The sound of a merlin engine as I close my eyes, when a Spit/Hurri or P51 roars by, the exhaust crackling that particular way as it passes, and I have to hold back a tear . . .I could be in a crowd of hundred’s of people, yet that sound and I are alone.
The run of quick sunlight, sliding and flickering along a Spitfire’s beautiful wings as I look up and watch it climb and roll. The smell of petrol and oil and the ticking of a cooling engine.
At Perranporth airfield in the late summer evening after all the private pilot’s have gone home, standing in the middle of the huge expanse of green dancing grass and warm black tarmac . . .the breeze swishes past me and on it the whispers of ghosts, saying thanks and it’s alright.
That special and very private feeling that I’ve been here before, that it’s familiar because I recognise it, that it’s all the more special because so few people understand it, and because aircrew did the most marvellous thing and I am able to say ‘thanks boys’.
Andy.
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