It was a crisp Autumn afternoon as I drove past the airport building and around to the side road where the private aircraft were kept. Biggin Hill Airport is a former RAF base just outside of London and you could still see some of the wartime barracks and the airmen’s chapel beside the more modern air terminal. I wasn’t interested in any of that. I was there for a flying lesson. My first ever flying lesson. An 18th birthday present from Mum and Dad.
“Endora School of Flying?” My Dad had said, laughing, when Mum told him the name of the establishment she had booked for my birthday treat.
“What’s so funny about that?” she asked.
“Well, sounds like the old witch from that telly program.”
“Oh, don’t put the boy off, Graham.”