When Concorde Still Flew and the World Felt Simpler
It was June 1998. Concorde still sliced across the Atlantic, Britain was still part of the EU, and the Germans still paid in Deutsche Marks. I was 21, serving with the British Army, and the world felt full of promise. That summer had everything: sunshine, football fever, and a ticket to Jamaica.
The plan was simple, a three-week deployment to the Caribbean island that had just made World Cup history. Jamaica had qualified for the tournament in France, and the whole country was buzzing. For us, roughly 250 troops were to deploy to Jamaica. But for me and 12 others, there was a twist. We wern't flying on Concorde, that's for sure, and we weren’t flying commercial. We were on Chalk 2, a Royal Air Force C-130 Hercules, flying from Royal Air Force Lyneham to Kingston, via Gander, Newfoundland and Bermuda.
The trip to the Carrabbean promised to be fun, sun and lots of beer. That's kind of what happened, so to speak. The journey, as the military saying goes, didn’t exactly survive first contact.
Day One: Abort, Abort
We made it to the end of the runway before the pilot slammed on the airbrakes. The bird turned back, tail between its wings. Fault with the oxygen system in the rear cabin, apparently. No big deal, just a few sweaty blokes and a pile of kit sitting on the tarmac, dreaming of rum and reggae.
"Bloody RAF," came the moans and groans from the lads.
Day Two: Almost Scotland’s Finest
Day two saw us finally airborne. I’d slung my hammock at the back of the Herc, and just as I was starting to get comfortable when a mate wandered over. “We’re turning back,” he said. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. We’d made it as far as the north coast of Scotland before being told to return to Lyneham.
By this point, Jamaica was beginning to feel like a mythical island that only existed in postcards. Funnay travel delays? We couldn't really complain. We were being paid to travel after all.
Day Three: Reykjavik, Gander and the Great Home Fries Revelation
Third time lucky. We took off again, bound for Reykjavik, Iceland. The quick refuel stop gave us a leg stretch and a reminder of what cold actually felt like. Next leg: Gander, Newfoundland.
Gander was bleak, flat and grey, but it was also where I discovered home fries. It was my first time on Canadian soil. I’d never tasted them before. Little cubes of potato cooked to perfection, eaten in the sanctuary of our motel. Culinary heaven, after two days of powdered coffee, orange screech (powdered orange drink) and aircraft rations.
Day Four: Halifax and Heartbreak
Back in the air, our pilot piped up over the intercom: “Change of plan. We’re heading for Halifax, Nova Scotia.” No one was surprised anymore.
That evening coincided with England’s 2–1 loss to Romania in the World Cup. The Royal Navy were also in town, and let’s just say the local bars didn’t quite know what hit them. I vaguely remember chairs flying, tears falling, and someone singing Three Lions off-key.
Day Five: Florida Detour
We woke up slightly worse for wear. Our “taxi” to the airport turned out to be a stretch limousine. I kid you not. By now, nothing seemed strange.
At the airfield, our loadmaster informed us the C-130 had another fault. “Two hours,” he said, a phrase that had lost all meaning by that point. The delay meant we’d need a refuel stop at Patrick Air Force Base, Florida. Another day, another unscheduled stay, another round of sink laundry.
For reasons still unclear, we weren’t allowed access to our hold luggage, even though we could literally see it through the netting in the cargo bay. Deep joy.
Patrick AFB did at least have a PX (shop), so we restocked essentials, then spent the evening on Cocoa Beach. Sunshine, waves, and American beer, suddenly the trip didn’t feel so bad.
Day Seven: Jamaica (At Last)
A week after take-off, we finally touched down in Kingston. By then, we looked less like a military unit and more like a backpacker group who’d missed their connection three times.
The island, truth be told, was a bit of a let-down. Our Jamaican location was Port Antonio, a place you won't find in the travel brochures. The humidity was relentless, and so were the mosquitoes. Our accommodation wasn't luxury, or waterproof. We all maintained a sense of humour, and you needed to. England were dumped out of the World Cup by Argentina, Beckham’s infamous red card still burns in my memory.
But we’d made it. Seven days, five countries, three hangovers, one broken aircraft, and an unforgettable story.
Looking Back on a crazy journey to Jamaica
That summer feels like a lifetime ago, the world simpler, no social media, travel slower, and patience mandatory. Every stop, delay and detour now feels like part of a larger adventure.
Sometimes the journey is the story.