Intrigued by tales of club members flying across remote lands, Paul Bass decided he would take a trip to a small country wedged between Ukraine and Romania – the seldom visited Moldova…
11 May 2020
Under a bright blue sky in August 2019, I climb out of G-JG, my silver-winged EV97 Eurostar, at Vadul lui Voda Airfield in Moldova. The air is dry and warm and the airfield, perched on a plateau, has 360˚ views. I feel a mix of mental exhaustion, exhilaration and amazement at how far I am from home. I have six different currencies in my wallet: Transnistrian rubles, Hungarian forints, British pounds, euros, Romanian leu and Moldovan leu.
“As soon as I cross the Hungarian border, I feel as if I’m in another world. Countryside stretches as far as the eye can see. It’s even sparser than I imagined”
Two years previously, my airfield’s doctor told me that some club members flew to Romania. He relayed the stories of their flight, and the non-existent infrastructure for light aircraft at that time. I was intrigued. My imagination became infused with thoughts of self-sufficiently flying over remote, relatively inhospitable lands. In June 2019 I started planning a route to Moldova, taking in France, Germany, Austria, Hungary and Romania.
Fair-weather, puffy white clouds drift through the sky in a light wind. The sun warms my face while I distribute my belongings between the footwell, parcel shelf and passenger seat. Two hours and 23 minutes later, I am pulling up in front of the newly revamped art deco restaurant at Calais-Dunkerque Airport. I grab a quick coffee while planning the next leg. In just over an hour, I’m airborne again. I’ve decided to blast across France and directly to Speyer in Germany, 331 miles away.
A 24mph tailwind carries me to the German border. Below me, the Palatinate Forest stretches for miles and miles… I scan for emergency landing areas, but they’re few and far between.
At last I clear the edge of the mountains. When I approach Speyer’s gigantic 1,677m runway, the Romanesque-era cathedral passes beneath my right wingtip.
Underneath me, an almost drinkable-looking blue-green river winds through the city, its surface sparkling in the sun. As I land, it’s exactly 6.25pm, and within minutes I’m on a pleasant 2km cycle into Speyer on my Brompton in the warm evening air.
I fly low on the approach into Wels and have a fantastic view of coloured houses and rolling valleys. When I touch down, it’s very murky to the east. Church bells chime in the distance as the sun slips lower in the sky.
I stay in a guest house with yellowing walls… Consequently, the following day, it is 6am when I leap out of bed, and before too long I am at the airfield gates waiting for them to open.
I ring Szeged Airfield, 314 miles away in Hungary, on the Romanian border, to check that I can land.
As soon as I cross the Hungarian border, I feel as if I’m in another world. Countryside stretches as far as the eye can see and there is barely a village in sight. It’s even sparser than I imagined. Very occasionally, I pass an airfield, and I feel glad that I got everything triple-checked before I left. The further east I travel, the warmer and drier the air becomes. Then, like a shimmering mirage, Lake Balaton appears. Even in the distance it looks more like the sea than a lake, and after a quick finger measurement on SkyDemon, I determine that it’s six miles across. After a pit-stop in Siófok, I arrive in Szeged, on the Hungarian border with Romania, rocked by gentle thermals.
The voice on the radio asks, “What is your next destination?”
“Arad in Romania,” I reply. “I’m flying there tomorrow.”
There is a pregnant pause before the man replies: “You probably won’t be. We can speak in a minute, off the radio.”
I’m wondering what I might have done wrong and go to the ATC tower. The man I’ve been speaking to, Szabo, tells me that I should give 72 hours’ notice to the local police as I’m leaving a Schengen area to fly into Romania, a non-Schengen country. A quick phone call to the police and I’m in luck – they have time to do their checks tomorrow at 11am, meaning I can leave for Arad.
