blackrat - @ 20six.co.uk

1,000 ft UNDER THE SEA and 1,000 MILES FROM HOME

My curiosity is the damndest thing. It's what's driven me throughout my career as a journalist, each assignment a way of sating my desire to learn, to understand, to garner the knowledge that I don't yet have. For the most part, I've cherry-picked my way through a forest of desirable jaunts that have been the envy of almost everyone I know; gadgets to review, hotels and restaurants. High-end motorcycles and luxury cars to drive or ride, trips overseas to places that are unfamilar, flights in business class paid for by somebody else. And then there is the quasi-military aspect of my career, which has allowed me to experience life as an officer across all three services, without any of the hassles and frustrations that go along with the job. No politics, no long absences from home at someone else's behest; just the good stuff, parachuted in to the mess somewhere as supernumerary crew so that I can experience life as a fighter pilot, a transport pilot, a helicopter pilot or infantry officer. Yeah, it beats working for a living and yes, I do feel lucky.

Then came this latest gig, the result of a contact made when I was despatched aboard our flagship aircraft carrier, HMS Illustrious, to write about Joint Force Harrier. "How'd you fancy spending some time aboard one of the Navy's nuclear attack submarines?" I was asked, and I have to confess, my curiosity was aroused. Having the opportunity to see a nuclear submarine outside of its base port is rare indeed; most of the work of the submarine service is shrouded in secrecy and very few people know where they go, or what they get up to once they dive below the surface. Here I was being handed an opportunity to see for myself.

The only thing is, instead of the normal envy that I witness from friends and family whenever I have an assignment in the offing, what I got was '"Huh, rather you than me!" And that got me thinking. What was it that puts people off? The perceived danger? The proximity to a nuclear reactor and several tons of warheads or the claustraphobia of being stuck in a pressurised metal tube 1000 ft under the oceans? In fact, nobody seemed able to give voice to what it was that they found such a turn off about this gig, so off I went in the early hours of last Tuesday morning to find out for myself. I'm pleased to report that not only did I survive the trip, I had a fantastic time and have returned significantly wiser about something that hitherto, I had only the barest knowledge of. Here then, is what I learned.

HMS Trenchant wears her Name with Pride: Portside in Gibraltar, Wednesday 28th September, 2005.

I can't say where the sub had been before I joined her, but after a month on patrol, she was berthed in Gibraltar, so that's where I was headed. The only downside is that British Airways operates a single flight each day to the colony and it departs London Heathrow at 06:40 each morning. And given that the trains don't start running until 05:50, I had no choice but to pre-book a taxi for 04:25 the following morning to convey me to the terminal, even though I'd booked in online the previous day (and landed myself seat 3A, right at the front of the Airbus A320). So not only did I have to get up at 03:30, I also had to pay £45 for the privilege.

The boat I was headed to join was HMS Trenchant (S91), a Trafalgar-class SSN (Ship Submersible Nuclear), which is also the fleet's most up to date and well-equipped submarine in its class. Trenchant emerged from an extensive refit in 2003 and it's left her with the the 2076 sonar suite, the most advanced integrated sonar for any submarine fleet in the world, as well as a new reactor core which is good for at least twelve years. Trafalgar-class boats use pump-jet propulsion in place of a conventional propeller and work on much the same principle as the jet-skis which you can hire on holiday. This form of propulsion is much quieter than conventional propellers, and driven by steam produced from the reactor core, offers a far lower noise signature overall than other boat designs which run on diesel.

She weighs in at 5,200 tons, is 280 feet in length, has three decks and carries a complement of 18 officers and 112 ratings. She's certified to depths of 1,250ft (although she can go deeper - the exact depth is classified) and, with her nuclear power plant, can undertake patrols for indefinite periods, constrained only by the amount of food she carries on board. She also carries 2,500 spare parts (worth £25m), ranging in size from nuts and bolts, to a full inertial navigation system and has fully equipped workshops onboard where parts can be machined. In practice, all this equates to her being able to patrol underwater for up to 104 days without resupply.

Officer of the Watch: HMS Trenchant's captain, Commander Hugh Beard, RN (left) with the boat's navigation officer Lt. Gareth Jenkins enjoying the view as we head into open water from the Straits of Gibraltar.

HMS Trenchant is a 'hunter killer' submarine (designated SSNs by the RN) and like other boats of the Trafalgar Class, is designed to pursue and attack enemy submarines and surface ships using torpedoes. They are also able to carry cruise missiles for use against shore-based targets. This type of submarine is used to conduct surveillance and intelligence gathering tasks as well as other types of classified operations. Ballistic missile submarines ('Vanguard-class boats, designated SSBNs) carry long-range nuclear warhead missiles. They roam the oceans of the globe avoiding contact, to ensure that their anonymity is not compromised. The ability to strike at any time has ensured that deterrent value of SSBNs, or Bombers, has proved effective in preventing attack on the UK.

Arguably the most important role of submarines like HMS Trenchant is as an anti-submarine weapons platform and SSNs have an unrivalled capacity to seek out and destroy other submarines that might pose a threat to friendly forces. The SSN also has a well-proven capability to detect and attack surface forces. The spearfish torpedoes carried onboard fall under the commanding officer's remit and can be used on his command against other submarines or surface vessels whilst Sub Harpoon missiles are effective against surface ships out to a range of in excess of 50 miles. Land attack missiles, such as the Tomahawks carried by Trenchant can only be luanched via shore-based command, with encrypted mission details sent to the boat when she's on the surface, or at periscope depth.

