Air Show.

More of a destination than a journey.  I was transported to the show via the magic of the internal combustion engine (external combustion engines exist).  I arrived early, this is not somewhere you arrive on time, not unless you want to walk 2 miles from car to show.  I didn’t, not because the walk was a dread, but the traffic jam that would accompany the end of the show is going to be horrendous.

Clacton is built on the coast, this means a coast road, which effectively means, one way in, one way out, today cars are parked on both sides of that road for 3 miles and more, bumper to bumper, I do not dare investigate the small side roads.

Having arrived with plenty of time I did a little sight-seeing and picked a spot I thought would be a good vantage point.  Near the Pier, but careful to be on the correct side, the bit where the planes would be doing the stuff.  Carefully chosen, my bit of the railings included a thorny bush to my left.  I had no intention of being hemmed in by humanity, that bush was going to stop that happening.  Not inconsequentially the memorial gardens are behind me, a large impressive war memorial, the names of the dead from 1914-18 and 1939-45 on it, with a large sculpted winged figure above them all.  It was the right place to be.

I have no interest in planes really.  I did want to see the Battle of Britain memorial flight and I was looking forward to seeing the Utterly Butterly girls “wing walking”.  Being as the airshow was technically over water, it means the planes can come in very close, the presumption being if something goes wrong there is plenty of water to ditch into and in terms of impact absorption water is better than terra-firma.  Whatever the reason, you can wave to the pilots in the cockpits.

My main motivation for going to air shows is memory.  Many many years ago a friend had an SLR camera which really impressed me.  It was so complex it just had to be good.  He liked airshows and had numerous images of tiny specks on a blue backdrop.  I am re-living the boredom of it now.  Well I wanted that camera and I wanted to be able to take pictures of planes.  The other reason, you should never forget.

The camera thing has gone full circle and I use a point and click device with as few bells and whistles as I can get away with.  I am still trying to taking the plane image that is in my head.  For those that care this mental image has a remarkable similarity to the moment in “Empire of the Sun” when the fighter pilot flies low over the land, canopy open and waves in slow motion as he goes by, all sun glint highlights.

The show begins, I have picked a good spot.  I know this because all around me are people with cameras that could be mistaken for telescopes.  Tripods, monopoles, lenses bigger than thermos flasks.  Oh dear, I am in a nerd forest, the wrong nerd forest, goretex is my element.  Still we are all here for the same reason, taking the image which is in our heads.

I take an endless series of blurry blobs in the sky while imagining all those around me are taking a shot of a Japanese fighter pilot waving in slow motion just above sea level.  Still it is darn good fun trying.  My technique improves a little, but my anticipation is way off, the planes are simply not in the right place at the right time and an error in location is glaring me in the face.  The sun gets in the way of of photographing aircraft heading towards me.  A damn silly mistake, the first one a fighter pilot is told to avoid and often the very last mistake he makes.  Getting home, reveals I still have a long way to go when it comes to aircraft photography.

I know very few things about aircraft but it stands me in good stead.  What a Spitfire looks like is my primary aircraft skill.  I am surrounded by experts, they know it all and in loud voices are keen to let everyone share in their knowledge.  I don’t mind, but am learning rather more about the people than the planes, conversations are about where they last saw the plane (last week somewhere in most cases).

A plane appears over the sea, unannounced, it has caught the BBC Essex outside broadcast team unawares.  Maybe they were looking under their desks for some more joke sound effects at the time.  Actually I am being naughty, the outside broadcast was mercifully free of gimmick and even had co-commentators more used to being in the aircraft than flying a microphone, it added rather than subtracted from the experience, even if some toe-curling cliché was to be expected .

The so far unidentified plane has squared off wing tips.

“Ahhh, there she is” a voice thick with emotion booms from somewhere behind me.  “Spitfire, I would recognise it anywhere, its the shape of the wings.”  I am ahead of the game, its not a Spitfire, its a Mustang.  I know it is not a Spitfire by prior knowledge.  Recognising it is a Mustang has been pieced together by a sneak preview of the show guide earlier in the day.

The DJ sparks into life, “blah blah, cliché, cliché, Mustang, blah, blah.”

Stunned silence around me.  “The announcer says it is a Mustang” a trembling voice sneaks into the silence.

For the next few minutes we are treated to why the identification error was made.  It had everything to do with engine note, the Mustang did not have its original engine.  This redressed the balance a little, nobody pointed out the totally different wing shapes it would be too difficult to explain away.  Much better something as unlikely as a Mustang having a Spitfire engine as a replacement had been the root of the error.

The Utterly Butterly girls were not, they were now a brand of skin care cream girls, but other than that the same.  Still great, rather them than me.  The planes swoop and climb, my stomach flips.  The airstrip they take off and land from is not far away, for a mad moment I consider heading there, but it would be like peeping behind the theatre curtain, the magic is front of house.  They look glamorous and daring, free spirits of the 1930’s, I don’t really want to see them unbuckled, windswept and staggering like some over-exerted nightclubbers.

High on my list of things “I am unlikely to see” then hoved into view, The Swifts.  An aerobatic team complete with glider.  It is a 3 aircraft team.  The glider is towed behind one of them doing a series of very unlikely looking rolls.  This must take some serious skill my initial understated thought.  Then the glider and its tug fly up into the blue gaining height while the third aircraft entertains the crowd.  The next time we see the glider it is free from the rope and doing all manner of rolls and turns and lord knows what.  Timing is everything, getting back to the airfield a serious consideration when you have not got an engine.

The Catalina flying boat was a treat to see, huge graceful, mercifully slow moving, it did a series of arcs over Clacton pier,it was impressive.  I had built a model of one as a small boy, the dual nature of its landing capabilities enthralled me.  I had never seen one in the flesh, an unexpected highlight.

Top billing of the show is always going to be the Battle of Britain Memorial flight.  Hurricane, the last one ever built, “The Last of the Many” was the one flying this day.  The Spitfire that flew was restored to flying condition in 1997 after 50 odd years of being grounded.  Both planes had rolls in the Battle of Britain film.

The star is always the Lancaster for me, only two airworthy examples left, this the only one in England.  I dread the day it crashes as these things have a tendency to do.

Here is the memorial flight website.

The Red Arrows were to end the show, but not for me, I had seen the fitting end to the show already, so I headed back to the car.  Before going though I stopped in at a small public garden where there is a plaque too an Airman that died during the Second World War.

Going home I drove faster than usual, in the brief bits of tarmac that still allowed me travel over 30mph I actually do, I had witnessed too much speed.  It is quite a time since I bothered going faster than 30mph on the 70 or so yard stretches between pointlessly assigned 30mph zones with cameras hidden waiting to apply the points and hand out the fine.  I am daydreaming over the life and demise of T.E Lawrence when a motorcyclist thunders past me, quickly followed by his friend allowing judgement and luck to be the arbitrator of whether he lives or dies stuck to the front of the on-coming vehicle.