Dunge Bottom

Bleriot, Lindbergh, Johnson. Now the name Clarke is set to join the pantheon of flying legends.

Forty years ago hang gliding and microlighting were in their infancy. They were sports dominated by adventurers, eccentrics and the occasional lunatic. Participants developed and flew their own aircraft designs, the attrition rate was high but still these brave men and women were united in their passion for flying and their determination to get off the ground. One such man was John Clarke.

Bored with his life as a Quantity Surveyor and determined to be the kind of man his wife had just run off with (but lacking the physique to be a part time wrestler) he built his own craft and took to the skies. His subsequent adventures provided answers to many of life's questions including:

Can one survive a freefall in a micro light from five hundred feet?

Do the French cheat at everything?

Can dogs hang glide?

Can you find love during intensive Physiotherapy?

John Clarke is a former hang gliding and microlight instructor who for twenty eight years owned the Peak School of Hang Gliding in Wetton, Derbyshire. Dunge Bottom is the story of his early life in amateur aviation, the triumphs, disasters and often hilarious events that he took part in and witnessed. The stories embody the best of British eccentricity and adventure, guaranteed to make you want to take to the skies.

'A great read had me chuckling on every page' - Terry Aspinal, British Hang Gliding History

Reviews: 

This is what happens when that funny guy in the pub is told ‘You should write that down!’ But somehow it works. The author ran a flying school in the north of England for 22 years and this had me laughing out loud from page one. It’s about learning hang gliding, microlighting, gliding and a bit of paragliding in the early days. Of those early days, he writes, “We did not wear Kevlar, we wore cardigans. And safe flying was putting your cigarette out before you launched.”

It’s a classic, done in the best tradition of old-school British eccentric, complete with rambling asides, naughty-postcard humour and the good-natured knowledge that we are, after all, just doing all this for a bit of fun. For me the first half is the best – wide-eyed self-teaching in gales on a hang glider bought from a man in a pub. (‘What are these bits for? Don’t know – can’t be important…’) Half the pilots are in plaster-casts most of the time, while the other half are midgets, moustachioed he-men, or stern nurses mending broken arms (he marries one). 

It’s very funny. I don’t get the title – it’s some sort of in-joke between the author and himself – but it’s already on its second printing, so it obviously hasn’t put people off. Despite a few more typos than really necessary, you can just take this for what it is: funny stories from a funny man in the pub who was there when it happened, honest.

Ed Ewing

Editor - Cross Country Magazine

Read an extract...

Dunge Bottom: Tales of an Unconventional Aviator

Dunge Bottom – Tales of an Unconventional Aviator, is a new book by long-time British hang gliding instructor John Clarke. It’s a humourous look back at the early days of the sport. This extract is from the first chapter…

John Clarke reads this extract aloud on YouTube, with photos from the early days of hang gliding in the UK

Norman and The Cloud

I was lying in the bracken at the top of Congleton Cloud, near Congleton, soaking up the sun and watching the spoonbills circling high under the fluffy white cumulus clouds which dotted the bright blue sky.
In the distance the huge dish of the Jodrell Bank radio telescope was glinting blindingly in the early spring sunshine. The Cloud is an eight-hundred-foot high escarpment covered with trees on the side that faced over the vastness of the Cheshire Plain and is a great hang gliding site in north westerly winds.

Hang gliding at Dunge Bottom, England, in the 1970s. Photo: John Clarke

You had to park your car at the back of the hill and then walk about half a mile to the take off point along a meandering rock strewn path bordered by deep gorse and bracken. I had already rigged my glider and was waiting for the wind to strengthen a bit before taking off.
Relaxing in the undergrowth, I thought I heard the mischievous buzzing of yet another horsefly. My thoughts returned to a similar time last year when, having been bitten by such a beast, I had developed a touch of mange.
My reverie was interrupted by a commotion somewhere behind me. The commotion became louder until I could make out intermittent swearing and gasping as someone obviously struggled for breath whilst doing battle with the undergrowth. I stood up and my eyes fell upon Norman, a rotund man, pouring with sweat, red-faced and with a pronounced limp, wearing spectacles with lenses like bottle bottoms. He carried a hang glider precariously balanced on his shoulder.
“Hi,” I called out, “Hell of a walk isn’t it?”
“Bloody right,” he gasped. “You’ll not get me up here again.”
I left him to recover his strength and breath. Eventually he rigged his hang glider and was considering taking off.
He limped over towards me to ask a few questions about flying here, as it was his first time at this site.
“So where is the best take off spot?” he asked. I duly pointed it out.
“And the landing field?”
“It’s over there Norman, the long rectangular field with a farm track running across this end of it that leads to the big farm on the left, which is where you pay your site fees. Oh and be careful of the power lines that run along the side of the track, other than that it’s a great landing field.”
I couldn’t help but notice that Norman seemed to take an inordinate amount of time peering myopically out towards the landing area, before he limped back towards his glider and readied for takeoff.

