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Biggles takes off over England ... Highs in the skies for aviation enthusiasts

England boasts the world’s most lively and compact classic aviation scene in the world. In summer especially, there are air shows all around the country, ranging from the free spectacular in the skies over Folkestone to the epic air shows at Battle of Britain fighter bases Duxford and Biggin Hill, to the year-round displays at the Shuttleworth Collection near Biggleswade and many other museums and collections. Here is a reminder of some of the treats aviation enthusiasts are in for …

BEDFORDSHIRE

In the distance near Caddington the green hangars of Britain’s famous between-the-wars airships stand dominating the landscape. It was here the fateful R101 took off for India, crashing on 5 October 1930 near Beauvais with a loss of 46 lives. The torn RAF ensign of the R101 is in the Church and the victims are buried in the churchyard across the road. The Bell Public House has a photographic gallery depicting the history of the Airships. Their story is told in a book by famed author Neville Shute, who worked on the airships’ design.

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Caddington airship hangars.

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R101 airship.

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R101 airship wreckage, 1930.

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Glenn Miller, Major, in US army uniform.

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Glenn Miller, Big Band leader.

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Glenn Miller with Big Band.

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Shuttleworth airfield landing strip.

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Bleriot, March 2019.

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Shuttleworths at Old Warden.

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Dorothy Shuttleworth and William the pug, 1952.

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Richard Shuttleworth winning at Donington Park, 1934.

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Richard Shuttleworth in the freshly refurbished Blériot XI, talking to its previous owner Albert Grimmer.

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Shuttleworth House.

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Swiss Gardens at Shuttleworth.

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Peacocks at the Swiss Gardens, Shuttleworth.

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Shuttleworth Visitor Centre.

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AR501 at Shuttleworth. Photo by Darren Harbar.

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Shuttleworth Collection group tour.

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Shuttleworth hangars.

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Shuttleworth hangarage.

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Shuttleworth Collection: DH88 Comet.

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Shuttleworth drive-in airshow.

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Big Band leader Glenn Miller had associations with Milton Ernest village where the US Army Air Force established its headquarters in the village hall. 

The Shuttleworth Collection
2m W off A1 at the Biggleswade roundabout.
Tel: 01767 627288.
Hours: Open all year, 10am-5pm (4pm November to March). Last admission 1 hr before closing. Closed Christmas Eve up to and including New Years Day.
Entry Fee: Admission charge. 
Events: Flying displays are usually held on the last Sunday in the month from April to October, weather permitting.
Established by the mother of Richard Ormonde Shuttleworth in memory of her son. Richard was a keen racing driver, pilot and collector who joined the RAF and was killed in a flying accident in 1940. The first item in the collection was a 1932 de Havilland Moth, and exhibits now include a 1942 Spitfire in flying condition, many cars, cycles and horse drawn vehicles. Flying displays are held throughout the year.


BUCKINGHAMSHIRE

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Wycombe Air Centre
Wycombe Air Park, Clay Lane, Booker.
Tel: 01494 443737
Take to the skies with one of the UK’s best known flying schools.
There are trial lessons with qualified instructors for anyone who wants to take the pilot’s seat and fly a light aircraft.
Try a family fun flight for a bird’s eye view of Buck. Includes tickets for Blue Max flying museum.

The Blue Max Collection
Wycombe Air Park, Clay Lane, Booker.
Tel: 01494 449810
Hours: Open all year, and in the evenings in summer with an aerial display.
Entry fee: Admission charge, children under 5 free.
A historic collection of classic flying machines that have starred in Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines, The Battle of Britain, Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade and many others.
Spitfires and WWI fighters too.

CAMBRIDGESHIRE

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Inside the Fenland Aviation Museum.

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Fenland Aviation Museum: Hawker Hurricane Spitfire propeller.

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Fenland Aviation Museum: De Havilland Vampire cockpit.

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Fenland Aviation Museum: exhibits.

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Fenland Aviation Museum: A Mwing Commander navigator uniform.

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Fenland Aviation Museum: De Havilland Vampire.

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Duxford airfield.

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Imperial War Museum: American Air Museum, Duxford.

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Imperial War Museum: American Air Museum, Duxford.

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Imperial War Museum: American Air Museum, Duxford.

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Imperial War Museum: American Air Museum, Duxford.

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Fenland Aviation Museum
Bamber’s Garden Centre, Old Lynn Rd, West Walton.
Tel: 01945 585808
Hours: Open Easter to October. Saturdays 10am–5pm. Sundays and Bank Holidays 10am–4pm, Wednesdays 1pm–4pm. Other times by appointment. Closed November until Easter.

Entry fee: Admission charge.
Access: Suitable for wheelchair access.
Displays of aviation memorabilia, uniforms and photographs.
The Vampire TII aircraft is one of the finest examples in the country and has undergone a complete respray and airframe check.
Members of the public are welcome to sit in the cockpit and study the aircraft at close quarters.

Imperial War Museum & Aircraft Museum
 
Next to junction 10 on the M11 at Duxford.
Tel: 01223 835000
Hours: Open all year except 24 to 26 December. Summer 10am to 6pm, and in Winter 10am to 4pm.
Access: Wheelchair access.
Six giant hangars of displays at what was once a Battle of Britain fighter station now housing a wonderful collection of displays and exhibitions from the First World War to the Gulf War.
Aces such as legless pilot Douglas ‘Tin Legs’ Bader served here.
The Showscan motion theatre is a must and where you can experience a ride through space or take part in a dog fight.
Have a look around a Concorde static display. In the Summer historic aircraft take to the skies, especially at weekends.
Unique experiences such as a ride in a two-seater Spitfire are available.
In recent years Duxford has been the scene of some warbird milestones, such as the greatest gathering of Spitfires in the air since World War II – on the day of the airshow, 27 Spitfires chased each other in procession through the skies over Duxford.
 

ESSEX

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Aerial photo of The Squadron, North Weald.

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North Weald Airfield control tower.

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The Squadron.

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The Squadron: DSC3936 departing aircraft during Norweigan visit.

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Planes out front of The Squadron, North Weald.

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Another view of planes out front of The Squadron, North Weald.

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The Squadron
North Weald Airfield, Epping.
Hours: Open daily 10am to 5pm
1940s historic aircraft museum in commemoration of the RAF Squadrons based here 1916 to 1960.
Authentic wartime restaurant and bar. Well worth a visit.

GLOUCESTERSHIRE

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Jet Age Museum.

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Inside the Jet Age Museum.

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One of the aircraft in the Jet Age Museum collection.

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Biggles on display in the Jet Age Museum.

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Gloster Javelin FAW on display in the Jet Age Museum.

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A view of the aircraft collection in the Jet Age Museum.

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The Wellington Aviation Museum.

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Inside the Wellington Aviation Museum.

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Jet Age Museum (formerly known as the Gloucestershire Aviation Collection)
Meteor Business Park, Cheltenham Road East, Gloucester GL2 9QL.
Hours: Open from 10am to 4pm (café 10am to 3.30pm) on Saturdays, Sundays, the majority of UK Bank Holidays and selected Wednesdays during Schools’ holiday periods. The Museum is closed on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day.

Allow between one and two hours for your visit.
As an all-volunteer organisation, the Museum cannot guarantee that all the facilities and activities will be available when the Museum is open. Restrictions may also apply when special events are held on public opening days.

Wellington Aviation Art
Broadway Rd, Moreton-in-Marsh.
Tel: 01608 650323
Hours: Open all year, Tuesday to Sunday and Bank Holidays 10am-13.30pm and 2.30-5pm.
A famed Wellington bomber, designed by Barnes Wallis of Dambuster bouncing bomb fame, and other aircraft artefacts, paintings, prints, aircraft sculptures, books and videos.
Unique collection of WWII aircraft history. Paintings, models and prints for sale.

HERTFORDSHIRE

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North Weald Airfield Memorial.

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Aerial view ofSalisbury Hall de Havilland Aircraft Museum.

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Salisbury Hall de Havilland Aircraft Museum: Tiger Moth.

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Salisbury Hall de Havilland Aircraft Museum: DH110 Sea Vixen.

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Salisbury Hall de Havilland Aircraft Museum: Mosquito B35 TA634.

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North Weald Airfield Memorial
Ad Astra House, Hurricane Way, Epping.
Tel: 01992 572705.
Hours: Open all year daily 12noon-4pm, except Christmas day, Boxing Day and New Years Day.
Entry fee: Admission charge.
Ground floor fine old house at former main gate of North Weald Airfield. Historic record of the airfield from 1916 to 1964.
A comprehensive and accurate collection of archives, photographs, detailed records of all activities, models, uniforms and equipment relating to Royal Flying Corps and Royal Air Force, all in immaculate condition and surroundings.
 
The de Havilland Aircraft Museum(Formerly known as Salisbury Hall Mosquito Aircraft Museum)
Salisbury Hall, Shenley, London Colney, AL2 1BU.
Tel: 01727 826400
Hours: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday and Bank Holidays 10.30-17.00 hrs (last entry to Museum at 16.00 hrs).
Access: Wheelchairs available, and ramp access to all public buildings.
Entry fee: Admission charge.
Salisbury Hall is not open to the public, but is beautiful moated manor-house, once the home of Sir Nigel Gresley, the great locomotive engineer.
This is the oldest aviation museum in Britain dedicated to the de Havilland Mosquito.
The prototype for this famous timber-built Second World War fighter-bomber was designed and built here.
Other memorabilia relating to the de Havilland aircraft company heritage is also housed here.

LEICESTERSHIRE

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Leicestershire Aeropark.

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Leicestershire Aeropark: Lightning F53.

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Leicestershire Aeropark: Avro Vulcan B2.

