the cambridge air

I took my father, when he was losing his grip on the everyday, to the Santa Monica Museum of flying. There were a number of older planes. An elderly man was giving a few pointers to a small collection of visitors. My father waited to the end, and said, " I beg to differ...." and he told the man about how the controls of the Spitfire differ from those of the Hurricane.  He held his arms up like wings and showed them how the spitfire would bank against the wind.  "They should hire you," I said to my father as we walked away. He knew he was having trouble with his shoe laces, so he just smiled. " Will we be having tea soon?" he said.

I went to RAF Duxworth to see an air show called " Flying Legends."

There were Hurricanes and Spitfires; Hellcats and wildcats; Flying Fortresses and Bristol Blenheims; Gladiators and messerschmitts.

For three and half hours these planes poured overhead. 

From another airbase many miles away, a brand new American Raptor flew in to circle the air alongside an American fighter plane some seventy years it's senior. 

It ended with a " Balbo", which is when twenty odd planes fly in a formation that defies logic.

There were thousands of people, young and old. With cameras, with tea in a thermos, with hats and badges and hats with badges. 

There were old cars and women singing in close harmony. There were hamburgers and cones of chips with salt and vinegar.

The queue for men's lavatories was three times as along as for the ladies.

There was rain and wind and sunshine. All in the space of three hours.

My feet hurt from standing. My neck ached from looking up.  My face was burnt from the sun.

It ended with the voice of Winston Churchill saying;

 ' Let us then brace ourselves to our duties....men will still say, " This was their finest hour."'

But it started with the Dambuster March, and then from the east came seven spitfires in formation. seven of them.  Small and noisy. alone and brave. I watched them lift and twist through the ever changing skies,  and I held my breath for Malcolm Henry Murray. " You go Daddy...." I whispered.