I arrived in Gibraltar at 10:15 local and made my way through a deserted terminal to find a taxi. I didn't have long to wait and by 11:00, I was ensconsed in my room at the newly refurbished Eliott Hotel, situated half way up the Rock itself. There, I grabbed a couple of hours sleep before wandering the local streets to acquaint myself with its Gibraltar's character. That was all I needed - I can understand people making the day trip across the border from Spain, but I can't get my mind around anybody spending a holiday in Gib itself - it's character is more like how I imagine Britain was in the 1950s, hardly somewhere you'd want to linger. Luckily, I only had 24 hours to kill, and that evening, I had a dinner appointment with HMS Trenchant's Exectuive Officer (XO, the second in command) and her Captain, Commander Hugh Beard. They proved delightful company, bringing me up to speed with the boat's capabilities, but we had an early start again the following day, so there were no late drinks at the bar.

Shark's Fin: HMS Trenchant's rudder as viewed from the conning tower steers a course into the open waters of the North Atlantic after leaving the Straits of Gibraltar.

My alarm sounded at 05:30 the following morning and I showered and packed with a growing sense of apprehension at the trip to follow. I'm not given to claustraphobia, but what if I discovered the opposite to be the case once on board? How would I fare, living in such close proximity to other people, for so long? As it turned out, I needn't have worried. My first impressions, as we arrived at the boat in the early morning darkness, were of how sleek and foreboding Trenchant looked. Long, sleek and black, the greatest part of her hull was beneath the waterline, leaving just a narrow sliver visible above it, dominated of course by the bridge, or conning tower which rose to dominate the skyline. Mark, the XO told me to leave my bags on the jetty and organised for a steward to deliver them to my accommodation, and we walked aboard, and through the main hatch, to climb below.

I was suprised at just how roomy the submarine was. Its interior was functional, yes, and good use had been made of all available space, but there was more than enough room to live. Mark escorted me to the wardroom, an area that would be the focus of my existence over the next few days, before showing me to my accommodation, a bunk in the weapons stowage compartment on the third deck. All the wardroom cabins were occupied by the boat's officers, so I was to be sleeping on a cot mounted six inches underneath one of the sub's Tomahawk Cruise Missiles along with several officers new to the boat. By the time I got there, my luggage had already been left for me, so having made myself at home, I made my way back up top where I was invited to join the captain, the XO and the navigator on the bridge as we slipped our mooring and made for open sea. By now, the light was coming up and a gorgeous sunny day was in the offing, a perfect demonstration by Mother Nature of just what I would miss over the coming days.

Two tugs arrived to pull us out to open water and we slipped away some ten minutes before our 10:00 sailing time. The deep water of the med was a wonderful hue of blue as the sun beat down upon it, and if there is a better vantage point to witness the day unfold than from the bridge of a Royal Navy sub at sea, I've yet to see it. As we sailed along the Strait of Gibraltar, the rock growing smaller behind us, a small flotilla of tugs, police launches and ships accompanied us until eventually, we were alone in a vast ocean of open water, our only company some of the ships plying the routes between Africa and Europe. At 14:00, I bid my loved ones farewell via text from my mobile phone and made my way down below to the wardroom for lunch. An hour later, I joined the XO in the control room as he took control of the Con ready for us to dive.

"Control Room, Sonar, Contact Bearing 230!": Sonar operators at their screens aboard HMS Trenchant. Noise traces show as vertical lines on the screen and by hovering a cursor over each line, operators can hear the sounds produces from the target.

There's little to see once below. A sub has no windows (they would compromise the structural integrity of the hull and emit light, two things a covert hunter submarine least needs in its arsenal of abilities), so the boat's eyes are its sonar array - towed at the rear, on its flanks starboard and port, on its fin, and on its bow. The sonar suite is used passively, to listen for contacts both submarine and on the surface (active sonar gives away one's location to other vessels - hardly the stuff for covert ops). After a high profile incident in 1990 in which HMS Trenchant snagged a trawler's nets and dragged the boat to the ocean floor with the loss of its four crewmen, new rules were introduced that dictate that submarines must not approach within 4000 yards (2 miles) of surface vessels. A minimum safe depth is worked out, which takes into account the maximum draft of the heaviest supertanker, the height of the sub from tower to keel, and a safety margin between the keel and the ocean floor. In this case, our safe depth was 60m (just under 200ft).

Once dived, riding a modern submarine is very much like being on an airliner in terms of motion. It's very stable, with almost no movement laterally, no porpoising, as you travel below the level of waves on the surface. What's particularly noticeable though is that there is a whole world down there once you examine the Admiratly charts (all of which are marked 'Secret' with more detail than you will ever find on civillian sea charts). There are mountain ranges, guyots, craters, valleys, gullys and ridges, all of which dwarf anything to be found on land. Listening and decoding the sounds on the sonar array is a highly-skilled job for the guys engaged in listening, as they have to listen through the sounds produced by water against the hull, and those produced by ocean life, or 'bio' as they term it. The bio is enough to drive anyone insane, one long jazz-like symphony of prawns clicking their claws, crabs, whales, dolphins and schools of fish clacking, squealing, whining, chirriping, clucking and moaning.

That said, once you clear up the background noise, the sounds are mesmerising as you listen in on conversations between Bottlenose Dolphins, or Humpback Whales singing and moaning. The sound files I've uploaded are taken from the sonar suite on Trenchant, and have been cleaned via an audio editor to remove ambient water noise. Enchanting, aren't they?

"Make your Depth 160 Metres, Zero Bubble": The planesman at work at HMS Trenchard's 'functional' helm. The two large dials above his head are depth guages, with a more accurate scale for low depths than is available from the dial on the panel. 'Driving' a sub is not unlike flying an aircraft, as I found out for myself when I surfaced the boat at the end of our mission.