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Aeropark and Visitor Centre
East Midlands Airport.
Tel: 01332 810621
Hours: Aeropark open daily dawn to dusk (except Christmas Day). Visitor Centre open Easter to October, Monday to Friday 10am-5pm, Saturday 11am-4pm, Sunday 11am-6pm. Last entrance to the Aeropark is 1 hour before closing time.
Entry fee: Admission charge.
Disabled facilities: majority of areas accessible, ramp into Visitor Centre, specially adapted toilets and parking areas.
See the action from this 12 acre park next to taxiway at eastern end of the airport.
Exhibits include a Lightning fighter jet, Vulcan bomber, Canberra bomber, Argosy freighter and Whirlwind helicopter.
Viewing mound, themed children’s play area and picnic area.

LINCOLNSHIRE

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Lincolnshire: Battle of Britain Memorial Flight.

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Lincolnshire: RAF, Battle of Britain Memorial Flight: The Lancaster.

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Metheringham Airfield Visitor Centre: Douglas Dakota KG651.

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Cranwell Aviation Heritage Centre.

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Cranwell Aviation Heritage Centre interior.

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Cranwell Aviation Heritage Centre interior.

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Cranwell Aviation Heritage Centre: Hunting Percival Jet Provost T4.

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Battle of Britain Memorial Flight
RAF Coningsby. Dogdyke Rd, Coningsby, Lincoln LN4 4SY.
Tel: 01522 782040
Hours: Open Monday to Friday 10am-5pm (last tour 3.30pm from March to October and at 3pm from November to February). Closed Easter, Bank Holidays and for two weeks at Christmas.
Entry fee: Admission charge. Access to the hangar is by guided tour only.
Access: All areas accessible to guests in wheelchairs.
A fascinating guided tour around the Flight’s hangar where a Lancaster, Hurricane, Dakota and four Spitfires can be seen. Because of operational commitments a guarantee cannot be given of the availability of specific aircraft. Please phone for details.
 
Metheringham Airfield Visitor Centre
Westmoor Farm, Martin Moor, Metheringham.
Tel: 01526 378270
Hours: Open weekends and Bank Holidays April to November, 10am-5pm.
Entry fee: Admission free.
Access for wheelchair users.
During the Second World War farmland near this Lincolnshire village was cleared of buildings, livestock and trees to make way for RAF Metheringham and the Lancasters, air and ground crews of 106 Squadron.
A fascinating exhibition of photographs and memorabilia can be found at Westmoor Farm, the site of the domestic quarters, which recalls life on this wartime airfield.
 
Cranwell Aviation Heritage Centre
Heath Farm, North Rauceby.
Tel: 01529 488490
Hours: Open April to end-October, 10am-5pm daily. November to March, 10am-4pm daily (photographic exhibition only).
Entry fee: Admission free.
Access: All areas accessible to guests in wheelchairs.
Photographs, exhibits and archive film portray the history of the RAF College at Cranwell which is perhaps the most famous landmark in RAF history.
Follow the North Kesteven Airfield Trail to discover the other airfield sites in the area.

NORFOLK

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Aerial view of Norwich Aviation Museum.

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Nimrod MR2 at Norwich Aviation Museum.

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Vulcan B2 at Norwich Aviation Museum.

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McDonnell Douglas Phantom FGR2 at Norwich Aviation Museum.

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Seething Airfield Control Tower.

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City of Norwich Aviation Museum
Old Norwich Rd, Horsham St Faith.
Tel: 01603 861 348
Hours: Open January to end March and from end-April to end-December Sunday only 10am–4pm. May to August also open Tuesday and Thursday to dusk and Wednesday 2–5pm. Bank Holidays 10am-5pm. Closed Christmas Day and Boxing Day.
Entry fee: Admission charge.
Access: Suitable for wheelchair access.
Exhibition building with displays of aviation memorabilia, photographs, models, maps and pictures.
Of interest to Australians and Americans are the RAAF Horsham St Faith display, 8th USAAF display, 2nd Air Division display, and 458th Bomb Group display.
The collection of aircraft include a Vulcan Bomber from the Falklands Task Force.

Seething Airfield Control Tower
Station 146, Seething Airfield. Entrance via Toad Lane, Mundham, Norfolk, NR15 1EL.
Tel: 01508 550453
Hours: Open June to October, first Sunday in every month.
Access: Suitable for wheelchair access.
Seething was a B24 Liberator base during World War Two. Renovated USAAF control tower has model a/c room, diaorama of Seething base, 448th Honour roll, display of World War Two memorabilia, and an exhibition of ‘The 448th Bomb Group Collection’. This includes diaries, photographs and personal stories from Americans based here during 1943-1945.


NORTHAMPTONSHIRE

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Interior of the Carpetbagger Aviation Museum.

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Exterior of the Sywell Aviation Museum at Sywell Aerodrome.

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Carpetbagger Aviation Museum
Sunnyvale Farm, off Lamport Road, Harrington, Northampton, NN6 9PF.
Tel: 01604 686608
Hours: Open weekends only 10am–6pm, other times by appointment. Car parking; no smoking; all children under 15 to be accompanied by an adult.
Entry fee: Admission charge. Children under 12 accompanied by an adult, free of charge.
Access: Suitable for disabled and there is one wheelchair on site.
The Carpetbagger Museum is housed in the old Administration Building on the site of the USAAF Station 179 and offers a rare look at life on the base of the 801st/492nd American Army Air Force Bomb Group during World War Two.
Photographs and exhibits vividly show the work carried out by the group codenamed ‘Carpetbaggers’ because of their operations in parachuting people and equipment into Occupied Europe.
Next door is the Northamptonshire Aviation Museum with exhibits including the remains of recovered WWII aircraft – parts of a Luftwaffe Junkers Bomber, a Dornier Do 217K Night Bomber and a USAAF Liberator together with instrumentation and other fascinating items of equipment.
There is also a NAFFI for refreshments.

Sywell Aerodrome
Sywell Aerodrome, Wellingborough Rd, Northampton NN6 0BN.
Tel: 01604 670824 (during open hours only)
Hours: Open 10:30am–16:30pm every weekend and every bank holiday between Easter and the end of September. Also open on Tuesdays and Wednesdays 12pm–4pm from Easter until October half-term.
Entry fee: Entrance to the museum and tours are free. Donations are welcome to cover operating costs and fund new projects.
Access: Wheelchair access to hotel and most areas airside.
Founded in 1928, is the UK’s premier classic general aviation airfield, popular for pilot training, vintage and classic aircraft and modern helicopter businesses. There are some 40,000 movements per year, including charter and air taxi operations to European destinations.
Tours start with refreshments in the Aviator Hotel Bar, followed by visits to the Northamptonshire School of Flying, the small Control Tower, Sloane Helicopters, one of the private aircraft hangars with historic aircraft and also Microlight School. Sandwiches, bar snacks and lunch available at the Hotel after the tour.
Tour lasts 1¼ - 2 hours and is free. Children under 14 must be accompanied by an adult and kept under strict control during airside visit.
 Sensible walking shoes recommended; 


NOTTINGHAMSHIRE

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Aerial view of the Newark Air Museum.

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Inside the Newark Air Museum hangar.

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Newark Air Museum
The Airfield, Winthorpe.
Tel: 01636 707170
Hours: Open all year. March to October 10am–5pm, November to February 10am–4pm. Closed 24–26 December and New Year's Day.
Entry fee: Admission charge. Car park free. 
Access: Wheelchair access.
Aircraft, parts and memoribilia. Book and model shop, exhibition hall. Features aircraft types such as Anson, Prentice, Swift, Provost, Vulcan, Vampire, Meteors, Varsity, Sycamores and more.


SUFFOLK

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Aerial view of the 390th Bomb Group Memorial Air Museum.

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Inside the 390th Bomb Group Memorial Air Museum.

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Looking towards the hangar at the Norfolk & Suffolk Aviation Museum.

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One of the displays in the Norfolk & Suffolk Aviation Museum.

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Inside the Boulton and Paul hangar at the Norfolk & Suffolk Aviation Museum.

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Beck Row church and graveyard.

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Flight Sergeant Rawdon Middleton, VC, lies in  the Beck Row church graveyard, grave location Row D.1.

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390th Bomb Group Memorial Air Museum
Parham Airfield, Parham.
Hours: Open 11am to 5pm on Sundays and Bank Holiday Mondays from beginning of April to the last Sunday in October. Also open Wednesdays during June, July and August from 11am to 4pm.
Entry fee: Free admission.
Access: Due to the nature of the Museum Buildings, some parts are not accessible by wheelchair. The tearoom, gift shop and toilets are accessible.
The collection reflects East Anglia’s aviation history during World War Two. Housed in a 1942 control tower of the former USAAF bomber base. Engines and artefacts from many famous aircraft, uniforms and memorabilia relating to the RAF, US 8th Air Force and German Air Force.
The Library and Archives centre is located in a Nissen hut.

Norfolk & Suffolk Aviation Museum
The Street, Flixton, Bungay, NR35 1NZ.
Tel: 01986 896644
Hours: Open April to October on Sunday to Thursday 10am to 5pm; November to March on Tuesday, Wednesday and Sunday 10am to 4pm; Closed Christmas period 15th December to 15th January.
Entry fee: Free admission. Donations appreciated.
Access: Wheelchair accessible. Some wheelchairs available to borrow. Wheelchair accessible toilet facility.
17 historic aircraft and other aviation material including the 446th Bomb Group Museum and Memorial and the Royal Observer Corps Museum.

