over the sea.
Routing Northwest across the Normandy beaches.
Filling the 15-USG forward fuel tank, the Chief has nearly four hours of endurance, so there is no point of no return. Alternates in the Channel Islands and on the British mainland are available if Bolt Head’s single grass runway is closed on arrival.
The first 50 nm of the crossing will be within the Channel Islands’ Class D airspace—equivalent to Class B in the U.S. for those unfamiliar with the UK’s airspace taxonomy. Crucially, the Chief does not have an electrical system. That means no starter, no lights, and no transponder.
I emailed weeks ahead to confirm permission to transit the Class D without a transponder. It’s not obligatory in the UK to carry one in Class D, but if my request were declined, I’d face a difficult diversion, as French customs at Cherbourg would have closed for the day.
We receive clearance to enter and are advised of a Dornier Do-228 from Channel Islands carrier Aurigny arriving at Alderney. Sam and I squint to see it, but at this point it’s just a speck on the horizon, over 10 nm ahead.
Punching out over the deep blue, West of Alderney.
With hindsight, I think the controllers struggled to comprehend just how slow we were, puttering along with a 51-kt groundspeed. This slow speed meant the Doppler radar array struggled to identify the Aeronca, and we were detected only seven times during our 55 minutes inside the Class D. The controllers were relying solely on my verbal position reports—much like flying oceanic procedures in the Pacific, a comparison I’m sure is entirely appropriate!
Given the depth of planning, the crossing is executed without issue. Cruising at 3,500 feet, and with the sea lacking the convective activity produced by terrain, it’s smooth sailing and easy to hold altitude and heading. Without a gyro-stabilized compass, the deck compass responds to even the mildest turbulence like a spinning top, so I’m grateful for the smooth air given the absence of ground references.
All smiles over the Channel.
At this point I must confess that I wanted to complete the entire leg by dead reckoning, but FIR boundary crossings (France; Channel Islands; UK) must be made at designated waypoints. I’m forced to concede and use ForeFlight to ensure we’re over SKERY, the waypoint for exiting the Channel Islands’ Class D, 22 nm south of the English mainland. I had planned for Alderney (EGJA) to SKERY to take 47 minutes. Glancing at my watch, it’s been 47 minutes and 45 seconds since we passed over EGJA—testament to the accuracy of the Met Office forecasters in this remote part of the UK.
Sam and I can see the shadow of Start Point and its lighthouse emerging on the horizon. With 25 minutes until landfall, we are handed off from Jersey Control. Silencing the radio chatter of the Jersey and Guernsey international airports, we can finally enjoy some peace before our arrival at Bolt Head.
Bolt Head uses the SAFETYCOM frequency, standard for UK strips without an air traffic service. We tune in to the surprisingly quiet channel in case of other movements this afternoon. After minutes of silence, I’m satisfied we’ll have a hassle-free arrival.
Making landfall over Start Point is the most memorable experience I’ve had in an aircraft. An area Sam and I know so well from the ground, I peer out the port-side window and watch the jagged cliffs of the South Devon coastline pass beneath us. Usually seen from the deck of a sailboat, these cliffs now lead us to Bolt Head airfield, 7 nm to the west. Coaxing the Chief directly westbound, we’re soon staring down the 600-meter (1,970-foot) grass runway, oriented 11/29.
Start Point emerges on the horizon.
We cross the mouth of the Salcombe ria and can see the chaotic congregation of holidaymakers and fishing vessels converging on Salcombe Harbor. Disguised in the beauty of the steep cliffs is the knowledge that if one’s speed or altitude drops too low, the only land-out options involve either the cliffs or the sea. With winds gusting 16 kts at aerodrome level, significant turbulence can be expected, with updrafts and downdrafts capable of overpowering the 65-hp Continental.
Sam and I observe the nautical melee of holidaymakers and working vessels from afar.
On final, I hold the airspeed a few knots above my usual approach speed to account for the gust factor. Passing 150 feet, we’re lifted 40 feet by a surge of headwind. Experience, limited though it may be, tells me that what goes up must come down. Thankfully, I haven’t reduced power as a sharp downdraft follows, forcing us toward the fence at the Runway 29 threshold and bleeding off the energy we’d just gained. Mercifully, the gusts stabilize by the time we pass 50 feet.
Touching down, I’m applying a healthy dose of right rudder to counter the 7-kt crosswind component, with full opposite aileron, and she stays straight down the strip.
Delighted to have completed the final over-water leg of the day, I use differential braking to spin the Chief around on the runway, exploiting the propeller slipstream to overcome the crosswind as the fuselage comes broadside to the wind.
A short taxiway perpendicular to the runway leads to the parking area, requiring me to present the freeboard of the aircraft directly across the wind. The law of the taildragger dictates that it must weathercock into the breeze, and thus the pilot must use all their strength—rudder, braking, and aileron—to keep the aircraft straight.
And at this final stage of the flight, I come undone. I can’t keep her straight, edging ever closer to the crops alongside the runway. Sam and I finally admit defeat and push the Chief to the parking area. I’m sure the onlookers on the nearby footpath were wondering what sort of buckshee aviation was unfolding before their eyes.
Nevertheless, for the final time today, Sam and I strip off our dry suits and enjoy the feeling of airing ourselves out after two hours block-to-block in the suits.
Slightly out of breath, we’re parked up at Bolt Head.
- An Aeronca Chief Takes on the English Channel - December 1, 2025
- Beginner’s Luck: Winning my first aerobatics competition - April 3, 2023
Thanks for sharing your adventure. You made me feel like I was riding along with you!
While in the USAF, I served for a few years out of the cockpit as an ‘assignments’ officer — I would tell other fighter pilots where to go and they often told me where to go too! One summer month, I traveled to Europe to speak with USAF fighter pilots stationed there about their prospects for assignments upon their return to the US. When I finished in Germany, I hitched a ride in an Army C-12 (a Beechcraft Super King Air in military ‘attire’) to get to England and continue the meetings with my fellow fighter pilots. At the time, I happened to be reading Air War, a book by Edward Jablonski, which, as the title suggests, covered the air war during World War II. As the C-12 approached the west coast of France, I turned the page to start reading about the Battle of Britain and realized we were at about the same altitude, and heading in the same general direction, the Luftwaffe aircraft had flown 40+ years prior to my journey. As we went ‘feet wet’ over the Channel and, with the weather absolutely CAVU, I could envision the German pilots preparing for what lay ahead while the British pilots were readying their steeds for the upcoming battle. I spent two weeks in England at several bases from which the British had launched their fighters and marveled at their deeds and misdeeds that I read about in my book.
Thanks a lot for your comment Dale, glad I could elicit some old memories. Sounds like the WWII tech lands somewhere in between the Aeronca and C-12 – all we need now is for someone to write up a Channel crossing in a warbird to fill the gap!