There is a serious side to sonar and the advanced suite that Trenchant is fitted with gives it a significant advantage over any other submarine in the water, enabling the crew to detect targets from almost twice the range that those targets might have. Trenchant is able to do this because the range that its sonar suite offers is so great, far ahead of anything else out there. She's also one of the quietest boats under the water, emitting sound waves to cancel out those produced on certain frequencies, making her almost impossible to spot against the background noise of water, bio and surface vessels. There's something terribly exciting about tracking targets, gathering information without them even being aware that you're there.

After dinner on the first day, I was taken on a tour of the sub by the various heads of department - the weapons officer, navigation officer, weapons engineering officer and finally the marine engineering officer, amongst who's responsibilities was the nuclear reactor and associated systems. Having acquainted myself with the boat's capabilities, the trip aft was something of a revelation, given that the reactor and its subsequent shielding and ancilliary systems take up two whole decks of the submarine. On the top floor, access aft is via a 'tunnel' which takes one over the top of the nuclear reactor. Access to the tunnel is via two hydraulic doors at each end, each of which weighs in at over one ton. I was not entirely surprised to note the massive increase in ambient temperature once through the first of the doors - with the sub air conditioned to a comfortable 21 degrees throughout, the temperature above the nuclear reactor was somewhere in the 40s. There may only be a small amount of fissile material, (and even that is shieded) but nuclear reactors generate massive amounts of heat so it's perhaps unsurprising that the temperature spike is so noticeable. It was interesting to see the reactor itself, which I viewed through a 5" thick glass/Boron porthole in the floor; that was a first for me.

In simple terms, the reactor is a collection of fissile Uranium 235 fuel elements which provide huge amounts of energy (and heat) to power the vessel (a ton of fissionable material releases the energy equivalent of 2.5 million tons of coal).  The Pressurised Water Reactor (PWR) system is based on primary and secondary circuits; water coolant travels around the primarily circuit, through the reactor pressure vessel (where it is heated by the nuclear fuel elements) and on through the tubes in a steam generator. A high pressure is maintained in the primary circuit to prevent the coolant from boiling. In a steam generator, the heat from the primary coolant is used to convert the water outside the tubes into steam, which is used to drive the main turbine engines. From there a system of clutches, gearing and propulsion transmits the power into movement of the submarine. Steam is also used to drive the turbo-generators that supply the submarine with electricity (they produce 2.1Mw, enough to power a town with a population of 50,000 people).

Plotting a Course: Navigation Officer Lt. Gareth Jenkins stuides a chart which plots the 200 plus wrecks in the shallow waters of the continental shelf.

In a number of the elements, (such as the uranium used in the fuel plates of a nuclear reactor), the nucleus of the atom is just stable. If a neutron is fired at a uranium atom, the uranium nucleus absorbs the neutron and becomes unstable and thus, the atom splits and releases a great deal of energy, which is used to generate steam to power the turbines. However when this ‘fission’ happens not only is the energy produced, radiation and additional neutrons are also produced and the uranium atom changes into a variety of new elements or ‘fission products’. The extra neutrons produced help continue the reaction and in time sufficient neutrons are produced which enable the reactor to become ‘critical’. The chain reaction is then in a self-sustaining state.

The nuclear fission process needs to be controlled to prevent overheating. Control rods are inserted into the reactor core, more neutrons are absorbed. The fission reaction can be controlled as fewer neutrons hit the uranium atoms. When the control rods are withdrawn, a greater number of neutrons build up within the core increasing the chain reaction and the heat produced. I watched the team run through a full scale emergency in which the 'reactor' was scrammed to prevent it from going into meltdown and was impressed with the efficiency of the team, working as a seamless unit.

Evenings on the sub were relaxed, with imaginative and varied cuisine prepared by the two chefs on board, from a kitchen smaller than that which I have at home. Three courses were the order of the day, using fresh ingredients, freshly baked bread, and lots of imagination. Stewards served us in the wardroom, cleared away after us, and on two evenings, we settled back to watch DVDs before turning in for the night. Sleep was easy enough, given the nature of the days, and I wasn't troubled by the shift changovers that most of the ratings on board worked (6 hours on, 6 off on a rotating pattern with two 'watches' working 1 o'clock to 7 o'clock and 7 o'clock to 1 o'clock).

Up Periscope: Executive Officer, Lt. Commander Mark Thompson looks on the world above from the depths of the North Atlantic

Showering was interesting each morning; although the sub draws in 10 tons of sea water each day and purifies it for drining/washing/cleaning, two tons of the supply are used to cool the reactor core and the engineering team need access to a reserve "should the worst happen". Therefore, the watchword is conservation, so you use the minimum possible when washing or showering. In practice, this means water on to wet yourself, water off. Wash and shampoo, water back on to rinse, and off again - job done. It's surprising how quick you get used to it, and showering becomes a functional rather than enjoyable morning pastime.

I spent most of the second day watching emergency operating procedures being followed as the whole boat became engaged in damage control evolutions with multiple emergenices being thrown at them in testing situations. I was greatly impressed by the crew's response, as I was their professionalism as a whole. Submariners attract a pay uplift by comparison with their surface based counterparts, and there is no room for passengers onboard; everybody is multi-skilled and has to be able to identify every valve, switch and knob on the sub. Each officer and rating is fully trained in fire fighting as, for obvious reasons, fires onboard can not be allowed to develop. 'Planesmen', those who 'drive' or control the sub, double up as stewards in the Wardroom. A large percentage are trained to a high level in first aid skills and there is a widespread 'can do' attitude where everybody gets involved in everything to get the job done. There is a flat management structure aboard too, the Captain an intergral part of the team rather than the detached, remote figure that you tend to get aboard surface ships.

