Castle in the Air.

A Jack and the Beanstalk re-told tale with some new flying contraption.
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I am telling you if you ever attempt to fly the Sopwith in the early 21st Century alone over the skies of France, then you are probably loony as I was that bloody afternoon.

My name is Jonathan Blake; born in Bristol, studied at London, graduated from Oxford, landed a job in Nice and now on holiday in southern France. Unfortunately, I took up a challenge by some drinking fellows I met at the local bar, and here I am in this wood encased flying contraption at eight thousand feet. My plight would not had materialized if I had not boasted of my flying license for single seaters.

Anyway, I am supposed to re-enact the fighting scenes of the Great War when the Red Baron ruled the skies before we invented the flipping Spitfires. I knew I should not had told them I had a grandfather who flew in the war; well, he did. He was the navigator in the Mosquito recon planes then. Once he told me, he dread flying which is why he took the task to be a navigator and still get to fly. He wanted to impress my Grandmother then who was a Flight Coordinator.

Okay to me, I was flying the wooden or was it cardboard then; I could not bloody well recalled after three bottles of Burgundy best wine. All I remember was a joystick and googles on my eyes, plus my sheepskin thick flight jacket with the words 'viva le France'. I should had feigned being drunk but that was what I did and got me here.

Okay back to me flying then. I was on solo flight to showcase my talents to the French ladies we met at the bar too. I did some loops as I was trying to scratch my knee and then I realized they have any safety belts on this cardboard set. More to it, they did not bother to install in any cockpit cover. Must had been tough then to shout pass the glass cover. It was on my third loop and mind you, the itch was unbearable then; I think I dropped or fell whichever it was.

We were not expected to jump off the plane anyway so no parachute was given.

I must had fallen off as I mentioned above, and I thought it would be my last rites next to be told to me. I would had prefer Father Francis; he does not pronounce the ashes as asses. It does sound crude when someone tells that at your funeral; from asses to asses.
Okay, back to my tale. I did consider that the end of my life here but I ended up landing on my butt on some marble flooring in the clouds. I be darned with cloud technology in place, I doubt they would actually build server farms up there. There I was sitting on some cold marble flooring and it does hurt although you fallen only twenty feet instead of eight thousand feet. I got up naturally and felt my posterior for any misplaced muscles. There been none, I round me and I swear on the grave of my poor father, I never expected to see a castle here on the skies but there it is. Its a like any castles you seen in the countryside; towers and pointed roofing designs that reaches to the......pardon me; here it would be reference to heaven I guess.

If you ever remembered the tales about castles in the skies, there would only be one tale that would come to your mind. Your memory works as well as mine.

"Hello, old George. Are you the Golden goose?" I turned to looked at the chappie who addressed me as some feathered webbed creature fit for the oven. He is a small lad dressed in green tunic and matching leggings. Kinda make you wondered where he stashed his bow and arrows.

"No, I am no goose or gander. Just as you are not Robin Hood. My name is Jonathan. So what's yours?"

"Me? I am named Jack and I planted this beans that grew up to here. The person who gave me the beans told me there is a golden goose up here. So I climbed up here and I find you. You do looked like one with your dressing."

I be darned that in my aviation suit, I am mistaken for a goose or is it a gander. I corrected him and told Jack his goose is in the castle. We all read the same story and he bloody well not changed the plot. Just before he left for his daring adventure, I asked him how did he climbed up eight thousand feet on some crummy vines.

"Its simple. You put your feet on the top one and said 'go up'. It worked just fine." By George, they had the escalator concept then but lack the technology to do it. I waited for Jack and soon he came running out with the goose in his arms.

"We better hurry, as the Giant coming." I looked at the castle and I see that giant. He is flying a Fokker Triplane and is dressed like the Red Baron.

"He is German. That is Baron Manfred von Richthofen." I shouted to Jack.

"Now we know the tale was originated from Germany then. Can we go now?" Jack is looking at me.

"Take your vine. That was in the story too."

"I would but the vine is at the bottom level and its takes time to reach here. Where is your Sopwith? You are a British Pilot. I am also British. Jack's the name. So can you find your plane please? We ain't got all day."

I looked at Jack and shook my head.

"How do you call a plane in London?" I had to asked him as I was staying some years in Nice.

"Whistle, my fellow islander." I was wondering if I should take offence to that but I did as he instructed. I whistled the hymn, "Mary had a little lamb." I can't helped it as under duress, I sing that most times.

It worked and the plane came back; stopped by us. We boarded it including the goose on its maiden trip. We took off and I swooped down to the ground level. I had to do evasive moves to shake off the Red Baron and soon we came to graze the treetops before we crashed into the field.

I woke up seeing myself in the goose pond with the Sopwith butt flapping its tail at an odd angle. I could see my French friends running towards me with looks of concern. I got out of the pond and waddle to the dried grass area.

"Are you alright, mon Cherie?"

"Never better. By George, can someone tell me when can we fly again?" I spoke to my concern friends.

"Not so soon, Jon. We still have some unfinished barrels at the Golden Goose to consume." We marched on back to the tavern to continue our drinking. The bartender name was Jack; he was from Bristol too. Nice chap to be associated in Nice.