Beck Row.
In this churchyard lie the remains of one of Australia’s war heroes Flight Sergeant Rawdon Middleton.  He died at 21 when, the Short Stirling bomber he was piloting was hit during a raid on Turin in Italy in 1942. His Victoria Cross was for the bravery shown, and was regarded as one of the most awe-inspiring feats of the war by a pilot of any country. While seriously wounded himself, losing an eye and sustaining shrapnel wounds to his body as his aircraft was hit, he ignored the crew’s advice to all bail out over Europe and determined to deliver the crew to England, despite the  horrific injuries to himself. Middleton flew the bomber back over England and most of the crew parachuted to safety. It is believed he then flew the damaged aircraft out to sea to avoid crashing into a built up area.  His body was washed ashore at Dover two months later. Grave location: Row D.1.


SUSSEX WEST

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Aerial view of the Tangmere Aviation Museum.

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Tangmere Aviation Museum hangar signage.

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Inside the Tangmere Aviation Museum Meryl Hansed Memorial Hall.

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Explore the museum grounds.

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Tangmere Airfield (Tangmere Military Aviation Museum)
Gamecock Terrace, Tangmere, Chichester PO20 2ES.Tel: 01243 790 090.
Hours: Open February to November, daily. February & November 10am–4pm. March to October 10am–5.30pm.
Entry fee: Admission charge.
Access: Access for the disabled.
Restrictions: Only assistance dogs are permitted in the museum buildings. All dogs are allowed in the grounds and picnic area.
Light refreshments and picnic area.
Not an airfield these days, although much of the concrete runway system of the jet fighter era remain. This is the famed fighter station where Douglas ‘Tin Legs’ Bader led his Tangmere Wing into battle during the Battle of Britain. Bader himself officially dedicated the museum to the RAF and opened it in the 1970s.


WARWICKSHIRE

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Aerial view of the Midland Air Museum.

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The Frank Whittle designed W2/700 engine on display in the Midland Air Museum.

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Frank Whittle and his jet engine design.

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Entrance to the Wellesbourne Wartime Museum.

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Some of the outdoor exhibits at Wellesbourne Wartime Museum.

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Wellesbourne Wartime Museum grounds.

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Recce cameras exhibit at Wellesbourne Wartime Museum.

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Midland Air Museum
Coventry Airport, Baginton.
Tel: (02476) 301033 (outside UK +44 2476 301033).
Hours: Open all year. November to March, Monday–Saturday, Sunday and bank holidays 10am–4:30pm; April to October, Monday–Saturday 10am–5pm, Sunday 10am–6pm.  
Entry Fee: Admission charge.
Access: Access ramps and disabled toilet.
Indoor and outdoor displays of aircraft engines and related exhibits, including Meteor, Hunter, Lightning, Vulcan and Sopwith Pup replica.
Upstairs gallery depicting ‘Wings over Coventry’.

Wellesbourne Aviation Group
The Airfield, Wellesbourne.
Tel: +44 121 777 3518Hours: Open Sunday and Bank Holidays 10am–4pm and other times by special arrangement.
Access: Underground exhibits not suitable for the aged and infirm. Above ground museum has ramp and hand rails.
Wartime underground defence headquarters, now housing a museum of relics, posters and photographs.
Above ground display includes a Vampire jet, jet engine, Sea Vixen cockpit and a Piston Provost.
The museum contains aero engines, a Spitfire control panel and a mock-up Blenheim turret.


YORKSHIRE

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Aerial view of Yorkshire Air Museum.

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Yorkshire Air Museum's Pioneers display.

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Yorkshire Air Museum's Halifax cockpit display.

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Yorkshire Air Museum air gunners collection.

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Yorkshire Air Museum's Tornado cockpit experience.

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Yorkshire Air Museum's aerial combat display.

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The Canadian hangar at the Yorkshire Air Museum.

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Yorkshire Air Museum
Halifax Way, Elvington.
Tel: (01904) 608 595.  
Hours: Open bank holidays and Easter holidays; Summer 10am to 5pm; Winter 10am to 4pm. Please note: Last admission 1 hour prior to closing. Closed on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Year’s Day.
Entry fee: Admission charge.
Access: The majority of the Museum site is accessible by wheelchair. Wheelchair access is restricted in the upper floor of the Control Tower, due to it’s listed building status and steep staircase.
Once a World War Two bomber base site, the museum has aircraft, authentic control tower, Barnes Wallis Collection, Blackburn Heritage, ROC, Air Gunners and general displays. Plus unique Handley Page Halifax and a de Havilland Mosquito re-build.

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England's ghostly trails ...

Fancy roaming with the restless ghosts of England? Some people take trips that give them the creeps... literally. Ghostly trails in England are some of the best to be found, and no wonder, with such a grisly history laced with witches and warlocks, martyrs and murderers, hillocks and hangings, kings and killers. Unreal's managing editor, Mike Sullivan provides some clues as to where to find England's most sociable ghosts in this digest.

OLD WIVES TALES... or are there threads of truth in these unexplained sightings? It's hard to know, but if you have a passion for history – morbid history, at that – finding your way among the ghostly trails of England can be a fascinating experience.

Just being in places where momentous deeds have taken place, both good and evil, adds a spine-tingling element to your travels.

There are established ghost walks in most major towns of England, and some may be a trifle ridiculous and touristy. Others, however, are genuinely creepy.

To get to these small towns, there are few alternatives other than a car. Apart from the transport, it's good to be able to get back to your safe, warm car and turn the heater up to stop yourself shaking from the... er, cold.

Cambridgeshire

If there is such a village as a nice place to be hanged, then WARBOYS in Cambridgeshire is probably it. Warboys is, in fact, where the last hanging of a witch (at least, an alleged witch) in England took place.

The clock tower in the heart of this lovely village has a gabled roof and a stunning weathercock on top. The 13th century church has a wonderful tower and the spire is one worth seeing. It would be easy to see, too, from where the gallows once rested.

WISBECH is a town worth walking through. Some say the ghosts already do, and that's why it has a regular ghostly trail walk named Ghosts, Legends and Folklore operated by Polly Howat (Tel: 01945 870421). Contact Polly Howat to visit famous local haunts and hear stories of ghosts, witches and cursed monks that will make your skin crawl. Those who study such paranormal activity say the tales of extraordinary phenomena in Wisbech are among the best you will find – or hope not to.

In later years, Wisbech has become better known as the birthplace of Thomas Clarkson and his brother John, who were important figures in the abolition of slavery. The Clarkson Memorial tower in the town is 68ft high and dates from 1881.

Cheshire

CHESTER probably has quite a population of ghosts, if its history is anything to go by. It is England's most complete walled city, founded by the Romans 2000 years ago as a major garrison during their occupation of Britain.

Deeds both foul and fair have dominated Chester ever since. Relics abound with archaeological digs still going on. The Roman amphitheatre is the largest in the country.

A must is to take a walk through the Roman graveyard at Grosvenor Museum, which has many other Roman artefacts. Those interested in the ghosts of Rome will try the Dewa Roman Experience, located off Bridge St (Tel: 01244 343407). It is a Roman Fortress built almost 2000 years ago and it now lies under the beautiful bustling city. There are shop fronts displaying their wares – even a sleeping centurion. It is a fascinating tour and wonderful to witness some of the Roman, Saxon and Medieval remains.

But the best ghosly action in Chester somes, naturally, at night: the Ghosthunter Trail. This is a terrifying night-time journey around the eerie haunts of Chester's mysterious past. The cost is under £30 for about 1.5 hours of fun and chills.

The Rows at The Cross is a picturesque corner of Chester, the township renowned for its black-and-white houses. However, Chester is also renowned for its grey world of ghosts and spirits and has some of the creepiest walks in England.

You may think you are seeing a ghost when you witness the Roman Legionary Wall Patrol. Patrols occur in June to September on Thursday, Friday and Saturday at 11.30am and 2.30pm (Tel: 01244 324324). Walk the Fortress of Dewa with a real life Roman soldier in full battle dress. This interesting walk into history takes about an hour, and you will receive a Diploma of Military Service signed by the Emperor!

Kent

BIDDENDEN is a place where congenital misfortune has paid off. The sign on the village green depicts the two sisters known as the `Biddenden Maids' who were born in the 16th century. They were said to have been Siamese twins, joined at the hip and shoulder.

Eliza and Mary Chilkhurst lived like this for their entire 34 years. Even though gruesome stories abounded about them, they were actually great benefactors for the area. The Biddenden Maids left 20 acres of land to provide bread and cheese for the poor of the village. The tradition of handing out bread on Easter Monday in their honour is still carried out.

IGHTHAM MOTE, near Sevenoaksis 'home' to Dame Dorothy Selby, a restless soul. She warned Lord Monteagle not to attend Parliament on November 5, 1605. Her whispered words led to the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot. Guy Fawkes had her imprisoned in a concealed room where she later died. Visit the village, not far from London, to walk in the trail of this ghost who saved lives, but suffered for it.

PLUCKLEY is possibly the best-known haunted village in England. There are some 14 restless spirits, according to local legend.

Included is a Cavalier murdered by the Roundheads. A gypsy woman who fell asleep while smoking her pipe and burned to death. A highwayman caught and pinned to a tree. A brickmaker who fell into his claypit and smothered. The others, you'll have to catch for yourself.

Leicestershire

LEICESTER is one of the few towns in England that can trace its development and growth from Iron Age settlement to modern industrial city. At the heart of this 2000 year history is Castle Park, an area of gardens, churches, riverside walks, fine buildings, ancient walls and gateways, interesting shops and museums, an area where the city's long and colourful past can be explored and enjoyed. They say that some from that past still do!

Leicester has ghost walks to help you discover the past first-hand. There is the Designer Thrill Walk to keep up your spirits and the annual December Christmas Ghost Walks (Tel: 0116 265 0555). Be there on October 30 and 31 for special ghost walks and Designer Thrill Walks are available September, November and December.