Eddystone Lighthouse: One of England's most famous light houses, just off the coast of Plymouth, as viewed through the lens of the periscope. The white spray on the wave tops indicates sea-state 3-4 - still rough, but not a touch on what we'd experienced over the previous 24 hours.

Air aboard the boat is produced through a process of electrolysis, using sea water (of which there is obviously an abundant supply!). Sea water, which you might remember from basic science as H20, comprises two hydrogen atoms bonded together with a single oxygen atom. The process of electrolysis simply breaks that bond, separating the oxygen and routing it via the submarine for breathing. Charcoal scrubbers remove carbon dioxide from breathed air and reuse it, adding fresh oxygen along the way. The Hydrogen element of the sea water is compressed and ejected back into the water.

Time passed suprisingly quickly whilst I was aboard, especially given that there are no visual cues to track day or night. I was made to feel very welcome by all members of the crew, given unrestricted access to every aspect of the boat's operations and allowed to talk at length or interview whoever I chose. I looked through the periscope at every opportunity (the boat surfaces to periscope depth - roughly 16 metres - on average every 18 hours to pick up radio traffic, which includes a tele-print of the latest news and sport for dissemination to the crew) and was stunned by the clarity it presents to the viewer. Surface vessles or coastal details up to six miles away can be seen with startling detail and photographed for later analysis ( the boat also carries a second 'attack' periscope used for targetting missiles).

Flying the Ensign: Bosun 'CK' raises the Ensign as we approach UK territorial waters. The sun and blue skies might look inviting, but the England I returned to was significantly colder than the one I left just five days earlier; Autumn had most definitely taken hold.

On Friday evening, whilst about 200 miles away from Plymouth, I was invited to surface the boat and took my place at the helm to bring us up from depth. Having been under water for three whole days, I was quite looking forward to this moment - although I later wished we were back at depth! In essence, we had no choice but to surface, because the sea bed of the Atlantic Ocean rises significantly from around 28,000ft at its deepest point, to just 150 ft once you reach the continental shelf. This area, around the south west of Britain's coast, is absolutely littered with wrecks too, some 200 or more mostly from WWII. So in addition to the depth being too shallow for the boat to stay submerged, the sea bed there is littered with potentially dangerous obstacles.

Surfacing the boat was relatively straight forward, but life as we broke into open air was anything but. We surfaced to a sea state of 7, with strong winds and very high waves that pitched the submarine every which way. We were rolling from 20-30 degrees port to the same on the starboard side, pitching forwards and aft by a similar degree. Submarines, unlike ships, don't have stabilisers, and don't cope well on rough seas. And with no visual cues onboard, life can get very interesting. I must admit, I thought I coped rather well that evening (we surfaced at 22:00). I sat in the wardroom reading after dinner, and even quite enjoyed walking along a shifting floor as I made for bed. I managed to sleep until 06:00, despite the boat continuing its corkscrew-like motion throughout the night, and even managed to shower. It was having dressed though, that my inner ear gave up the fight and a wave of nausea washed over me. So I sought solace in my bunk, horizontally.

HMS Trenchant breaks through the water: Much like an iceberg, a modern submarine's appearance is deceptive, with the greatest part of the hull hidden beneath the waterline. The size of the officers on the bridge give some idea of the boat's scale - and Vanguard-class subs are bigger still, by a margin of 50%!

Which was where I stayed until 12:00 on saturday. I felt bouyed by the fact that a large number of the boat's officers, its head chef and a number of ratings were also laid up in bed, unable to cope with the sub's motion. Submariners as a whole don't spend enough time on the surface to get their sea legs, so consequently get hit like this every time they encounter bad seas. Even so, they said that in the month that they'd been at sea, the motion on Friday/Saturday was the worst it had been by far. Whatever, by lunch time, I think my sense of balance made a counter attack and I felt well enough not only to get up, but to demolish a two course lunch in the wardroom. Home was in sight, although first we had to navigate the waters of the south coast (via the Eddystone Lighthouse, which I spied via the periscope) and into shallow water off Plymouth to our mooring at Devonport Naval Base.

By the time I'd bid my farewells and disembarked, it was 18:00 on Saturday evening and the crew still had work to do before they could be piped off. I caught a taxi to the station, where I discovered that the next train to London was also the next one available, leaving Plymouth at 19:30 for arrival in Paddington at 23:00. I was too worn out to worry - I grabbed a seat in First Class and slept most of the way back, arriving home at half past midnight. Funnily enough when I stepped out of bed on Sunday morning, I was convinced the floor moved beneath my feet.

Land Ahoy: The view through Trenchant's main hatch as seen from inside. Although I was granted ad-hoc access to the bridge whilst surfaced, the boat's ratings won't see daylight from the point they embark until the time they are piped off, which could be as long as 104 days.

In retrospect, I found the trip hugely informative and very much unlike anything I've ever done before. I was surprised by how spacious the submarine was and delighted by the welcome I received on board from the boat's officers who took me in as one of their own. I felt involved, and meal times were a delight as various people, from the Captain down, sought my opinions and thoughts on various matters of current affairs. I enjoyed talking with some of the boat's more recent recruits, like James, a 30 year old engineering officer on his first tour. He spoke of how strange it feels to be away so frequently, that you miss the cues that define popular culture and are subsequently ignorant of things like the latest music, television program - there is an upside though, like being utterly ignorant of the vapid, facile 'celebrity culture' that so pervades contemporary life. I was surpised how quickly I adapted to the constraints of life under the water and how readily I accepted the shrunken reality that the submarine offered me.