When the police arrive at 11am prompt, I’m already fuelled-up and ready to go. One of them taps my passport details into an app on his mobile phone. This is the first time on the trip that I’ve had to show my passport. I climb away in 31°C heat and even with all the vents open, it feels like a sauna as sweat drips off my eyelids. Peering down, I see that the police wait until I’ve gone before they leave.
I wonder what the Hungarian/Romanian border might look like, but then it becomes startlingly obvious. The only road I can see for miles has a long traffic jam on the Romanian side in the truck lane. The chart tells me that the road in Hungary is called the M43, on the Romanian side it’s called the A1. I’m astonished at how beautiful a treeless countryside can be. The kaleidoscope of varying shades of burnt yellow and brown fields is dazzling. As I approach Arad, Communist-era apartment blocks pepper the skyline to my left. Even though I land like a feather, the tyres squeak in the heat. I peer down, and my engine oil is a sizzling 110°C, which is the first time I’ve seen it that hot. The team comes out and greets me. Everyone is so friendly and energetic that it already feels like we speak a common language. After I’ve filed my flight plan, the team tells me that there’s an annual medieval festival at the weekend in Sibiu, which is one of the seven original medieval citadel towns of Romania.
When I set off again, I’m clear of the city and flying above open spaces in no time. The smell of manure and the countryside wafts in through the vents. I switch to Bucharest Information on 136.385. I haven’t seen another aircraft in the sky since I left Austria, and the air traffic controller I speak to seems relieved when she hands me over to Sibiu tower.
The bright, chalk-coloured runway of Sibiu Airport stands out from the green and scorched brown fields. I expect something dramatic with my landing. Perhaps crosswinds, or at least swirling thermals, but I’m down without drama and parked on the apron in minutes.
Viorel, my friendly marshaller, is there in no time. G-JG is quickly surrounded by several skilfully placed cones, which mark the wingtips and my personal spot on the tarmac.
While I’m grappling with my new heavy-duty Velcro tie-downs, Viorel and I discuss Moldovan airfield options, just as a Lufthansa jet swoops in to land and parks next to me. When we step through the main terminal security area doors straight from the apron, I’m surrounded by passengers. I’ve never been on this side of a large international airport on my own steam before and it feels strange.
Twenty minutes later, after heading into the city on my Brompton, I find a decent place for only £26 a night. There’s a stone staircase leading up to my room, which is flanked by colourful potted flowers. By the time I head out, the air is cooler and when I round a corner, I’m in a cobbled town square teeming with festival goers dressed in medieval costumes. There’s a stage billowing with smoke, and folk singers are illuminated by neon green lights. I race to get a seat on a table in the square and then tuck into a dish of potatoes and bright red paprika chicken called ‘Vlad the Impaler castle meal’.
One area that appeared on my radar when I was looking for unusual places to stop en route was Transnistria, bordering Ukraine to the east and Moldova to the west. Officially, it’s seen by the UN as part of Moldova, but military conflict in 1992 escalated until a ceasefire was reached in the same year. Transnistria has its own government, postal system, police, military and currency, the Transnistrian ruble. A tiny Russian enclave and unrecognised state in Eastern Europe, it still portrays a hammer and sickle on its flag. While I’m having a glass of local wine, I decide that visiting by bus will be the best (and safest) option.
It appears that last Friday the Moldova CAA changed its rules. Oleg, my contact in Moldova who will be my flying buddy, relays this information by WhatsApp. Now I need to fill in a new application form, which is all
in Romanian…
While I’m sipping a strong coffee in a cafe down the street I ask for help and a cafe visitor, Radu, comes to my rescue. We have the form completed in no time, and then I’m able to contact the Moldovan CAA and Oleg. Back at Sibiu Airport, however, things aren’t as straightforward. Sibiu tower tells me: “I can clear you to the border, but then you might have a problem. There’s an issue with your permission to enter Moldova.”
