Volume 16 No 1 Feb 1965.pdf - Lakes Gliding Club

change, my man," I sa.id grandly, andjolted out into the road, ego teetering atcloudbase.Buckingham is a. town full of narrowstreets and charm-and one {'articulal'corner which presents for a trailer moreor less the same problem that the eye ofa needle does for a camel. I must haveseriously discommoded at Je.ast half thelocal populace in my negotiatioll-socalled-of a right ~ngle even a Minimight have baulked at. By the time Isweatily pulled into the 'straight my egowas about clutch level again.Passing through Finmere 1 saw aparked trailer beside a telephone bo)!:,and matiIy shared a phone call back tobase. Hanno was fine-all I had to dowas wait.From a cottage across the roadbounced an ebullient blonde female,twittering with enthusiasm. What werethe trailers for, she wanted to know. Weexplained, and she went into a spasmof superlatives: "Too absolutely marvellous-Iabsolutely adore flying-toodivine-so poetic-terribly brave-ourdahfing flying boys ..." and so on-ababble of admiration culminating in ahoarse invitation to tea.We munched and gulped in a wash ofcompliments, and returned to keepingan ear on the radio. Hanno, sUddenly~"Back over Brackley; circling.""What's he flying-a jet?" I thought,and crunched the noble cow into gear.The corner in Buckingham seemedto have shrunk. I discommoded the otherhalf of the local population.The radio refused to give me anyfurther information, so a few miles outsideBletchley I phoned in again. Controlsounded as if they thought I had a touchof the sun. "What do you mean youheard him say he was on his way back?He just phoned in to say he'd comedown at EdgehilI!"Buckingham is a .town full of narrowstreets and. charm-and onc particularcorner . . . oh, well.Nel\t run, Yarmouth. I actually hadan assistant crew. Great luxury. Ha.nnodecided to be original and landed atLowestoft instead, at a kissin' cousin-to­Butlio's sort of holiday camp. I gatheredfr~m Control that he wasn't too popularWith the management who had telephonedwith some asperity claiming thathe'd made a near miss of their canteenand a shambles of both playing field andgeneral morale.We found the camp without mishap.999 sat sedately in a patch of long grass-playing field, my foot; at least 400yards away from a group of rather tattybuildings. I had some difficulty persuadingthe gatekeeper to let me bring thetrailer into the grounds. He seemed tofeel it wo·uld be much more convenientto shove the glider bodily through thehedge and derig in the middle of theA.12.Logical argument made no impression,·so I opened my eyes wide, leaned towardsthe old . . . er . . . gentleman,and breathed heavily. Visibily wilting heallowed me by.As we struggled with the centre section,a lugubrious figure approached, aninmate of the camp, trailing long thinlegs through the grass. We exchangedvague Wliteries, and I asked if we couldget $omething to eat in the famous canteen.His already mournful face droppedinto eJltreme gloom. "I wouldn't go thereif I was you," he said, "the food's terrible!"He rolled bloodshot eyes upwards."Everything's terrible-and theworst of it all is I've paid for a fortnight's'olidllY and there's stiU ten daysto go!"The bags under his eyes, sagg~ng withthe weight (ilf unshed tears, he turnedand trudged b~ck to his money's worth,towing his misery like wisps of cirrusbehind him.It was hot the next day, followingHan'no in brilliant sunshine, very hotboiling,in fact. The noble cow had alvery efficient heater. There was only onething wrong with it-I couldn't turn itoff. And the hood was stuck. I wasdriving in my own personal oven. .Ipswich is one of those conveOlentplaces reached by several alternative31