Yes, I'd go again (and will probably have the opportunity to - I've been invited to join another boat to witness the Royal Navy's 'Perisher' command course in action next year) but I can't imagine doing it for a career - there's too much about contemporary life I'd miss, not to mention my family. That said, it's because of people like those I met on Trenchant that people like us can live the lives we do, so I guess we are all in debt to them to a degree.

4.10.05 12:30

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CATCHING UP

Looking back over my archives for the past month or so, this blog seems to have become little more than a collection of rather lengthy essays focusing on the ebb and flow of my recent assignments, most of which have something of a military hue about them.

That's probably a little unfortunate, for I'm sure that not all of my readers are interested in the workings of our forces and their equipment, but it is representative of my life over the past month (with the exception of my trip to South Africa - work too, but of a totally different nature). That said, it's come as something of a relief to find myself back home, with no more trips in the offing for the forseeable future. It means I can relax a little, get to grips with popular culture again and enjoy the company of friends and family whilst relaxing in my own environment. Perfect.

So, what else do I have to entertain you with, dear reader? Well, I could tell you about Friday night, when I enjoyed the company of a girlfriend over a take-away, but really, what would be the point? We could talk about the unseasonably mild weather that has occassioned blue skies and a temperature of 72 degrees Farenheit - in mid-October to boot, but then, you can see that for yourself if you're in London. I could tell you about the wonderful Ken Hom Chinese dish that I cooked last night, which married minced pork to some noodles along with the most divine and rich sauce comprising chili oil, dark soy, chili bean sauce, rice wine, sugar, salt, yellow bean sauce etc, but then, you wouldn't really be interested.

Which leaves my brief visit last week to interview the Officer Commanding the RAF's Battle of Britain Memorial Flight, the squadron of the Royal Air Force charged with the honour of maintaining and flying Britain's aviation heritage from the Second World War. One of the nicer parts of my job comes from undertaking assignments that are a privilege to do do and this was one of them. Almost as good was the drive north to Coningsby, near Lincoln where the BBMF is based. I'd hired a Ford Focus for the job, one of the most dynamically sorted cars on the road today, and a real pleasure to drive, especially on the constantly twisting 'A' and 'B' roads which delineated most of my trip. Sweeping left and right handers that offered great views of the road ahead (clipping the apex, down into third and floor the loud pedal!) were the order of the day, across some of Britain's flatest countryside.

The visit itself was simply fascinating. Clive's an expressive man who's clearly in love with his job (well, who wouldn't be, flying Spitfires for a living) and a great ambassador for the Squadron's work. He told me all about the work that they do, the history behind each of the five Spitfires, two Hurricanes, a Lancaster Bomber and a Dakota C-47. A Spitfire which saw action in the Battle of Britain and still wears the bullet wounds from a dogfight with German Me-109s over English skies in May 1940, another which was the last ever built (the Mk XIX shown above, image courtesy of the BBMF).

There was something magical about standing there in the hangar, surrounded by so many of the aircraft that I'd grown up reading about. About being able to touch them, the smell of those fantastic Rolls Royces Merlin V12s, a mix of fuel, oil and history all melded together in one delicious concoction. I learned so much, not just about the aircraft and what it takes to keep them flying, but of the stories of those who flew them so long ago. Those to whom we owe a debt of gratitude far greater than words can ever express.

Some things are iconic from the moment they leave the designer's drawing board. Ferrari has something that raises its creations above the level of ordinary cars, as does Aston Martin. It isn't real, it isn't quantifiable, but it exists. Fender had it in its guitars and the Spitfire had it in spades. The Spit was a generation ahead when made its debut, an aircraft so responsive, pilots said that you only had to think of a manoeuvre and it acted upon it. Consider - the Hurricane came into service a couple of years before the war and was obsolete by its end; the Spitfire made its debut just 18 months in, but was still flying operationally in 1954!). What a privilege to fly that magical aircraft.

Talking of icons, I'm feeling a little guilty over an impulse that I acted on last night. Ten or more years ago, I set about building a wine collection, an idea that was born when I worked in the city and earned accordingly. Sadly, I left the City after acquiring just three bottles of fine wine and after that, although the desire may have been there to carry on, the money wasn't (you could say I was left with 'L'enthusiasme de Black Rat' - there's been a lot of that of late).

Anyway, star of my collection was the above bottle, a 1981 vintage Château Latour Premier Grand Cru Classe. I'd read somwhere that it is at its optimum for drinking now. Sadly though, having moved several times in the last ten years, and not having optimum conditions in which to keep the wine (just a rack in the dining room) I wasn't sure if it would actually be at its best, or corked beyond drinking. Unusually last night, we were out of 'everyday' wine, and I fancied something to go with the dish I'd prepared, so I threw caution to the wind and opened the Latour. Not only was it fine, it was perfect - a meal in a glass, it was so full bodied.

I'm feeling a little guilty this morning at having plundered the jewell in my crown, but c'est la vie - no point crying over spilt milk (or drunk wine). I was a little disturbed to discover that the 1981 was a perfect year for Pauillac and it's thus in very short supply, selling at anything north of £175.00 per bottle. And I was even more distressed when I found out that although at optimum drinking now, it will keep for a further 15 years. But then I got a grip and reminded myself that it's a bottle of wine; it's for drinking, not looking at.

I have no time for people who buy expensive watches and then save them for 'best', perhaps wearing them once a year 'so they don't spoil'. So I don't really have a leg to stand on. It was wine, it's made for drinking, and I enjoyed it as intended. Can't get too precious about these things. It was all the more enjoyable as I've been off alcohol completely for the past month, a self-imposed abstinence that I managed to maintain throughout the various press trips I've been on in the last 4 weeks, no matter how late the hour, or how drunken my peers were). I feel lots better for it, have lost weight, and have a sparkle in my eye, so I guess opening a bottle of Château Latour to mark the occasion of my return to drinking again is acceptable. I have a different relationship to alcohol now anyway, so I will enjoy the remaining glass or so that's left and think about when I'm going to start on the Petit Mouton de Mouton Rothschild 1994 or the Château Talbot 1981, which are all that remain of my now even smaller collection of fine wines.