I email the Moldova CAA office again and then wait in G-JG. My plan was to be in Chisinau, Moldova, by midday but already it’s 1.30pm. The sun is beating down on the canopy, and even with the sliding sunshield, it’s stifling. At last, I get a call from the Moldovan ATC to say I’m good to go. Before long I am rolling down the white Sibiu tarmac.
I have a two hour and 45-minute flight ahead of me. Briefly, I make contact with the same (husky-voiced) female controller (on Bucharest Information) that I spoke to a few days ago, but then I lose contact. The radio flickers into life with teasing, distant, voiceless clicks, followed by long silences. If I declared a Mayday or Pan-Pan, nobody would be able to hear me, apart from airliners high above. It’s the most alone I’ve felt in as long as I can remember. The densely tree-covered mountain terrain rises around me to more than 6,000ft in places.
There are two growing storm clouds either side of my track – still at a safe distance, but they’re drifting slowly towards one another, directly into my path, and then rain pours out of the one to my right. Hail is my biggest fear, and it feels like I’m running the gauntlet with a choice of either speeding up to get past the mushrooming storm clouds, or slowing down in case I get caught in any dangerous up-draughts.
It’s the first time I’ve felt fear on the trip. There are no airfields to land at close by and so, gripping the control stick, I sit it out. Thirty minutes later, as the mountains give way to flatter terrain, the sky opens up as if nothing has happened, my view ahead now clear.
I try Bucharest Information again, still no luck. Then I try a different frequency to the one Sibiu gave me, and dial in 136.385. A voice – the female controller I spoke to earlier, and she sounds even more relieved than I am to have made contact.
I send a quick message to Oleg, my contact in Moldova, telling him I should be with him in about 30 minutes. I can see Chisinau runway in the distance.
When I’ve parked, a shiny white Pipistrel appears next to me – I realise that it’s Oleg. Soon, Oleg and I are en route to Vadul lui Voda, a grass strip only 12 miles away to the north-east, and the home of the Moldovan aeroclub.
Today is Moldova’s Independence Day from the Soviet Union: 27 August. Oleg rings me at midday and says: “Let’s go to the airfield – I’ll be at the hotel in 15 minutes to pick you up!”
We’re off to a place called Crocmaz, a winery on the Ukraine border. Sergiu, one of the other Vadul lui Voda pilots joins me in the passenger seat, while Oleg’s gleaming white Pipistrel and another aircraft fly ahead.
Flying internally seems complicated in Moldova. First, we have to get permission to take off. Next, we need confirmation that Crocmaz has given us permission to land, then we have to send a form to the CAA. Moldovan airspace is a vast area of Class C airspace that covers almost the whole of Moldova. I call air traffic control as we climb upwards to 1,500ft, leaving the picturesque, gently sloping plateau of Vadul lui Voda Airfield behind.
While I’m watching the golden-domed monasteries and countryside slip past, the controller comes on the radio – he’s speaking to another aircraft in the group.
“Turn right 20 degrees to remain clear of the restricted area,” he says abruptly.
One of the pilots is straying a bit too close to the disputed Russian territory of Transnistria, which is marked with a thick red line. Sergiu, my passenger, points to the towns on our left: Bendery and Tiraspol, the capital of Transnistria. I’m fascinated. Rows of Soviet-style apartment blocks visibly mark the start of this disputed territory. I’m only 1.9 miles from the Ukraine border now, it feels like a large circuit could put my wingtips into Ukraine!
We swoop into the winery’s finely mown grass strip. There’s not a breath of wind. There’s just enough time for a first-time experience: roasted rabbit with vegetables, followed by a tour of the winery, where I buy two bottles of wine. As we head back to Vadul lui Voda, houses have grown taller in the now lengthening afternoon shadows, the hilly terrain more accentuated. The whole experience feels like I just dreamed it. I leave the Brompton and all my flying gear in G-JG, lock it up and then we head back to Chisinau, where the Moldovan Independence Day celebrations are in full swing.
