International incident?! – Part 2

Now I can assure you that I’m not making any of what follows up.

I’d landed at Le Touquet at 4.50 pm and by the time I’d taxied to the apron and parked it was pushing 5.00 pm. I’m pretty sure that this must have been the highlight of these two chaps’ day because even though they were only apron hands, they had evidently been delegated some authority and were taking their new responsibilities very seriously. Thinking back I suspect that the police had told the airport that they were on their way and that I shouldn’t be allowed to leave and these two nice but slightly dim gents were the means by which that was to be accomplished.

They tried to hustle me a bit as I got out of the aircraft but didn’t forget their duty as apron hands, however, and asked if I had a fluorescent ‘gilet’ to wear on the apron (mandatory at all larger airfields in France). I did have and put it on but I wasn’t to be hustled and took my time gathering up my charts and generally clearing up the cabin. Even so, I was unable to switch off my GPS and when I left with them for the terminal I left my keys in the ignition and didn’t latch my door.

I, of course, didn’t know at that stage what they were talking about and I doubt that they did either. It was difficult to take what was happening seriously but as we made our way up to the terminal four hefty (including the one woman) police officers emerged all toting side arms and a host of other dangling equipment. They must do exercises every day just to stay fit enough to carry all that stuff, let alone run with it, but I digress.

So by now I was surrounded by six people all about two feet taller than me who were taking their jobs very seriously indeed. The police told the two airport workers they could go and they sloped off with an air of obvious disappointment. Luckily I’d had the foresight to dismount my GoPros as their power bank was long exhausted and fetch my laptop and flight bag with all of my documents thinking that as soon as I got the chance I’d need to file my necessary papers to get away to the UK. But these custodians of the law thought otherwise.

We pretty soon established that only one officer had a smattering of English and my French was perfectly adequate for the tasks in hand, and that visibly tilted the balance such as it was in my favour. Every now and again the officer who had a bit of English came out with some but he was the only one who could throughout the whole affair, which was conducted almost wholly in French.

They’d started by asking me for my documents and I had all of them in order, for both myself and the aircraft. I sensed that this might have been something of a surprise to them but we ploughed on. Then they said that they’d noticed that I had two GoPros, a camera around my neck and my phone and that they’d need to take a look at what I’d been taking pictures and videos of. I still hadn’t a clue about what they were driving at and assured them that the GoPros hadn’t worked since shortly after I left Saumur, that I hadn’t taken any pictures with my phone at all and that I had only taken a few shots with my camera since leaving Saumur, except for one or two coming up the coast, due to the bad weather.

They said that nevertheless they had to see what I’d been photographing and after I’d paged through the pictures in my camera and shown that there were none on my phone, they went off with my two GoPros to see if they could borrow some ‘C’ type USB leads to view the videos they contained on a PC in the airport reception. By now the atmosphere was becoming more relaxed except the youngest officer, who clearly took his policing very seriously, maintained a grim expression the whole time.

After a few minutes I decided to go and see how they were doing and found them all gathered around a computer screen. I said that I hadn’t had a chance to view the videos yet myself and sidled in beside them to get a good view. In fact they had already seen as much as they needed to and the one who could speak English turned and said to me, “We saw your take off at Saumur. Very good!” He then got his phone out and brought up a picture he’d found of the apron and control tower there that I’d left several hours before.

They clearly hadn’t found anything incriminating and they returned all of my stuff, including my pilot licences (I’d also produced my lifetime UK PPL), passport and ‘carte de séjour’ (my residency permit). So now I had some questions for them. What on earth was this all about? To cut a long story short, it turned out that the ‘prohibited zone’ was a lot more significant than what I’d thought and that was what all the fuss was about.

The English speaking officer then produced a slightly crumpled sheet of A4 paper that turned out to be a printout of the radar screen showing my incursion into the zone. It wasn’t by very much but it transpired that the zone wasn’t just around a key French nuclear establishment but was around just about the most key one in the whole of France. No wonder people were jumping up and down in the way they were!

I thought that as we’d established that nothing untoward had happened I’d now be allowed to continue on to the UK, but no, apparently they had other instructions. They had to take me to the police station in town as ‘procedures’ had to be followed. They had no choice, so I followed them and got into the back seat of a Gendarmerie car with two officers in the front and one beside me. I’d forgotten that I’d left my aircraft totally unsecured on the apron.

Things were now beginning to descend a bit into a Boys’ Own farce. As we were driving to the police station they activated the blue lights and the marvellous French emergency sirens that sound the opposite way to those in the UK (Dah Di, not Di Dah) and always sound a bit hoarse to me. As the traffic miraculously parted in front of us I thanked them for not wasting time getting to the police station as I needed to get away as soon as possible for the UK but they replied that they always drove like this. Goodness knows what people outside thought. Maybe they thought that I was either a government minister being escorted or a criminal getting my comeuppance, often one and the same thing here in France.

On arriving at the police station I was taken into a back office. I think policemen must be the same everywhere. I’d seen offices like this in the UK when I was younger while working in my vacations for a plumber and a builder who had government contracts, which is also why I’m pretty unphased by being around the police. An interrogation room this was not, its walls plastered with printed jokey sayings and phrases. Officer ‘English speaker’ eventually began typing a ‘statement’ for me although he didn’t need to ask me many questions as I’d already told him just about everything he needed to know. Then he left.

Then it was the turn of the lady officer. I kept looking over her shoulder whenever I got the chance and it was clear that typing wasn’t really her forte. I asked who was going to read all of the paper that was being generated and she looked at me, smiled wanly and raised her eyes to the ceiling, which was answer enough. I’d already noticed that they had a check-list that they were working their way through and it wouldn’t be over until it was over.

Eventually she left too and Officer ‘English speaker’ returned and asked me if I’d like a drink. As I’d had nothing to eat or drink since breakfast I accepted a glass of water and asked how long this was going to take? He said that it was a problem as it was a Sunday and that a ‘procureur’ had to be contacted in order for a final decision to be taken. He couldn’t say how long that might take but that in any case his colleague had to come to take another statement from me.

In the meantime I was shunted out of the office into the vestibule and the more I asked what was going on the more embarrassed the office staff became as it was clear that nobody really knew what was going on. The ‘colleague’ duly arrived at 8.00 pm when I suspect the shift changed. He then proceeded to type yet another ‘statement’ and confirmed that a decision about the matter had to be taken elsewhere. He was very sympathetic about my situation but said that unfortunately it wasn’t up to him and when I asked for a copy of the ‘statement’ he’d typed it was clear that he’d been telling me the truth. It couldn’t have been more in my favour.

But by then I’d been in the police station for nearly five hours. I’d asked what could be done about my aircraft but was told very apologetically that they’d tried phoning the airport several times and it was closed. So nothing could be done and I just hoped that as the Savannah has no parking brakes there would be no strong winds overnight. I would obviously need a hotel for the night and one of the staff went off to make a few phone calls. Shortly after they said they’d found me a room in the Red Fox Hotel in the town and four of us, me and three officers, bundled into another car to take me there.

What the staff thought when we all piled through the front door I can only guess. I asked how I’d book in with no luggage and without my passport (the police had hung onto my documents) but they smiled and said that with them accompanying me, that wouldn’t be a problem. And I got a special rate too (the police declined when I suggested that they should be paying for my room). They then left saying they’d pick me up in the morning and I went off for an enjoyable meal at the Matisse restaurant just up the road, followed by a good night’s sleep.

A very strange day indeed 😕