And that, dear reader, is that. I have a raft of stories to complete over the next couple of weeks, expenses to claim, and pictures to edit; stuck at a desk sort of work to contrast with last month's away from a desk kind. However, all work and no play made Jack a very dull boy indeed, so I have no plans to follow Jack and will blog in between articles - a sort of busman's holiday if you will. I've a whole litany of things to blog about too, so inspiration should be no problem. I just hope the stories come as easily.

10.10.05 15:29

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PARTY FEARS TWO

The best and the worst aspects of my job are its unpredictability. Variety may well be the spice of life, but it's none too shabby in a job, either and this one has it in spades. I thought I had my month planned; after a marathon four weeks of driving, sailing and flying hither and thither, I had a hill to climb ahead of me but I was kind of looking forward to it because it also heralded a nice, flat six weeks or so of working from home.

Actually, 'working from home' is something of a misnomer; I had some work to do. In fact, I had rather a lot of work to do, writing-wise, but I actually had a clear diary in respect of events; no more assignments, no foreign trips, no diversions on my time other than what I wanted to add in there. And the beauty of the prolonged periods of writing is that my usual optimism deserts me and I'm consumed instead by the writers' pessimist (bear with me, it still results in a positive outcome!) The net result is that however long I set aside to meet my deadlines, I inevitably finish well ahead, leaving me ample time to myself to blog, surf the net, do some occasional research or meet the odd girlfriend or mate for lunch. There's a delicious satisfaction too in clearing the decks of all outstanding writing commitments, each one subbed, delivered and invoiced, with fully half the allotted time still ahead - one has a tangible sense of achievement, of a job done and the reward is being able to spend the time however I wish.

So, last week saw me hard at work, curtains drawn, fingers dancing across the keyboard churning out commission after commission. On Monday I'd despatched nine articles for the new news agency contract and by Wednesday, I'd done and dusted two major features for one of the magazines I freelance for. That left just two major features to do, one of which just needs a short re-write (it's already been published in its current form, so a couple of sentence changes should suffice, and I've got a new article ready for another publication) so I felt able to relax a little; on Friday afternoon I ventured over to meet a girlfriend, Pauline, for lunch at her office. She brought her friend Amanda along (a lovely girl who I've met several times before) so a great start to the weekend, as we sat in the comfy sofas away from the reception area drinking Starbucks Coffee. Perfect.

I got back on Friday afternoon and had pretty much given up on work for the week; well, it's a long tradition, who feels like working on a Friday afternoon? I fired off a few emails, did some half-hearted research for an upcoming feature and that was pretty much it until 16:40 when an email unexpectedly popped up in my inbox from my editor at the news agency saying "Are you free next Thursday to undertake a commission for me and fly out to Spain?" Hmm, let me think about that for a minute. Swap the steely grey skies and Autumnal temperatures of England in mid-October for the sunny, balmy climate of southern spain, accommodated in one of the regions newest and most luxurious resorts ("Maybe tomorrow, Jack?")? Yeah, I think I can do that.

So I hit the weekend looking forward to the perfect press trip later this week, an unplanned for and unexpected bonus to the month with another foreign excursion to add to the others that have defined this year for me. Had a great party at Nick and Eva's on Saturday with Lisa and Adam there, a couple who Nick knows from school days. I'd met Adam before, but not his wife, although by the end of the evening, I don't think there was any danger of us forgetting one another! Took a night off from my week-long abstinence from alcohol and staggered home at 02:00 a few brain cells less than I'd started with. I seem to remember an email from my little brother waiting for me and I'm pretty sure I rang him in the U.S for a catch up - the first time we'd spoken since April if I recall correctly. I think I did a reasonable impression of sobriety, but then you always think that, don't you?

So, this week then. Been working on the one feature that's really been bugging me, hanging over me like the sword of Damocles. It's for one of the more high profile women's magazines here and it's been like a thorn in my side for all sorts of reasons ever since I landed the commission back in August. I'll be glad to get this one finished. Also had lots of emails flying back and forth in respect of another new contract I've landed as a hotel reviewer; got a whole list of five star hotels in London to stay at, review and write up before the end of November so it looks like I'm going to be busy (although I can hardly complain, it's not the most taxing of assignments!)

Plenty to do before I fly out on Thursday morning, but I'll be back on Friday night, so hand luggage only should more than suffice and it'll be nice and easy. Oh, and with what I've got lined up for the rest of the year, Thursday's trip means that the only months this year I won't have been away from the UK are January and May - not bad considering that at the turn of the year, I had nothing whatsoever lined up. I've got several lunches to look forward to when I get back, a day off with my better half and a long distance train journey to enjoy, and some interesting assignments in the offing that I need to discuss over food. Looks like I'm going to enjoy the next month or so but there'll be plenty of time to myself in between so I'll endeavour to be a bit more self-disciplined with blogging than I have been of late. Take good care.

18.10.05 11:25

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PRESS HERE

There's something delicious about press trips. Having just returned from one, (okay, late on Friday night to be specific), I'm still revelling in the aura of the experience, the dynamic of the group.