Sergiu’s wife is a TV presenter and one of his friends is a famous drummer. I find myself backstage, watching the televised show as a VIP. Conservatoire-educated drummer Petru looks the double of Robbie Williams, albeit slimmer. I’ve never seen anyone command drumsticks quite like this; fast songs, folk songs, rock – he does it all. From backstage, I watch the crowd filling Parliament Square. At the end of the night I thank all the pilots for running me around and making my Moldavan experience a memorable one. Everyone is so warm and friendly.
While I’m semi-jogging to the bus station, I ask various people in my very limited Russian: “Where does the bus to Tiraspol go from?” I can just about read Cyrillic – I filled the dark winter nights a few years ago with beginner Russian language classes. I try and read the handwritten signs in the front of each bus before rolling the dice and boarding one reading Тирасполь.
It’s 34°C outside. The bus air conditioning appears to be broken, and my knees are jammed against the back of the seat in front. Everyone sits gently cooking for the next 1.5 hours as the bus bumps along.
On my phone I follow my dot on Google Maps to be sure I don’t miss my stop as I’ve arranged to meet Andrey from a tour company.
The woman sitting next to me has been looking at my iPhone screen in the most discreet-indiscreet way possible. To see what reaction I get, I ask her if there’s far to go. She bursts into life, waving her arms while discussing my question with the other occupants of the bus. We’re nearly there, it seems. The bus circles outside the Tiraspol train station for its last stop. Two people who were on my bus turn out to be an Italian detective who works in Rome, and an older gentleman. During the next three hours, the four of us see Lenin and Stalin monuments, tanks and an Afghanistan war memorial, courtesy of Andrey.
We stop for refreshments at the House of Culture but within minutes of entering, we’re mysteriously told by our guide that the Museum Director says we must leave the building. We move on to the Bendery bus station where an old-fashioned, but working, lone telephone hangs on the wall. Next, we follow a staircase up to the first floor. Two big white doors with USSR written above them lead into a cafe inside. As I tuck into the most amazing Borscht red cabbage soup for 50p, I notice there is hardly an empty space on the wall – it’s festooned with Soviet memorabilia and photographs of historical leaders.
Yesterday, I had a big problem that I didn’t expect. A famous Russian rock group was in town, and rooms anywhere less than £300 per night were sold out. I had a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that I might need to get a taxi to the airstrip and sleep with my bags on the grass. Thankfully, Oleg came to my rescue with a guest house right next to the airfield, nestled down a country lane and surrounded by a forest.
This morning I’m keen to get flying on my next leg back through Romania. I’ve loved Moldova, but I’m ready for Dracula’s Bran Castle. Sergiu and Oleg are already at the airfield when I get there and we say
our goodbyes.
The airport manager at Vadul lui Voda puts in a flight plan for me from the ground, but as I’m approaching the Chisinau control zone, the tower tells me they don’t have it. I spend the next 15 minutes circling over the city, while Oleg makes a call on my behalf. Suddenly my flight plan has been found and I’m cleared to enter the zone and route straight in on final approach.
The journey from Chisinau to Bacău in Romania goes more smoothly and I’m on my way to Braşov. For 20 minutes, I feel like I’m hovering over the peaks of the Carpathian Mountains, barely moving over the sea of green below. The air is eerily smooth. I’ve learned that below me, in dense forest, is a population of more than 6,000 bears. The sun is setting and mountains give way to the now familiar ironed-flat farmland. Braşov-Sânpetru Airfield is nestled at the foot of a mountain to the south. When I flare to land on the grass runway, I’m greeted by a pair of dazzling eyes lit up by the burning orange sun. I stretch the glide a bit, and a very surprised cat darts out of the way.
I fill the next few days with as many ground-based adventures as I possibly can, including my highlight – Bran Castle.
