Journeys are about Movement

There are a couple of ways to experience movement. You can watch it, or you can be part of it. I love both.

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Let’s do some watching.

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As a kid, I was taken down to my local railway embankment to watch the steam trains. Not at a preserved railway. This was the real thing—the 1960’s. The first thing is the hissing and the turnover of water, of fire and shoveling of coal. There is no movement, but it sounds so alive. When it’s time to start the whistle is sounded, and there is a shrill of excitement (not just from me), the wheels turn slowly at first, so much steam is let out a dense cloud forms in front. Then, there is a moment's silence before the pace ups a little, the large chimney bellows grey and white puffs as it sets off. All the wheels and cogs of the engine are on full display. It’s an engineering masterpiece, everything working together as one, you can feel the power and the energy as it pulls away. Express steam trains were more dramatic. Even though it would not last very long, you usually knew when one was approaching. In the distance, there was first the sound of something mechanical working furiously, getting nearer, getting louder, then the tension in the air changed slightly as if the engine was sucking in the air in front of it and then whoosh……thunder and intense clattering and noise overwhelmed you followed by the colicky clacks of the carriages. And then they were gone with a faint murmuring and vibration coming from the lines, which seemed to last for a long time.

All this was just the sounds, what they also had in abundance were smells. These ranged from the hot dampness of a kettle boiling to the soot-tie earthy smell of the soot which the darker the cloud, the stronger the burnt smell was. You either loved it or hated it. Either way, if you spent too much time near steam trains, all your clothes ended up in the wash and sometimes you as well.

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Aeroplanes in the 1960’s were no less exciting as you could pretty much walk right up to them. Nothing fancy then. This was London Airport. They were all turboprop, and many more people were involved in starting them up. After the fuel trucks had departed, the pilot would open his window and stick his hand out with his thumbs up. The person on the ground would indicate that he was ready to watch. What followed sounded like a mini explosion plus a series of coughs like the plane had a terrible stuffed nose and throat infection. After several rounds the propeller would move a little then a little more, then a roar from the exhaust pipes with black fumes momentarily blasting out. The person in front who was standing a discreet distance from the action did well to remain standing as the turbulence was quite something. If you were roughly in line with the engine, you hang onto the fence and pretend you were holding on for dear life. But the excitement was not finished as this procedure had to be repeated for the remaining three engines. Once they were all running, the noise was deafening, and the air movement was powerful. The aeroplane was shaking with anticipation, ready to leave the moment the pilot was ready. To aid with keeping the plane steady, there were chocks on either side of the front wheels, whilst the pilot, co-pilot, engineer and navigator were performing their final checks. Yes, I did say four people in the cockpit. Very little automation was available to them, and certainly no fly-by-wire. Once it was time for the off it was all the pilots could do to keep this wild horse from escaping the airfield before permission had been granted.

The funny thing was, from the distance I was from the runway, it seemed very quiet and serene. The plane was in no hurry at all, and when it did take off, the rate of accent was so slight it appeared the plane's wheels might tickle the boundary fences on the way over, but no they always achieved some height beforehand.

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Now, let’s do some travelling.

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Did I say steamtrains were smelly? The thing was, when you travelled you always had clothes for the journey and clothes for the destination. Today it matters less but in steam days it very much did. It was pretty much impossible to avoid the smell unless it was a cold day. Soot goes everywhere, so unless you were allowed in a waiting room, it was everywhere. On your clothes and your shoes. Consequently, the insides of the trains had it as well. You might think that everywhere must have been dirty. I suppose it was, but people didn’t notice it so much. A lot more people smoked cigarettes or pipes. You tended to notice nicotine and pipe ash when fellow passengers were onboard. There were some nonsmoking carriages or compartments. Most long-distance carriage trains had corridors with compartments that had their own sliding doors. 2nd class compartments could have 6 passengers whilst 1st class were for 4. There was also 3rd class, which was typically bench seating. Later on, 2nd class disappeared and was remained 3rd class.

Unless you were seated in the front carriage, you didn’t normally hear the engine. However, there was always a shunting effect as we started off. When the train eventually got going it never got up to what we would call fast speeds. Very gentle.

If you were in a rear carriage, when you stuck your head out of a door window, you could observe the engine ahead. This was particularly interesting when you went around a curve as you could observe the smoke trail. More exciting than this was when you went through tunnels. The smoke would hang around, and when the train emerged from the tunnel, there would be a burst of smoke around the tunnel portal. You were always advised not to stick your head out as there were signal posts and low bridges. However, I think the danger was the attraction.

As well as the windows, the doors were of the slam door variety—no electric doors. When you reached your destination, you had to lean out and toggle the handle. There was always a step down onto the platform, and once down, you had to slam the door behind you. It was physical labour, I tell ya—all good fun.

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The aeroplanes I first flew on were basic. At the time, it was a fascinating machine that was going to take me to far-flung places. I was reminded of this when I visited the Museum of Flight near Edinburgh. I went to see one of the Concorde’s, which was a fabulous experience. When I came out of the Concorde hangar, I noticed they had another plane. A Dan-Air relic from the golden era, well, um I mean the 1960’s. As I walked up to it, I was going, OMG, did I really fly in this? It looks so dated, like it had been thrown together in a garage that morning. Sheets of metal all neatly tacked together. Yet it is a piece of flying history that was part of the early growth of mass market air travel. We were more excited about the outcome it was going to deliver than any inconvenience it might throw up along the way. Inside, the seats were two by two. The windows were square and had net curtains. The luggage racks were frames with string nets, just like you would have seen on a bus or train.

The galley looked like a real mini kitchen had been installed. Pipes sinks and all. Yes, I really did fly in one of these.

First, the plane shook as much as they looked like they were from the outside, but when it started moving along the tarmac, things calmed down a lot. When we reached the runway, the engines were run up to full power, the propellers spun so fast I could no longer see them, and we were off!

Strangely it seemed like we were in no hurry to leave. We were moving faster and faster. Did anyone mention how long the runway was? The idea is to fly, isn’t it? Even when we felt that first lift of air, we were still close to the ground. You could still see people’s faces as they looked up from their cars or buses. OK, maybe I’m using a little artistic license here, but our four crew didn’t seem in any hurry to get us fully airborne. Arh, the impatience of youth.

Now we were airborne, and this is where any similarity to flying today ends.

There were seat pockets in front of us, the most prominent item being a large think empty brown paper bag. What’s that for? I wondered as I put it back. You’ll get a lot of sweets in there.

Turbulence! In this light and seemingly unstable aircraft, I was about to be introduced to this invisible natural force of nature. Not only could it make us take sharp left or right turns, but we could also rise and fall at rapid rates. The only manoeuvre that wasn’t attempted was loop the loop!

I and several other passengers turned as green as Martians. At last, a use for those brown paper bags…

It wasn’t always like this, but you had to learn to expect it. The doctor could prescribe air sickness tablets. You see, 20000 feet ish was the usual sort of maximum height, and this was and still is where the most unstable air lives. Its height can vary enormously. Today, pilots can avoid them with ease. In the 60’s, you had to put up with it.

The pleasant side of flying at lower altitudes is seeing what you are flying over in more detail—ships on the sea, roads, and bridges on land. Once, going over the Swiss Alps I could see an observation building complete with the windy road that led up to it. The air can be so clear, and, on that day, it was clear as a bell.

Flying was lower and slower but no less exciting. When we arrived at our destination, it was like arriving in a different world. The sights, sounds, the languages, the temperature, and the food were so different from home. I soaked it all up like a sponge. This is why I love travel.