Press trips are rarely, if ever, a chore (assuming that the PR company organising the gig covers every base). In essence, you and several other journalists arrive at an airport in a foreign country, are met and escorted to your hotel. From the point at which you touch down to the point at which you return home, everything is taken care of and all you have to do is be there. Hotels are at the better end of the scale in upmarket parts of town, restuarants are all divine and transfers to and from the airport generally take place in chauffeur-driven Mercedes (this one) or BMWs (South Africa last month). For me, though, it's not the hotel, the location or the restaurant that makes press trips so interesting. It's not even the topic, item or place that we've been courted to write about (although often, all of those things contribute to the interest). What really makes them worthwhile are one's peers.

I've written before of the loneliness and isolation that are the reality of freelance life. A working life that means driving a desk for weeks at a time, with no social contact other than what you get from the occasional lunch or meeting. In practice, you sit at your desk in a corner of home that you call your office, and for ten hours or so each day (more if you live alone), that's your world. You see nobody, and your only connections with the outside world are your internet connection and telephone. In freelancing, as in space, no one can hear you scream!

Press trips are the complete antithesis of all that though, and that's why I love them. When we arrive at the airport, we're all 'professionals'. For the most part, we look polished and accomplished, minding our Ps and Qs in an effort to create a good impression (remember, you're thrust together with a bunch of complete strangers). What happens though is that within hours, the dynamic shifts. By the time you've had your first 'formal' lunch (or in last week's case, pretty informal - a three hour long affair that took place during Siesta time at a delightful restaurant by the edge of the Mar Menor in Murcia), we stop being journalists and morph into 'ourselves'. And so we did on this trip.

By Friday afternoon, the six of us were getting along famously, shared experiences serving to bind us together. Michael and Danielle, the two press officers were 'Mum and Dad' for this trip. Then there was Anna from one of the horticultural magazines, Chris and Luis from the golfing press, Ben from one of the property titles and myelf from the news agency. Any initial sheen of professionalism that exists when we first arrive is soon dulled to make way for the personality that lies beneath because, when you get down to it, what seperates the journo 'us' from who we really are? Nothing.

You can't be too worthy, or act too precious about an occupation that most people rank at the bottom of the food chain alongside tax collectors and estate agents. And what is a journo anyway? It's not like we make things, save lives. We don't produce anything of worth and we rarely leave a legcay for future generations. In that respect, it's a non-job. It's not like we dress up, switch into work mode and don a mask to face the world with, as people in customer focused roles do, for example.

We aren't defined by what we do; we define that (our work doesn't define us, who we are defines our work). We're each of us shaped by our experiences and what separates us, makes us effective at what we do is our curiosity, our need to question everything, never accepting what we're presented with in life at face value. Our jobs are something that each of us fits in around life, and on the average press trip, we regress to being kids on holiday with mum and dad - everything is arranged, we're shepherded hither and thither. All we have to do is live the moment and then write about our memories, like kids being paid to write a diary (or adults being paid to blog!).

So you bond. You're courted, wined and dined in the best restaurants.  You all get on, chat, laugh. You network, share advice & insecurities (the usual journalists' insecurity is that every other freelance is busier than you are, or writes for 'better' titles than you). You forge friendships, help each other, swap details. But in essence, when you get down to it, we're paid to have fun. And yes, it's great. You learn fast how to bond, how to put yourself forwards, shake off the insecurity of being alone with strangers. You swallow your pride, your fear - we've all learned to handle rejection - it goes with the job - which helps. Staffers envy the freedom and 'cherry picking' nature of freelancers, freelaners envy the security and status of staffers; the grass is always greener.

Get a group of journos together over lunch and they become a bunch of 'Wheneyes' - it's all "When I went here, When I did that" - but it's not through any desire to impress or show off. The nicest thing is being amongst your 'own' kind, the way those fortunate enough to work in office environments are all the time, being able to share unusual or bizarre experiences with others who have similar stories to tell. Our experiences in journalism lead to us being regarded as 'unusual' by many outside the of the media. Within it though, they render us ordinary. We write for a silent audience professionally but when we're together, we're all the same so we understand one another's frustrations. And that's nice. It's also nice being able to say 'blog' or 'new media' or 'podcast' and have everyone in the place know what you're talking about, too. You probably know what that feels like - how many people have you encountered who look at you like you're talking a foreign language when you utter any of those words in front of the 'wrong' audience?!

This trip was fascinating too, for all the right reasons. A new 1.4 billion Euro development of luxury golf resorts by Polaris World in what has hitherto been one of Spain's most undeveloped regions, Murcia. New towns, hospitals, schools and communications infrastructure, a new desalination plant capable of producing fresh water for a population of 200,000 in what is a parched, dry area of the country. Polaris World has already built 4000 houses and has construction under way on six sites within a 20 mile radius. Each site has its own Jack Nicklaus designed 18 hole golf course and all the normal infrastructure expected to support the communities. When all six sites are complete in 2008 there will be 8000 homes with 70% owned by English families. It is the next raft of developments, however, that will establish Polaris as a major player on a world scale. From acres of artichoke fields the company are creating a new town which when completed in 2020 will house over 30.000 families. It will include a full scale regional hospital, an international school and no less than 6 Nicklaus golf courses. While the new town will cater for commuters from nearby Murcia City and weekenders from Alicante it too is being created for and will be sold to the English market.

So the trip bascially immersed us in Polaris World. We interviewed the company's Chief Executive, a very young-looking 31 year old,  and met some of its major names, as well as some of those from Britain who have sold up to follow their dream and build a new life in Murcia. We played and rode the golf courses, sat by the sea, explored the town, and stayed the night in the beautiful historic town of Cartagena. The skies were blue, the temperature in the high 80s (a nice contrast at this time of year to Britain's cold, wet and windy climate), the wine was good, the company better. And at just two hours away from home, this trip meant hand luggage only for me, meaning straight on, straight off the flight at either end.