Norfolk

BROOKE is a place said to be babbling with ghosts. No wonder they keep coming back, as it is a charming little village. Brooke's Post Office has bow windows matched to an equally charming butcher shop, newsagent, farm shop and two grocery shops which serve this little village lying either side of the Norwich to Bungay road. The attractive meres in the centre are home to a rare fungus. A wood in the village has the haunting name 'Shrieking Woman Grove', and the ghost of a lady is said to walk at the back of Brooke Lodge.

Northants

NORTHAMPTON is a busy place, both in this world and the next. A Cromwellian soldier and murder victims are among the residents of haunted locations here. You can find out details from the tourist Visitors Centre at Mr Grant's House, 10 St Giles Square (Tel: 01604 22677).

Maybe the ghosts come to see the world's largest collection of shoes and boots at the Central Museum? Discover Northampton's boot and shoe heritage, reflecting the reputation as Britain's premier shoemaking town.

Or perhaps it is in sympathy with Thomas a Becket, who has Becket's Park named after him here. It commemorates the escape of Thomas a Becket from his trial at Northampton Castle in the mid 1600s.

Castle Mound is all that remains of the second most important royal centre in the kingdom in the 12th and 13th centuries. Part of the fortified walls of the town, the castle was the site of the trial of Thomas a Beckett. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre was built here in 11 by the Earl of Northhampton, Simon de Senlis, who did so to mark his safe return from the Crusades in the 1100s. Some say the souls came with him .. . and stayed.

ROTHWELL, on the A6, 4m northwest of Kettering, has nothing to do with the town of similar name, Roswell, of UFO crash fame in the US. It has its own tales of the bizarre to live up to. 

Holy Trinity Church, Squire's Hill, is an inspiring 13th century church with an awesome secret. Its Bone Crypt contains the remains of some 1500 people and is an eerie, chilling sight to behold in such a majestic building.

An eerie and captivating building associated with the Bone Crypt is Rushton Triangular Lodge (at Rushton 2m northeast, Tel: 01536 710761). Through this extraordinary building, architecture is used to express religious beliefs.

It was built by Sir Thomas Tresham, a devout Catholic in 1593, who also built Lyveden. The lodge symbolises the Holy Trinity, playing on the number three with three sides, three floors and trefoil windows. Reputed to be the meeting place of the Gunpowder Plot conspirators. It is difficult today to understand the full meaning but the building is nevertheless quite beautiful.

Nottinghamshire

NOTTINGHAM has spirits of a literary kind roaming its streets, playing host to the tales and trails of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Nottingham Castle exists, of course (Tel: 01602 483504, admission free weekdays), and there is the exhibit The Tales of Robin Hood on Maid Marion Way (Tel: 01602 483284) which has an admission charge. Playing on the whole legend is The Sheriff's Lodge in Canal St (Tel: 01602 240088) at which you can even hire costumes purportedly of the era.

It makes sense that ghosts are a hot topic in Nottingham, with a distinguished list of famous people having graced its ramparts over the centuries such as Lord Byron, Jesse Boot, Graham Greene, Thomas Humber, Little John, D.H. Lawrence, Harry Wheatcroft and it is also home to the Salvation Army. If that isn't enough spice for a spirited town, remember, this is also where HP Sauce comes from.

A highlight is sure to be the Ghost Walk from Nottingham Castle Gatehouse, which gathers on Saturdays at 7pm and includes a visit to the centre of the sandstone caves under the city. It is in these caves that a mysterious little girl can often be seen, although the story behind her appearances remains a mystery.

Contact Nottingham Information Centre: 1-4 Smithy Row (Tel: 0115 947 1661) or County Hall (West Bridgford), Loughborough Rd (Tel: 0115 977 3558).

Suffolk

THE TINY village of ACTON has a morbid claim to fame. It is here that 17-year-old Catherine Foster poisoned her husband in 1846. She became the last woman hanged publicly in Bury St Edmunds. The village pump adjoins three thatched terrace cottages and on the end wall of the last cottage is a picture of her. Does her troubled spirit still wander the village? There's only one way to find out...

ICKLINGHAM's church of St James, in the centre of this tiny village, harbours a ghostly tale that is guaranteed to make your skin crawl. Even if it doesn't, the thrill of having the locals tell it to you at the local 'Plough Inn' – and they will – makes the trip to Icklingham worthwhile. After all, how often can you tuck into a meal in a village mentioned in the Domesday Book?

Sussex East

TALES of heroism and bloody death abound in BATTLE, where the Battle of Hastings took place in 1066. The Battle of Hastings 1066 is probably the best known date in English History, as it marks the site of the victory of William the Conqueror.

Battle Abbey was built by William the Conqueror in thanks for his victory over King Harold. Legend has it that the high altar marks the spot where Harold died from an arrow through his eye. It is said that to this day Harold's gruesome soul wanders through the site as though in search of his Norman enemy.

Make sure you visit the 14th century Gatehouse which contains an exhibition, that brings alive the wealth of this monument's history. There is a good view of the battlefield from the terrace.

Information Centre: 88 High St (Tel: 01424 773 721).

Sussex West

THE RUINS of Bramber Castle in BRAMBER are all that remains of the home of William de Braose. Because he signed the Magna Carta he became an enemy of the King. The family were imprisoned at Windsor, where they starved to death. It is said that here you can hear the echoes of the once happy family – and the eerie cries of the four murdered children.

West Midlands

IN BERKSWELL, the Stocks have five leg holes. Legend has it that there was once an old character in the village with just one leg, who was constantly in trouble with a couple of his pals, so the stocks were designed for them. Is that the cries of the men you hear in the wind... or is someone pulling your leg?

Warwickshire

Warwick Castle, not far from Stratford-on-Avon, is one of the most resplendent castles in Europe. It attracts many visitors, including, it is said, a headless knight, a wandering woman in a nightgown, and the apparition of an old man who strolls through castle walls.

Wiltshire

Littlecote House, between Hungerford and Ramsbury is said to be one of England's most haunted homes – with 20 ghosts. `Wild Darrell', the 16th century owner, who threw his illegitimate baby into a fire, was killed years later when he fell from his horse. The horse, it is said, reared up when frightened by the `pale shape' of a baby. Many visitors claim to have seen Wild Darrell, at the stile where he met his fate.

At AVEBURY, near Swindon, there is a bizarre Stone Circle. When there is a full moon, it is said that small figures dance among the stones re-enacting their pagan rituals. And nearby, the Tudor manor house is haunted by a White Lady, said to be forever grieving for her lover killed in the Civil War.

 

ends

London's Spy Trail

London is such a popular travel destination, it is hard to believe it has any travel secrets left to give up. Wrong. Any aficionado of spy stories knows that when it comes to tales of espionage, all trails lead to London. Here is an introduction to discovering the secret world of London, in fact and fiction. To follow up 'on the spot', search Movie and Literary locations in the London area using UNreal Britain’s URP Explorer.

LONDON – Bond lives here. James Bond. Some people think they've even named a street after him …

CasinoRoyalecoverSo does ‘The Saint’ Simon Templar, John Le Carre’s George Smiley, Len Deighton’s Harry Palmer, Sapper’s Bulldog Drummond, British Television’s The Avengers and countless heroes and anti-heroes of espionage created by other authors including Ian Fleming, Frederick Forsythe, Robert Ludlum, John Buchan, Stella Rimington, Eric Ambler, Leslie Charteris and John Gardner. Even Agatha Christie has a delve.

Not to forget former British SAS soldiers Andy McNab and Chris Ryan, who cannot resist including London in spy action plots they now devise as thriller writers.

Those who follow such things closely know that James Bond – agent 007, British Secret Service, licenced to kill, and thrill – actually lives in the charming suburb of Chelsea, in a small, comfortable flat in a tree-lined square ‘off the King’s Road’.

Simon Templar, the Saint – though not strictly an intelligence operates, but certainly in ‘the business’ – has an apartment in Piccadilly, not far from The Ritz. Seeing he was 32 years of age in 1936, if he still inhabits his flat, he’s sitting on a fortune as a centenarian plus 15 years and counting.

One of the many models for Ian Fleming’s James Bond, Bulldog Drummond, also happened to live and operate in London’s West End.

Original Cinema Quad Poster - Movie Film Posters John le Carre, ever the stickler for realism, even goes so far as to name George Smiley’s address from his ‘business card’ in the novel The Spy Who Came In from the Cold: Mr George Smiley, 9 Bywater Street, Chelsea.


WHERE IT ALL SECRETLY BEGAN

It is all part of a rich fictional pageant of secret adventure staged in London. Through London, beneath its royal veneer, runs an undercurrent of mystery. This city, where intelligence became a formal occupation in the late 1800s, has long been the inspiration and setting for tales of heroism, derring-do and dark deeds.

World War I was the galvanising event for modern espionage. It was in this conflict that communications, counter-surveillance and secret codes came to the fore. The cypher became an art form and concealment systems and equipment for the modern espionage professional developed.

The nomenclatures MI5 and MI6 (the MI standing for Military Intelligence) came into being and has stuck ever since, even when the post-war official names became so much more alluring: Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) and British Security Service (MI5).

London was one of the main focuses of espionage and, when Jules Silber took a job in the Office of Postal Censorship in London in 1915 and began passing on unreleased information to Germany via the US, he demonstrated how vital an inside agent could be. Silber was never caught, by the way, but later outed himself in an autobiographical book, The Invisible Weapons in 1932.


I SPY FACT OR FICTION

These spy rings and how they functioned are presented factually in the book by H Keith Melton, The Ultimate Spy Book (published by Dorling Kindersley Ltd, 1996). Both spy history and explanations of spy craft make this a fascinating read, but shhhh, you may have to keep some of these techniques to yourself.