The author today: John Clarke, aviator extroadinaire

I watched with interest, as Norman started to run blindly towards the edge of the cliff with an increasingly ridiculous gait. As he neared the edge I was horrified to see that his right leg fell completely off, landing in the thick bracken and leaving the empty leg of his flying suit flapping in the breeze.
“Bloody hell,” was my spontaneous outburst as Norman continued to hop the last couple of paces towards the cliff edge before falling off and disappearing from view.
Fearing the worst I ran towards the edge as fast as I could only to see him now flying out towards the bottom landing field.
“How the hell is he going to survive? I mean the blood loss must be enormous; surely he’ll be dead by the time he gets there,” I thought.
I watched Norman’s imminent approach to the landing field with mounting horror. He seemed to be much lower than normal although from the distance I was viewing it I could have been wrong.
No, I wasn’t wrong at all for there was an enormous blue flash as Norman flew into the eleven thousand volt power lines running along the track on the approach to the field.
“Bloody hell,” I repeated, at a loss for more expansive repartee.
I expected him to fall to the ground but no he and his glider just hung there like a huge bat.
I couldn’t decide, at that moment, whether to run down to hill to affect a rescue or just amble down. After all, he had lost a leg and been electrocuted so I suspected his chances of survival were quite small.
There was a further complication of what to do with his leg. Should I just leave for the crows and buzzards to feast on, or should I take it down so that the body bag could include a complete human being? Albeit in pieces.
I gingerly went over to where the leg had fallen and started to root around in the knee-high vegetation. I admit I feared what I might find as I am not the keenest where any form of blood or gore is concerned.
“Ah that explains it.” I muttered out loud with some great relief. I had found his leg complete with Velcro and leather straps hanging from the top end of it.
“A false one, thank goodness for that”
I chose to nip back to my car with the leg, which I noted was actually quite heavy, and take a leisurely drive down to the field.
About ten minutes later I fearfully drove down the farm track, dreading the scene that would greet me. Getting as near as I dare to Norman the bat, still dangling from the power cables, I stopped the car and slowly got out and walked haltingly towards the scene.
As I approached I couldn’t help but notice that there was a low droning sound coming from the hunched figure swinging gently from the wires and that smoke was slowly spirally up from Norman’s flying gloves.
I slowed my pace further and on finally arriving below Norman, I was greeted by a low continual, “Bastard, Bastard, Bastard,” emanating from Norman.
“Bloody hell, Norman, are you still alive?” I yelled up at him.
My fear and trepidation started to turn to anger.
“Anyway, what the hell are you on about?” I further enquired.
“Look at them, just look at them, sodding ruined, first time I’ve worn them” he spat out with venom.
“What the hell are you on about?” I felt the need to enquire again.
“My sodding gloves, brand new, first time I’ve worn themand now ruined,” he said by way of an explanation.
At this point we both looked at what no doubt was originally a very smart pair of leather flying gloves which had now turned into a charred smoking mess due to the electricity which had recently coursed through them.
“And I’ve lost my leg again, how the bloody hell am I going to get that one back?” he continued, chuntering on as I departed the scene due to the arrival of the Fire Service.
Later talking to the University Hang Gliding Club that Norman belonged to, they confirmed their fears about Norman’s safety.
They didn’t seem to have a problem with the leg, oh no, that was fine. It was just that he was registered blind as well.
That explains it then.

Dunge Bottom the book: A cross between Jack Kerouac's On the Road and Monty Python's Flying Circus.

ISBN-13: 978-0956844705