I recently participated in my first flying lesson. It took place at a local airfield on a glorious autumnal Saturday. The lesson had previously been cancelled, due to high winds, so I was grateful for having so much luck with the weather.
After some ground instruction as to the controls and general operation, I followed James, my instructor for the morning, to one of the hangars near the Control Tower.
Inside was a wonderful craft – the Ikarus C-42 light aircraft. James removed one of the side panels, revealing the simplicity of the structure inside. The plane was a long, aluminium tube, around which the composite shell sat. It was beautifully straightforward. The cabin was neat and compact, with just enough room for the two seats; one for the pilot and one for the passenger and was fronted with surprisingly few dials on the instrument panel. It was a perfect exercise in functionality and simplicity; designed to do a job and to do it well – over and over again. Unsurprisingly, my lean mind came to the fore. I began to admire the design, with its tightness and focused accuracy. I had been drawn into the thinking that a plane must be an incredibly complex thing, but the Ikarus C-42 was stunning. There was no superfluousity, no contamination of the vision. It was clean, clear, simple, and I loved it!
With absolutely no effort, James pushed the plane out of its hangar and onto the concrete. The time was rapidly approaching when we would take to the skies. I climbed in and was instructed in how to strap myself into the seat. James did the same and soon the engines were started. With headsets donned, we radioed the tower for a take-off slot, and trundled out onto the runway.
It was as we picked up speed that the lightness of the craft came into its own. Take-off was achieved with the minimum of fuss and the minimum of runway. Once again, I found myself marvelling at the efficiency of this brilliant flying machine. We began to climb and, the landscape with which I was so familiar, receded into a patchwork of miniature mappings. I was beginning to think that I was hooked.
The cockpit of a small plane is a wonderful place to sit back and reflect. When you realise that not much interaction with the controls is required, you are free to relax and enjoy the views. I flew over places I had worked; streets on which I had ran and roads on which I drove daily. They all looked so different. So calm and serene.
I guess that is what a good storyteller does. They present what we know, what we are familiar with, and the give it a fresh twist; something that makes us look anew. Something that draws us in with widened eyes.
When I wrote “Gone to the Dogs,” this was something that I attempted to do. I loved the old sit-coms of the 1970’s. They had a warmth and a camaraderie. As the years since their initial broadcasts have passed, many of them had arrived at anniversaries, thirty, forty, fifty years since that first outing into the public consciousness. Much-loved faces had passed and documentaries had been made, with beautiful, grainy footage of the stars, almost like a second family, proclaiming what wonderful times they had had. “Gone to the Dogs,” is my homage – to view that zeitgeist, from a fresh perspective.
It is a similar story with my current work-in-progress, “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew.” I first came across the character Cornelius Thryke when I wrote the novel, “Gone to the Dogs.” I instantly liked him and wondered about the story that had brought him to the point at which he had wandered, almost fully formed, into my consciousness.
It was time to zoom up in the plane. To view Cornelius’ lifescape anew and from a fresh perspective. At the time of writing, I am still up there. I don’t know quite what we shall find, quite what we shall learn, or see, but I do know one thing: I’d love you to join me on the journey.
“Gone to the Dogs” is available here, in the site shop.
An early extract of “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew,” is also available in this blogpost.