The only downside was arriving at Kings Cross station at midnight on Friday and having to wait 20 minutes for a train home. Kings Cross at midnight is always an interesting place to be, especially if you're an anthropologist seeking examples of human excess and Kings Cross has all that in spades. Friday night's entertainment was provided by a very drunk, 40-something woman who could have a made a passable living as Jessie Wallace's double. As I queued for a Burger King, I noticed her at the the counter of the neighbouring Upper Crust concession. There was a queue of frustrated late-night travellers behind her as she became increasingly aggressive towards the guy behind the counter, picking up cakes, sandwiches and whatever else was on display and hurling them at the hapless server who she was also insulting through a stream of colourful language, all of which would have made her mother blush.

What I found fascinating was the peculiarly British behaviour of all those in the queue behind her. Nobody moved, nobody intervened. For 2 or 3 minutes (the time it took for station security to arrive and restrain the now hysterical woman), they just stood and watched (probably worried about being accused of queue-jumping if they stepped out of line to intervene!) Everyone just stood and 'tuttted' under their breath and as she was carted off by police, we were all of us left to wonder at the state of a society that gives rise to behaviour such as we all observed. What makes an otherwise smart and attractive woman, old enough to know better, think it's acceptable to behave in such a manner? It's enough to make you want to move to Spain!

26.10.05 13:15

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FOREVER AUTUMN

What a difference in just three days; from the rain-lashed, overcast and chilly beginning, which heralded the start of this week, to today's record-breaking temperature of 70 degrees, the highest for this late in October since records began.

I hate this time of year with a passion normally, although a few more days like today and I might just change my perspective. My general optimism and positivity desert me, smothered by a cloak of ennui that seems intent on taking command of my thoughts in just the way that the clouds and wind join forces against the sun, smothering its light and warmth. Seasons may work for some people, but the dark, grey days of Autumn are my least favourite; several months separate me from the optimism of spring, the cold, crisp, sunny mornings that herald the march of summer. They're distant yet,  but my sights are fixed there all the same.

We took the day off on Monday and headed north. I had two first-class returns left over from a recent assignment, so it seemed pointless to waste them and somewhere along the line lay a city I've never visited: York. There's a part of me that loves train travel; seeing the navy-blue carriages of GNER's inter-city services, bearing legendary names like "The Route of the Flying Scotsman" along the locomotives' sides evokes memories of the grand days of the railways. There's a sense of adventure attaching to main line terminals in much the same manner as one finds at major airports; the promise of far-away destinations, tearful farewells and glorious reunions played out in public. Hence I was rather looking forward to Monday's trip.

We settled back in one of GNER's new Mallard trains and I enjoyed a leisurely two hours reading both The Guardian and The Daily Telegraph from cover-to-cover. Complimentary coffee and a hot breakfast gave me fuel for the day ahead and by 13:00, we were climbing into a taxi at York station bound for York Minster, the largest medieval gothic cathedral in Northern Europe. Not all cathedrals are minsters; not all minsters are cathedrals, but York Minster is both. A cathedral is the mother church of a dicocese, the place where a bishop has his cathedra or 'seat' and York Minster is the cathedral church of the Dioceses of York. A mynster was the Anglo-Saxon name for a missionary church, and there's been one in York since 675 A.D.

It's a truly extraordinary place and you feel the weight of history bearing down upon you. It is the seat of the Archbishop of York and, as such, is, not surprisingly, the most dramatic of churches in Northern England. It's vast - the current structure stands on foundations laid by the Romans and Normans and encompasses a huge area - and displays some of the best examples of the medieval craftsman's work to be found anywhere. Particularly of note are the fine carvings in the chapter house (c.1275) and the fantastic array of medieval glass dating back to the 12th century. The Great East Window contains the world's largest area of medieval stained glass in a single window and covers the same area as a standard tennis court. It was glazed from 1403 to 1406 and depicts the beginning and end of the world using scenes from the Book of Geneis and the Book of Revelation, the first and last books of the bible.

The crypt is well worth a visit as you descend into the bowels of the cathedral to the level of the military headquarters from where the Romans administered the north of Britain. There's a marvellous original mural visible here, still vivid in colour, depicting a scene from a Roman garden. It was orginally part of one of the internal walls of the original principia and can be seen in context in position relative to the Roman foundations of the cathedral. The crypt leads through to the treasury, which contains a wealth of riches; artefacts, icons and silverware from the earliest days of the original Norman cathedral through to the present day. York Minster was originally a Catholic place of worship, but subsequent to the Reformation, followed the edict of the Monarch and became Church of England.

By the time we left the Minster at 15:30, the rains had stopped, and we wandered the historic streets of York, browsing the shops and relaxing in a local bar, before catching the 17:20 express back to London. It was running late, so didn't arrive in York until 18:00, and thus into Kings Cross at 20:06. Rather annoyingly, that led to us missing the train home (which departed Kings Cross at 20:06 too), so we had a half hour wait for the next one. We made up for it when we reached our home town though, stopping off at a local Indian restaurant for dinner.

Had a meeting with one of my editors over lunch on Tuesday. He showed me some colour run-offs with a couple of my feature for the next issue that illustrate the redesign they've just conducted nicely. Left with an armful of new commissons too, so happy about that. Also managed to place another prospective feature, which is likely going to necessitate a visit to the Land of the Rising Sun on my part later this year. You may well think I'm excited at the prospect - I couldn't possibly comment! It appears my glee in having cleared the boards of outstanding work last week was a little premature - after the press trip to Spain and my meeting on Tuesday, I now find I have another 20 or so features to write and deliver within the next few weeks, and I'm rather busy next week with back-to-back meetings over the first three days. Looks like I've got my work cut out for me, anyway.

27.10.05 11:27

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