Ian Fleming with Sean Connery.

If you prefer a more fictionalised approach to the birth of espionage in London, try John Gardiner’s book, The Secret Generations – with large parts of it deliciously set in London. A former Royal Marine commando, Gardiner, of course, was the author chosen by Ian Fleming Publications Trust to continue the James Bond book series after Fleming’s death, penning 14 new Bond novels and adaptations of two Bond movie screenplays.

Probably the world’s best-known espionage author of certainly the world’s best-known agent – Bond, James Bond – Ian Fleming himself worked for Royal Naval Intelligence during World War II, and was thought to still be in the business as he travelled the world working as a newspaper and news bureau correspondent in later years.

 

In fact, many of the characters he developed for the Bond novels were borrowed from people he met in those times, notably the British Secret Service operative Dikko Henderson from You Only Live Twice, who was fashioned after his journalist friend, Australian Richard Hughes, based in Hong Kong.

It is this experience that gives Fleming’s fantastic tales large shots of realism.

According to Fleming, who ought to know, James Bond’s office is in a rather mysterious grey building near Regent’s Park, northern London. His ‘firm’ goes under the alias of Universal Exports.

Presumably Bond worked from this office until the Secret Service moved to a more accommodating modern new-build premises on the River Thames in 1995, at 85 Albert Bank, Vauxhall, on the opposite bank from Westminster.

M takes Bond to dinner at his club, Blade’s, located at Park Place, off St James’s Street. Blades is most likely an amalgam of several clubs Fleming himself frequented, particularly Boodle’s, Portland Club, White’s and Brooks’s. In fact, there is an entire chapter on this club in Moonraker in which we learn the heightened culinary awareness of Bond (and in this respect, he is quite like his creator).

Bond likes to eat lunch and reflect on things at Queen Mary’s Rose Garden, Regent’s Park. You can go there too, for free, today and try to spy that mysterious grey building Bond speaks about … take your sandwiches and Thermos and get in a few chapters of Fleming. But keep your eyes peeled for shady characters.


BEYOND BOND

Thriller writer Frederick Forsyth has created many characters in the clandestine world – and most of them either live in London or their various missions take place in the London streets where the real work gets done. Forsyth is renowned for pacing these streets of London to arrive at his meticulous accuracy – and it is said that he has been advised by ‘friends’ who are actively engaged in MI5 and MI6 intelligence work. 

The clever thing about Forsyth’s novels is how he weaves real intelligence incidents and people into works of believable fiction. For instance, in his nuclear-threat novel The Fourth Protocol, we read letters from Communist defector Kim Philby, who is assisting the USSR in staging a ‘nuclear accident’ at a US Air Force base in England, which will cause great political chaos between Britain and the US.

For those on the London spy trail, the scenes in which MI5’s ‘watchers’ are tailing suspects through the streets of London are some of the most thrilling in The Fourth Protocol. You can even read the novel in those locations and get a real feel for what the clandestine world is like.

“ … The Londoner left his Belgravia apartment every day at the same hour, walked to Hyde Park Corner, turned down Constitution Hill and across St James’s Park. That brought him to Horse Guards Parade. He went across this, traversed Whitehall and straight into the Ministry … ”

Forsyth is known to meticulously check his plots, to the point of pacing out the routes he describes, planning each scene for realistic action by going to the spot, observing, measuring and taking detailed notes. Who knows, on one of your walks around London, you may run into him?

(Forsythe’s attention to detail in The Fourth Protocol also provides one of the best descriptions of the differences between the Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) and the Security Service (MI5). The hero of the tale, John Preston, works for the Security Service’s F Branch, which investigates extremist political parties in Britain. Forsyth casually mentions locations of so much espionage-related detail, down to where British ‘listening’ and communications sites arelocated. Take a look. You can be sure that if Forsyth is right, they will be watching you too.)

For a quick fix, you can watch the movie of the same name, starring Michael Caine as Preston and a certain young fellow named Pierce Brosnan as a very convincing Soviet agent.

Caine previously played agent Harry Palmer in the movie adaptations of Len Deighton’s novels, while Brosnan certainly changed his stripes when he later joined the Bond movie franchise from Goldeneye onwards.

 

Skyfall poster


PROFESSIONALS APPROACH

Many 50-something visitors to London today will want to seek out some of the more noteworthy street scenes of the television equivalent of MI5: The Professionals.That’s right, remember Bodie and Doyle of the shadowy agency CI5?

From a time when a V6 European Ford Capri racing around London streets was the height of TV espionage action, there are innumerable places that, as you walk around, will suddenly spark your subconscious … haven’t I seen this place before?

Chances are, yes you have. Bodie and Doyle (played by Martin Shaw and Lewis Collins) managing to skid around most parts of London throughout the series’ 57 episodes produced by London Weekend Television from 1977 to 1983. There are still a few of those evocative Ford Capris getting around today as well, by the way.

A poignant place to conclude this introduction to the London Spy Trail is the headquarters of all this intrigue, the Secret Intelligence Service Headquarters on Albert Embankment, right beside Vauxhall Bridge, within visual surveillance distance of the Houses of Parliament.

How can you spot the headquart3ers of the world’s most famous secret service organisation?

For a start, we originally saw it right up there on the big screen in the Bond movie, Goldeneye. Rather cheekily at the time, when Bond returns home after a mission in Russia, we are shown directly to the building which houses his office.
Then, in Tomorrow Never Dies, Bond returns from a successful mission to find he has been duped into bringing an explosive device onto the premises which blows a hole in the front of the building for all to see …

And from that point onwards the building plays a pivotal role in further Brosnan Bond plots and on into the 21st century’s energetic exploits of Daniel Craig’s James Bond.

It is said that action set in and around that headquarters is encouraged by SIS/MI6, to give the service a recruiting edge.

So it’s the real thing.

Or is it? Would a secret intelligence organisation really be based in such a publicly recognisable building?
You might just have to snoop around London some more, and find out for yourself.

Check out UNreal Britain’s movie location URPs.


Robert Louis Stevenson's Travels With a Donkey

 

Sir Sidney Colvin (18451927), to whom Travels With a Donkeyis dedicated, was one of Stevenson’s closest friends. He edited the four-volume edition of Stevenson’s letters mentioned on p. xix, and among other books wrote a Life of Keats.He was Slade Professor of Fine ArtatCambridge (187355) and Keeper of the Department of Prints and Drawings at the British Museum (18841912).

AUTHOR’S DEDICATION

My Dear Sidney Colvin,

The journey which this little book is to describe was very agreeable and fortunate for me. After an uncouth beginning, I had the best of luck to the end. But we are all travellers in what John Bunyan calls the wilderness of this world-all, too, travellers with a donkey; and the best that we find in our travels is an honest friend. He is a fortunate voyager who finds many. We travel, indeed, to find them. They are the end and the reward of life. They keep us worthy of ourselves; and when we are alone, we are only nearer to the absent.

Every book is, in an intimate sense, a circular letter to the friends of him who writes it. They alone take his meaning; they find private messages, assurances of love, and expressions of gratitude,dropped for them in every corner. The public is but a generous patron who defrays the postage. Yet though the letter is directed to all, we have an old and kindly custom of addressing it on the outside to one. Of what shall a man be proud, if he is not proud of his friends? And so, my dear Sidney Colvin, it is with pride that I sign myself affectionately yours,

R.L.S.

Travels-with-a-DonkeyRobert-Louis-StevensonGevaudan-Velay-map

VELAY

‘Many are the mighty things, and night is more mighty than man. . . . He masters by his devices the tenant of the fields.’—SOPHOCLES

Who hath loosed the bands of the wild ass?’JOB

THE DONKEY, THE PACK, AND THE PACK-SADDLE

IN A LITTLE place calledLe Monastier,in a pleasant high­ land valley fifteen miles from LePuy,I spent about a month of fine days. Monastieris notable for the making of lace, for drunkenness, for freedom of language; and for unparalleled political dissension. There are adherents of each of the fourFrench parties—Legitimists, Orleanists, Imperialists, and Republicans—in this little mountain­ town; and they all hate, loathe, decry, and calumniate each other. Except for business purposes, or to give each other the lie in a tavern brawl, they have laid aside even the civility of speech. Tis a mere mountain Poland.In the midst of theBabylonI found myself a rallying-point; every one was anxious to be kind and helpful to the stranger. This was not merely from the natural hospitality of mountain people, nor even from the surprise with which I was regarded as a man living of his own free will inLe Monastier,when he might just as well have lived any­where else in this big world; it arose a good deal from my projected excursion southward through theCevennes.A traveller of my sort was a thing hitherto unheard of in that district. I was looked upon with contempt, like a man who should project a journey to the moon, but yet with a respectful interest, like one setting forth for the inclement Pole. All were ready to help in my preparations; a crowd of sympathisers supported me at the criticalmoment of a bargain; not a step was taken but was heralded by glasses-round and celebrated by a dinner or abreakfast.

It was already hard uponOctoberbefore I was ready to set forth, and at the high altitudes over which my road lay there was no Indian summer to be looked for. I was determined, if not to camp out, at least to have the means of camping out in my possession; for there is nothing more harassing to an easy mind that the necessity of reaching shelter by dusk, and the hospitality of a village inn is not always to be reckoned sure by those who trudge on foot. A tent, above all for a solitary traveller, is troublesome to pitch, and troublesome to strike again; and even on the march it forms a conspicuous feature in your baggage. A sleeping-sack, on the other hand, is always ready—you have only to get into it; it serves a double purpose—a bed by night, a portmanteau by day; and it does not advertise your intention of camping out to every curious passer-by. This is a huge point. If the camp is not secret, it is but a troubled resting-place; you become a public character; the convivial rustic visits your bedside after an early supper; and you must sleep with one eye open, and be up before the day. I decided on a sleeping-sack; and after repeated visits toLe Puy,and a deal of high living for myself and my advisers, a sleeping-sack was designed, constructed, and triumphally brought home.