G-JG is already outside when I arrive at the Braşov-Sânpetru Airfield. I ring the Bucharest Control telephone number, and they ask me to ‘squawk’ 7001 when airborne. I’ve become adept at packing swiftly now, and I’m ready to go on the dot of 1pm for my flight plan time.
“G-JG, you are about to enter an active military area,” Bucharest Information tells me, soon after I’ve taken off. I recognise the voice at once, it’s the controller I struggled to contact when I was flying over the mountains on the way out. She doesn’t say anything else, and I wonder what to do.
“This is G-JG with flight plan – could you provide vectors to route around the military zone please?’ I ask.
A deafening silence then follows and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. They didn’t reject my flight plan, so I can’t imagine that they would make me turn around. A gentleman with a calm voice then comes on the radio.
“G-JG, turn onto heading 300 degrees.” I comply, and a minute or so passes.
“G-JG – we have spoken to the military, continue west and maintain 5,000ft,” he tells me.
I’m not sure if it’s low-level flying or rocket-firing the military is doing, but I’d rather not know.
Another ghostly silence ensues as I re-check the scrolling chart. Ahead of me is a vast area of controlled airspace 65 miles wide east to west, and 115 miles north to south. In the centre of it, Câmpia Turzii Airport sits like a sun at the centre of the universe, hosting the Romanian Air Force’s 71st air base.
For the next 20 minutes of silence, I wonder if I’m meant to call someone. Minutes away from me entering the airspace, the radio bursts into life.
“G-JG, change to NAPOC Approach on 119.680.”
I’m not far from the Romanian/Hungarian border now.
“G-JG, the wind is 12kt gusting 18kt,’ Arad tower tells me, and I spot the windsock fluttering around in the 20° crosswind.
A silvery sheen coats the shapeless and drizzling sky while I’m sheltering G-JG in the aeroclub hangar, out of the wind and rain.
As I fly from Arad in Romania, back through Hungary and into Austria to roll onto the familiar tarmac of the Wels Airport again, curtains of rain drape in front of me. It clears after a couple of hours and I soon believe that I’m on my way to Speyer in Germany, the weather not stymying my trip even once – so far.
My personal locator beacon is dangling around my neck, yellow and available. The weather chart shows me the weather isn’t pretty – but flyable. Twenty minutes in, the cotton wool clouds start to change into shapeless, ragged mist. It swirls gently down from the mountaintops into the green valleys below, like steam spilling over the edge of a witch’s cauldron. I look behind me to where I’ve just come from – the clouds are closing up and thickening fast. I scan for airfields.
I decide not to leave it any longer, and contact Langen Information.
“Um, G-JG is going to divert to Schärding-Suben due to the weather,’ I say.
When I call Schärding-Suben Airfield a friendly voice answers. I do a tight circuit and land in cold, drizzling rain – it’s the sort of weather that eats into your bones.
Peter Panholzer, one of the resident flyers, is manning the tower today. Not only has he found me space in the hangar, but also gives me the keys to the club ‘villa’ where I get a room, bedding and a hot shower for only €15.
Fog keeps me here for three days, but it’s a fantastic experience and Peter looks after me well. He takes me to an Oktoberfest down the road – for local food and beer from the tallest and widest beer glass I’ve ever seen – and I’m surrounded by deer and wildlife in my forest villa.
By midday of the third day the fog is clearing fast, but I wait an extra hour for good measure before I’m on my way to Speyer again.
Goosebumps run down my arms and neck when I see the White Cliffs of Dover illuminated in brilliant white. The blue-green sea reflects mirror images of the white clouds above. Over Lincolnshire, I climb to 6,600ft above the scattered cloud, the patchwork quilt of coloured fields stretching out before me.
I think how strange it is to be back – it feels as though I’ve only just left. I’ve been on an incredible 3,200-mile journey, and done 31 hours of flying over three weeks and across seven countries.
My mouth is dry in the British summer sun, and I can’t wait for a cup of Yorkshire tea.