This child of my invention was nearly six feet square, exclusive of two triangular flaps to serve as a pillow by night and as the top and bottom of the sack by day. I call it ‘the sack’, but it was never a sack by more than courtesy: only a sort of long roll or sausage, green water-proof cart-cloth without and blue sheep’s fur within. It was commodious as a valise, warm and dry for a bed. There was luxurious turning room for one; and at a pinch the thing might serve for two. I could bury myself in it up to the neck; for my head I trusted to a fur cap, with a hood to fold down over my ears, and a band to pass under my nose like a respirator; and in case of heavy rain I proposed to make myself a little tent, or tentlet, with my water­proof coat, three stones, and a bent branch.

It will readily be conceived that I could not carry this huge package on my own, merely human, shoulders. It remained to choose a beast of burden. Now, a horse is a fine lady among animals, flighty, timid, delicate in eating, of tender health; he is too valuable and too restive to be left alone, so that you are chained to your brute as to a fellow galley-slave; a dangerous road puts him out of his wits; in short, he’s an uncertain and exacting ally, and adds thirty-fold to the troubles of the voyager. What I required was something cheap and small and handy, and of a stolid and peaceful temper; and all these requisites pointed a donkey.

There dwelt an old man inMonastier,of rather unsound intellect according to some, much followed by street-boys, and known to fame asFather Adam. Father Adamhad a cart, and to draw the cart a diminutive she-ass, not much bigger than a dog, the colour of a mouse, with a kindly eye and a determined under-jaw. There was something neat and high-bred, a quakerish elegance, about the rogue that hit my fancy on the spot. Our first interview was in Monastiermarket-place. To prove her good temper, one child after another was set upon her back to ride, and oneafter another went head over heels into the air; until a want of confidence began to reign in youthful bosoms, and the experiment wasdiscontinued from a dearth of subjects. I was already backed by a deputation of my friends; but as if this were not enough, all the buyers and sellers came round and helped me in the bargain; and the ass and I andFather Adamwere the centre of a hubbub for near half an hour. At length she passed into my service for the consideration of sixty-five francs and a glass of brandy. The sack had already costeighty francs and two glasses of beer; so that Modestine,as I instantly baptised her, was uponall accounts the cheaper article. Indeed, that was as it should be; for she was only an appurtenance of my mattress, or self-acting bedstead on four castors.

I had a last interview with Father Adamin a billiard­room at the witching hour of dawn,whenI administered the brandy. He professed himself greatly touched by the separation, and declared he had often bought white bread for the donkey when he had been content with black bread for himself; but this,according to the best authorities, must have beenaflight of fancy. He had a name in the village for brutally misusing the ass; yet it is certain that hesheda tear, and the tear made a clean mark down onecheek.

By the advice of a fallaciouslocal saddler,a leather padwasmade for me with rings to fasten on my bundle; and I thoughtfully completed my kit and arranged my toilette. By way of armoury and utensils, I took a revolver, a little spirit-lamp and pan, a lantern and some halfpenny candles, a jack-knife and a large leather flask. The main cargo consisted of two entire changes of warm clothing-besides mytravelling wear of country velveteen, pilot-coat, and knitted spencersome books, and my railway-rug, which, being also in the form of a bag, made me a double castle for cold nights. The permanent larder was represented by cakes of chocolate and tins of Bologna sausage. All this, except what I carried about my person, was easily stowed into the sheepskin bag; and by good fortune I threw in my empty knapsack, rather for convenience of carriage than from any thought that I should want it on my journey. For more :immediate needs, I took a leg of cold mutton, a bottle of Beaujolais, an empty bottle to carry milk, an egg-beater, and a considerable quantity of black bread and white, likeFather Adam,for myself and donkey, only in my scheme of things the destinations were reversed.

Monastrians, of all shades of thought in politics, had agreed in threatening me with many ludicrous misadventures, and with sudden death in many ·surprising forms. Cold, wolves, robbers, above all the nocturnal practical joker, were daily and eloquently forced on my attention. Yet in these vaticinations, the true, patent danger was left out. LikeChristian,it was from my pack I suffered by the way. Before telling my own mishaps, let me, in two words, relate the lesson of my experience. If the pack is well strapped at the ends, and hung at full lengthnot doubled, for your lifeacross the pack-saddle, the traveller is safe. The saddle will certainly not fit, such is the imperfection of our transitory life; it will assuredly topple and tend to overset; but there are stones on every roadside, and a man soon learns the art of correcting any tendency to overbalance with a well-adjusted stone.

On the day of my departure I was up a little after five;by six, we began to load the donkey; and ten minutes after, my hopes were in the dust. The pad would not stay on Modestine’sback for half a moment. I returned it to its maker, with whom I had so contumelious a passage that the street outside was crowded from wall to wall with gossips looking on and listening. The pad changed hands with much vivacity; perhaps it would be more descriptive to say that we threw it at each other’s heads; and, at any rate, we were very warm and unfriendly, and spoke with a deal of freedom.

I had a common donkey pack-saddle—a barde,as theycall it—fitted uponModestine;and once more loaded her with my effects. The doubled sack, my pilot-coat (for it was warm, and I was to walk in my waistcoat),a great bar of black bread, and an open basket containing the white bread, the mutton, and the bottles, were all corded together in a very elaborate system of knots, and I looked on the result with fatuous content. In such a monstrous deck­ cargo, all poisedabovethe donkey’s shoulders, with nothing below to balance, on a brand-new pack-saddle that had not yet been worn to fit the animal, and fastened with brand-new girths that might be expected to stretch and slacken by the way, even a very careless traveller should have seen disaster brewing. That elaborate system of knots, again, was the work of too many sympathisers to be very artfully designed. It is true they tightened the cords with a will; as many as three at a time would have a foot againstModestine’squarters, and be hauling with clenched teeth; but I learned afterwards that one thoughtful person, without any exercise of force, can make a more solid job than half a dozen heated and enthusiastic grooms. I was thenbut a novice; even after the misadventure of the pad nothing could disturb my security, and I went forth from the stable-door as an ox goeth to the slaughter.

THE GREEN DONKEY-DRIVER

THE BELL OF Monastier was just striking nine as I got quit of these preliminary troubles and descended the hill through the common. As long as I was within sight of the windows, a secret shame and the fear of some laughable defeat withheld me from tampering withModestine.She tripped along upon her four small hoofs with a sober daintiness of gait; from time to time sheshook her ears or her tail; and she looked so small under the bundle that my mind misgave me. We got across the ford without difficultytherewas no doubt about the matter, she was docilityitself and once on the other bank, where the road begins to mount through pine-woods, I took in my right hand the unhallowed staff, and with a quaking spirit applied it to the donkey. Modestinebrisked up her pace for perhaps three steps, and then relapsed into her former minuet. Another application had the same effect, and so with the third. I am worthy the name of an Englishman, and it goes against my conscience to lay my hand. rudely on a female. I desisted, and looked her all over from head to foot; the poor brute’s knees were trembling and her breathing was distressed; it was plain that she could go no faster on a hill. God forbid, thought I, that I should brutalise thisinnocent creature; let her go at her own pace, and let me patiently follow.

What that pace was, there is no word mean enough to describe; it was something as much slower than a walk as a walk is slower than a run; it kept me hanging on each foot for an incredible length of time; in five minutes it exhausted the spirit and set up a fever in all the muscles of the leg. And yet I had to keep close at hand and measure my advance exactly upon hers; for if I dropped a few yards into the rear, or went on a few yards ahead, Modestinecame instantly to a halt and began to browse. The thought that this was to last from here to Alaisnearly broke my heart. Of all conceivable journeys, this promised to be the most tedious. I tried to tell myself it was a lovely day; I tried to charm my foreboding spirit with tobacco; but I had a vision ever present to me of the long, long roads, up hill and down dale, and a pair of figures ever infinitesimally moving, foot by foot, a yard to the minute, and, like things enchanted in a nightmare, approaching no nearer to thegoal.

In the meantime there came up behind us a tall peasant, perhaps forty years of age, of an ironical snuffy countenance, and arrayed in the green tail-coat of the country. He overtook us hand over hand, and stopped to consider our pitiful advance.

‘Your donkey,’ says he, ‘is very old? ’ I told him, I believed not.

Then, he supposed, we had come far.

I told him, we had but newly left Monastier.

‘Et vous marchez comme gal’cried he; and, throwing back his head, he laughed long and heartily. I watchedhim, half prepared to feel offended, until he had satisfied hismirth;and then, ‘You must have no pity on these animals,’saidhe;and,pluckinga switchout of a thicket, he began to laceModestineaboutthe stem-works,uttering acry.Theroguepricked up herearsand brokeintoa good round pace, whichshekept up without flagging,and withoutexhibitingthe leastsymptomofdistress,as longasthe peasantkeptbeside us. Her former panting andshakinghad been, Iregret tosay, a piece of comedy.

My deus ex machinâ,before he left me, supplied some excellent, if inhumane advice; presented me with the switch, which he declared she would feel more tenderly than my cane; and finally taught me the true cry or masonicword of donkey-drivers, ‘Proot!All the time, heregarded me with a comical, incredulous air, which wasembarrassing to confront; and smiled over my donkey­driving, as I might have smiled over his orthography, or his green tail-coat. Butit was not mytum for the moment.

Iwasproud ofmynew lore, and thought I had learned theart toperfection.AndcertainlyModestinedidwondersforthe restof theforenoon,and I had a breathingspaceto lookaboutme. ItwasSabbath; the mountain-fields were allvacant in the sunshine; andas we came down throughStMartin deFrugères,the churchwas crowdedto the door, therewerepeople kneelingwithoutupon the steps, and thesound ofthe priest’schantingcame forth out of the dim interior. Itgavemeahome feeling on the spot; for I am a countryman of the Sabbath,sotospeak,and all Sabbath observances, likeaScottishaccent,strikein me mixed feelings, grateful and thereverse.Itis only atraveller, hurrying bylikea personfromanother planet, who canrightlyenjoythe peace and beauty of the great ascetic feast. The sight of the resting country does his spirit good. There is something better than music in the wide unusual silence; and it disposes him to amiable thoughts, like the sound of a little river or the warmth of sunlight.

In this pleasant humour I came down the hill to whereGaudetstandsin a green end of a valley, Château Beaufortopposite upon a rocky step, and the stream, as clear as crystal, lying in a deep pool between them. Above and below, you may hear it wimpling over the stones, an amiable stripling of a river, which it seems absurd to call the Loire.On all sides,Gaudetis shut in by mountains; rocky footpaths, practicable at best for donkeys, join it to the outer world of France;and the men and women drink and swear, in their green corner, or look up at the snow­clad peaks in winter from the threshold of their homes, in an isolation, you would think, like that of Homer’sCyclops. But it is not so; the postman reachesGaudetwiththe letter­bag; the aspiring youth of Gaudetare within a day’s walk of the railway at Le Puy;and here in theinn you may find an engraved portrait of the host’s nephew, Régis Senac,‘Professor of Fencing and Champion of the two Americas’, a distinction gained by him, along with the sum of five hundred dollars, atTammany Hall, New York,on the 10thApril1876.

I hurried over my midday meal, and was early forth again. But, alas, as we climbed the interminable hill upon the other side,Proot!’ seemed to have lost its virtue. I prooted like a lion, I prooted mellifluously like a sucking­dove; but Modestinewould be neither softenednor intimidated. She held doggedly to her pace; nothing but a blowwould move her, and that only for a second. I must follow at her heels, incessantly belabouring. A moment’s pause in this ignoble toil, and she relapsed into her own private gait. I think I never heard of any one in as mean a situation. I must reach the lake ofBouchet,where I meant to camp, before sundown, and, to have even a hope of this, I must instantly maltreat this uncomplaining animal. The sound of my own blows sickened me. Once, when I looked at her, she had a faint resemblance to a lady of my acquaintance who formerly loaded me with kindness; and this increased my horror of my cruelty.

To make matters worse, we encountered another donkey, ranging at will upon the roadside; and this other donkey chanced to be a gentleman. He andModestinemet nickering for joy, and I had to separate the pair and beat down their young romance with a renewed and feverish bastinado. If the other donkey had had the heart of a male under his hide, he would have fallen upon me tooth and hoof; and ·this was a kind of consolationhe was plainly unworthy of Modestine’saffection. But the incident saddened me, as did everything that spoke of my donkey’s sex.

It was blazing hot up the valley, windless, with vehement sun upon my shoulders; and I had to labour so consistently with my stick that the sweat ran into my eyes. Every five minutes, too, the pack, the basket, and the pilot-coat would take an ugly slew to one side or the other; and I had to stopModestine,just when I had got her to a tolerable pace of about two miles an hour, to tug, push, shoulder, and readjust the load. And at last, in the village ofUssel,saddle and all, the whole hypothec turned round and grovelled in the dust below the donkey’s belly. She, none better pleasedincontinently drew up and seemed to smile; and a party of one man, two women, and two children came up, and, standing round me in a half-circle, encouraged her by theirexample.

I had the devil’s own trouble to get the thing righted; and the instant I had done so, without hesitation, it toppled and fell down upon the other side. Judge if I was hot! And yet not a hand was offered to assist me. The man, indeed, told me I ought to have a package of a different shape. I suggested, if he knew nothing better to the point in my predicament, he might hold his tongue. And the good-natured dog agreed with me smilingly. It was the most despicable fix. I must plainly content myself with the pack forModestine,and take the following items for my own share of the portage: a cane, a quart flask, a pilot­ jacket heavily weighted in the pockets, two pounds of black bread, and an open basket full of meats and bottles. I believe I may say I am not devoid of greatness of soul; for I did not recoil from this infamous burden. I disposed it, Heaven knows how, so as to be mildly portable, and then proceeded to steer Modestinethrough the village. She tried, as was indeed her invariable habit, to enter every house and every courtyard in the whole length; and, encumbered as I was, without a hand to help myself, no words can render an idea of my difficulties. A priest, with six or seven others, was examining a church in process of repair, and he and his acolytes laughed loudly as they saw my plight. I remembered having laughed myself when I had seen good men struggling with adversity in the person of a jackass, and the recollection filled me with penitence. That was in my old light days, before this trouble cameupon me. God knows at least that I shall never laugh again, thought I. But O, what a cruel thing is a farce to those engaged in it!

A little out of the village, Modestine,filled with the demon, set her heart upon a by-road, and positively refused to leave it. I dropped all my bundles, and, I am ashamed to say, struck the poor sinner twice across the face. It was pitiful to see her lift up her head with shut eyes, as if waiting for another blow. I came very near crying; but I did a wiser thing than that, and sat squarely down by the roadside to consider my situation under the cheerful influence of tobacco and a nip of brandy.Modestine,in the mean while, munched some black bread with a contrite hypocritical air. It was plain that I must make a sacrificeto the gods of shipwreck. r threw away the empty bottledestined to carry milk; I threw away my own white bread, and, disdaining to act by general average, kept the black bread for Modestine; lastly, I threw away the cold leg of. mutton and the egg-whisk, although this last was dear to my heart. Thus I found room for everything in the basket, and even stowed the boating-coat on the top. By means of an end of cord I slung it under one, arm; and although the cord cut my shoulder, and the jacket hung almost to the ground, it was with a heart greatly lightened that I set forth again.

I had now an arm free to thrash Modestine,and cruelly I chastised her. If I were to reach the lakeside before dark, she must bestir her little shanks to some tune. Already the sun had gone down into a windy-looking mist; and although there were still a few streaks of gold far off to the east on the hills and the black fir-woods, all was cold andgray about our onward path. An infinity of little country by-roads led hither and thither among the fields. It was the most pointless labyrinth. I could see my destination overhead, or rather the peak that dominates it; but choose as I pleased, the roads always ended by turning away from it, and sneaking back towards the valley, or northward along the margin of the hills. The failing light, the waning colour, the naked, unhomely, stony country through which I was travelling, threw me into some despondency. I promise you, the stick was not idle; I think every decent step that Modestinetook must have cost me at least two emphatic blows. There was not another sound in the neighbourhood but that of my unwearying bastinado.

Suddenly, in the midst of my toils, the load once more bit the dust, and, as by enchantment, all the cords were simultaneously loosened, and the road scattered with my dear possessions. The packing was to begin again from the beginning; and as I had to invent a new and better system, I do not doubt but I lost half an hour. It began to be dusk in earnest as I reached a wilderness of turf and stones. It had the air of being a road which should lead everywhere at the same time; and Iwasfalling into something not unlike despair when I saw two figures stalking towards me over the stones. They walked one behind the other like tramps, but their pace was remarkable. The son led the way, a tall, ill-made, sombre, Scotch-looking man; the mother followed, all in her Sunday’s best, with an elegantly­ embroidered ribbon to her cap, and a new felt hat atop, and proffering, asshestrode along with kilted petticoats, a string of obscene and blasphemous oaths.

I hailed the son and asked him my direction. He pointedloosely west and north-west, muttered an inaudible comment, and, without slackening his pace for an instant, stalked on, as he was going, right athwart my path. The mother followed without so much as raising her head. I shouted and shouted after them, but they continued to scale the hillside, and turned a deaf ear to my outcries. At last, leaving Modestineby herself, I was constrained to run after them, hailing the while. They stopped as I drew near, the mother still cursing; and I could see she was a handsome, motherly, respectable-looking woman. The son once more answered me roughly and inaudibly, and was for setting out again. But this time I simply collared the mother, who was nearest me, and, apologising for my violence, declared that I could not let them go until they had put me on my road. They were neither of them offendedrather mollified than otherwise; told me I had only to follow them; and then the mother asked me what I wanted by the lake at such an hour. I replied, in the Scotch manner, by inquiring if she had far to go herself. She told me, with another oath, that she had an hour and a half ’s road before her. And then, without salutation, the pair strode forward again up the hillside in the gathering dusk. I returned for Modestine,pushed her briskly forward, and, after a sharp ascent of twenty minutes, reached the edge of a plateau. The view, looking back on my day’s journey, was both wild and sad. Mount Mézencand the peaks beyond St Julienstood out in trenchant gloom against a cold glitter in the east; and the intervening field of hills had fallen together into one broad wash ofshadow,except here and there the outline of a wooded sugar-loaf in black, here and there a white irregular patch to representa cultivated farm; and here and there a blot where the Loire, theGazeille,or the Laussonnewandered in a gorge. Soonwewere on a high-road, and surprise seized on my mind as I beheld a village of some magnitude close at hand; for I had been told that the neighbourhood of the lake was uninhabited except by trout. The road smoked in·the twilight with children driving home cattle from the fields; and a pair of mounted stride-legged women, hat and cap and all, dashed past me at a hammering trot from the canton where they had been to church and market. I asked one of the children where I was. AtBouchet St Nicolas,he told me. Thither, about a mile south of my destination, and on the other side of a respectable summit, had these confused roads and treacherous peasantry conducted me. My shoulder was cut, so that it hurt sharply; my arm ached like toothache from perpetual beating; I gave up the lake and my design to camp, and asked for the auberge.

I HAVE A GOAD

THEAUBERGEOFBouchet St Nicolaswas amongthe least pretentious I have ever visited; but Isawmany more of the like upon my journey. Indeed, it was typical of these French highlands. Imagine a cottage of two stories, with a bench before the door; the stable and kitchen in asuite,so thatModestineand I could hear each other dining; furniture of the plainest, earthen floors, a single bedchamber for travellers, and that without any convenience but beds. Inthe kitchen cooking and eating go forward side by side, and the family sleep at night. Anyone who has a fancy to wash must do so in public at the common table. The food is sometimes spare; hard fish and omelette have been my portion more than once; the wine is of the smallest, the brandy abominable to man; and the visit of a fat sow, grouting under the table and rubbing against your legs, is no impossible accompaniment to dinner.

But the people of the inn, in nine cases out of ten, show themselves friendly and considerate. As soon as you cross the doors you cease to be a stranger; and although this peasantry are rude and forbidding on the highway, they show a tincture of kind breeding when you share their hearth. AtBouchet,for. instance, I uncorked my bottle of Beaujolais, and asked the host to join me. He would take but little.

‘I am an amateur of such wine, do you see?’ he said, ‘and I am capable of leaving you not enough.’

In these hedge-inns the traveller is expected to eat with his own knife; unless he asks, no other will besupplied;with a glass, a whang of bread, and an iron fork, the table is completely laid. My knife was cordially admired by the landlord ofBouchet,and the spring filled him withwonder.

‘I should never have guessed that,’ he said. ‘I wouldbet,’ he added, weighing it in his hand, ‘that this cost you not less than five francs.’

When I told him it had cost me twenty, his jaw dropped. He was a mild, handsome, sensible, friendly old man, astonishingly ignorant. His wife, who was not so pleasant in her manners, knew how to read, although I do not suppose she ever did so. She had a share of brains and spoke with a cutting emphasis, like one who ruled the roast.

‘My man knows nothing,’ she said, with an angry nod; ‘he is like the beasts.’

And the old gentleman signified acquiescence with his head. There was no contempt on her part, and no shame on his; the facts were accepted loyally, and no more about the matter.

I was tightly cross-examined about my journey; and the lady understood in a moment, and sketched out what I should put into my book when I got home. ‘Whether people harvest or not in such or such a place; if there were forests; studies of manners; what, for example, I and the master of the house say to you; the beauties of Nature, and all that.’ And she interrogated me with a look.

‘It is just that,’ said I.

‘You see,’ she added to her husband, ‘I understood that.’

They were both much interested by the story of mymisadventures.

‘In the morning,’ said the husband, ‘I will make you something better than your cane. Such a beast as that feels nothing; it is in the proverbdur comme un âne;you might beat her insensible with a cudgel, and yet you would arrive nowhere.’

Something better! I little knew what he was offering.

The sleeping-room was furnished with two beds. I had one; and I will own I was a little abashed to find a young man and his wife and child in the act of mounting into the other. This was my first experience of the sort; and, if I am always to feel equally silly and extraneous, I pray God it be my last as well. I kept my eyes to myself, and knownothing of the woman except that she had beautiful arms, and seemed no whit embarrassed by my appearance. As a matter of fact, the situation was more trying to me than to the pair. A pair keep each other in countenance; it is the single gentleman who has to blush. But I could not help attributing my sentiments to the husband, and sought to conciliate his tolerance with a cup of brandy from my flask. He told me that he was a cooper of Alaistravelling toSt Etiennein search of work, and that in his spare moments he followed the fatal calling of a maker of matches. Me he readily enough divined to be a brandymerchant.

I was up first in the morning(Monday, September23rd), and hastened my toilette guiltily, so as to leave a clear field for madam, the cooper’s wife. I drank a bowl of milk, and set off to explore the neighbourhood of Bouchet.It was perishing cold, a gray, windy, wintry morning; misty clouds flew fast and low; the wind piped over the naked platform; and the only speck of colour was away behindMount Mézencand the eastern hills, where the sky still wore the orange of the dawn.

It was five in the morning, and four thousand feet above the sea; and I had to bury my hands in my pockets and trot. People were trooping out to the labours of the field by twos and threes, and all turned round to stare upon the stranger. I had seen them coming back last night, I saw them going afield again; and there was the life ofBouchetin a nutshell.

When I came back to the inn for a bit of breakfast, the landlady was in the kitchen combing out her daughter’s hair; and I made her my compliments upon its beauty.

‘O no,’ said the mother; ‘it is not so beautiful as it ought to be. Look, it is too fine.’

Thus does a wise peasantry console itself under adverse physical circumstances, and, by a startling democratic process, the defects of the majority decide the type of beauty.

‘And where,’ said I, is monsieur?

‘The master of the house is up-stairs, she answered, ‘making you a goad.’

Blessed be the man who invented goads! Blessed the innkeeper ofBouchet St Nicolas,who introduced me to their use! This plain wand,with an eighth of an inch of pin, was indeed a sceptre when he put it in my hands. ThenceforwardModestinewas my slave. A prick, and she passed the most inviting stable door. A prick, and she broke forth into a gallant little trotlet that devoured the miles. It was not a remarkable speed, when all was said; and we took four hours to cover ten miles at the best of it. But what a heavenly change since yesterday! No more wielding of the ugly cudgel; no more flailing with an aching arm; no more broadsword exercises, but a discreet and gentlemanly fence. And what although now and then a drop of blood should appear on Modestine’smouse-coloured wedge-like rump? I should have preferred it otherwise, indeed; but yesterday’s exploits had purged my heart of all humanity. The perverse little devil, since she would not be taken with kindness, must even go with pricking.

It was bleak and bitter cold, and, except a cavalcade of stride-legged ladies and a pair of post-runners, the road was dead solitary all the way toPradelles.I scarce remember an incident but one. A handsome foal with a bell about his neck came charging up to us upon a stretch of common,sniffed the air martiallyasone about to do great deeds, and, suddenly thinking otherwise in his green young heart, put about and galloped off as he had come, the bell tinkling in the wind. For a long while afterwards I saw his noble attitude as he drew up, and heard the note of his bell; and when I struck the high-road, the song of the telegraph-wires seemed to continue the same music.

Pradellesstands on a hillside, high above the Allier,surrounded by rich meadows. They were cutting aftermath on all sides, which gave the neighbourhood, this gusty autumn morning, an untimely smell of hay. On the oppositebank of theAllierthe land kept mounting for miles to the horizon: a tanned and sallow autumn landscape, with black blots of fir-wood and white roads wandering through the hills. Over all this the clouds shed a uniform and purplish shadow, sadandsomewhat menacing, exaggerating height and distance, and throwing into still higher relief the twisted ribbons of the highway. It was a cheerless prospect, but one stimulating to a traveller. For I was now upon the limit of Velay,and all that I beheld lay inanothercountywildGévaudan,mountainous, uncultivated, and butrecentlydisforested from terror of thewolves.

Wolves, alas, like bandits, seem to flee the traveller’sadvance;you may trudge through all our comfortable Europe, and not meet with an adventure worth the name. But here, ifanywhere,a man was on the frontiers of hope. For this was the land of the ever-memorable BEAST, theNapoléon Bonaparteof wolves. What a career was his! He lived ten months at free quarters in Givaudanand Vivarais;he ate women and children and ‘shepherdesses celebratedfor their beauty’; he pursued armed horsemen; he has been seen at broad noonday chasing a post-chaise and outrider along the king’s high-road, and chaise and outrider fleeing before him at the gallop. He was placarded like a political offender, and ten thousand francs were offered for his head. And yet, when he was shot and sent to Versailles,behold I a common wolf, and even small for that. ‘Though I could reach from pole to pole,’ sangAlexander Pope;the Little Corporal shookEurope;and if all wolves had been as this wolf, they would have changed the history of man. M.Élie Berthethad made him the hero of a novel, which I have read, and do not wish to read again.

I hurried over my lunch, and was proof against the landlady’s desire that I should visit ourLadyofPradelles,‘who performed many miracles, although she was of wood’; and before three-quarters of an hour I was goading Modestinedown the steep descent that leads to Langogneon theAllier.On bothsidesof the road, in big dusty fields, farmers were preparing for next Spring. Every fifty yards a yoke of great-necked stolid oxen were patiently haling at the plough. I saw one of these mild formidable servants of the glebe, who took a sudden interest in Modestineand me. The furrow down which he was journeying lay at an angle to the road, and his head was solidly fixed to the yoke like those of caryatides below aponderouscornice; but he screwed round his big honest eyes and followed us with a ruminating look, until his master bade him turn the plough and proceed to reascend the field. From all these furrowing ploughshares, from the feet of oxen, from a labourer here and there who was breaking the dry clods with a hoe, the wind carried away a thin dust like so muchsmoke. It was a fine, busy, breathing, rustic landscape; and as I continued to descend, the highlands ofGévaudankept mounting in front of me against the sky.

I had crossed theLoirethe day before; now I was to cross theAllier;so near are these two confluents in their youth. Just at the bridge of Langogne,as the long-promised rain was beginning to fall, a lassie of some seven or eight addressed me in the sacramental phrase,D’où’st-ce-que vous venez?’She did it with so high an air that she set me laughing; and this cut her to the quick. She was evidently one who reckoned on respect, and stood looking after me in silent dudgeon, as I crossed the bridge and entered the the county of Gévaudan.

UPPER GÉVAUDAN

‘The way also here was very wearisome through dirt and slabbiness; nor was there on all this ground so much as one inn or victualling-house wherein to refresh the feeblersort.’Pilgrim’s Progress