A DAY'S FLYING AT BLACKPOOL.
THOSE who were lucky enough to see it say that of the first three days' flying at Blackpool during the week there was nothing finer than M. Paulhan's performance on Tuesday, when he went up in a twenty-mile breeze and fought his way for sixteen miles. He took a tremendous risk, but he certainly saved the day from the spectator's point of view. Monday and Wednesday (until the evening, when it came on to blow hard) were days of lighter breezes and easier condi- tions, but Wednesday, too, had its peculiar difficulties. There had been a heavy downpour of rain in the night, and except that it blew clear early in the morning, the flying-course at ten o'clock could hardly have looked more depressing. Wide pools stood in the enclosures; streams raced down hastily dug trenches ; mud of a horrible blackness was compounded of surface-water, sand, trodden grass, and sifted ashes sprinkled to soak up the surface-water. The hangars, or temporary sheds built to shelter the aeroplanes, were some of them flooded, and all of them leaking. But the difficulties in the enclosures and hangars were not all. More than one of the machines brought out for trial could not get up speed over the sodden ground, and either stuck fast or raced use- lessly through water. Only three of the machines which were brought out on Wednesday managed to leave the ground, but how far that was the fault of the ground or the machines or the fliers a mere spectator could not decide.
From the spectator's point of view, the characteristic in which a. typical day's flying differs from a day of any other sport, racing, say, is the continual uncertainty of it all. That is perfectly natural, considering that we have hardly yet reached even the stage of thorough experiment with "flying weeks," and a day such as Wednesday at Blackpool adds an interesting comment on the temper of a huge English crowd. Who will fly? How many will fly ? Will anybody fly? Will anybody even try to fly ? Nobody but the fliers and the officials knew, but the crowd thought it worth while to wait on the chance. The morning went by till half-past eleven, and, except for the few who had business relations with the fliers or the officials, nothing in the way of flying was seen at all. Every now and then one of the machines—a contrivance of flat white-and- yellow surfaces, intricate wiring, and a certain live personality even when stationary on the sodden ground—could be seen being wheeled out of its hangar. Then there would be a sudden, prolonged, resonant roar; the engine was being tested, and you could see the flash of the propeller in the sun. But that was all there was to be seen until after twelve o'clock, when officials chalked up on the blackboards the slowly read sentence : "Farman expected out about 12.30." Then a sponge wiped the sentence swiftly away, and the likelihood seemed to be that Farman would not be out after all. But the alteration was inspiriting : "Farman will fly at 12.30." Nothing could be more confident. He did not, as a fact, fly till one o'clock, but meanwhile the crowd was kept amused by various incidental trials and beginnings of trials, mostly by the English flying men experimenting with their new machines. A. small biplane bumped out over the soaking grass and rushed along like a winged motor-car practising starts. Then a Bleriot mono- plane came out for a run, and instead of running where it was meant, twisted round and dashed towards the spectators like a horse bolting back into the stable ; luckily the driver
stopped his engine in time. Then a large Voisin biplane, driven by one of the few Englishmen, Mr. Singer, came droning out and ran several spurts of a hundred yards or so, but could not rise, though it sent the surface-water swishing out twenty yards behind it ; eventually it stuck in a rut, rocked and stayed. The official handwriting chalked up consolation on the blackboards: "Latham will fly about two." Then the sponge went over the writing again and the com- forting message was succeeded by "Latham may fly this afternoon." He did fly a short distance, as a fact, shortly before five, in a dangerously strong wind; but by that time most of the crowd, including the writer, had left the course, understanding that the increasing wind had put further flying out of the question.
But others flew earlier, in light winds and sunlight as warm as July. About noon the white flag signalling "Flying will probably take place" had been hauled down and the red flag signalling "Flying will take place" had been hoisted. Almost on the stroke of one the Farman biplane, which had been quietly wheeled out from its hangar across the starting-line, suddenly turned, Mr. Farman took his seat, the engine was set going, the machine took a short run—hardly the length of a cricket pitch it looked—and rose into the air. It was the simplest, easiest thing. There was only just enough breeze to flutter the red flag out from its post, and the biplane slid snoring up to a height of fifteen or twenty feet, and then rode on its level, even way, rounding the pylons left-handed, and sailing off to the apex of the race- course triangle, always within a few feet of the same height in the air, swaying a little, pitching a little, now and then rising as a horse rises quietly at a low jump, but in the main steadily gliding forward, round and round the course. Each time the machine passed the stands and enclosures there was cheering and waving of handkerchiefs ; perhaps the less emotional of the spectators wondered how much Mr. Farman, with his eye on his planes and wings, saw of the fluttering handkerchiefs. Of the cheers he could have heard nothing ; the snore of his engine would almost have drowned a football crowd. He was curiously motionless for the hard work he had to do with wires and levers, and seemed to pass on his way round the pylons always in the same position, his right hand low by his knee, and his left the height of his head on a lever to the side ; the wind slapped his blue jacket against his arms and chest liking a racing jockey's, and even in the bright sunlight he looked very cold. Twenty-three rounds he completed, and as he had petrol enough for four hours in three shining tanks behind him, it seemed as if he might fly on indefinitely. Suddenly he stopped his engine, and the biplane sloped gently and gracefully to splash along in the grass and water. He jumped down and stretched his legs and arms ; the cold and the hard work of turning the machine in the wind had been too much for him. But he had covered forty-seven miles eleven hundred and eighty-four yards, and he had been in the air for ninety-two minutes sixteen and four-fifth seconds,—a record for England, as the official writing immediately indicated on the blackboard.
Mr. Farman was hardly down before another flying man was up. Waiting near its hangar was M. Rougier's Voisin biplane, and once or twice its engine had been set going,—a curiously deep, angry drone oddly different from the steady snore of the Farman motor. The Voisin biplane droned suddenly again, and with a short level run lifted high into the air. Somehow the impression of real flight came more com- pletely and distinctly than from the flying of the Farman
biplane. The Farman style of flying is very wonderful and extraordinarily skilful, but somehow queerly familiar.
Perhaps the experience of a very smooth-running motor- car on a level road may call up some kindred memory, perhaps the reason of the familiarity is that this gliding rear the ground is the visual realisation of the flight of dreams,—that strange sensation common to many who dream vividly of skimming close over the surface of things without effort and without surprise. But M. Rougier's flight was different. He went up with a rush with his
planes quivering and beating, and the loud drone of his engine was a combatant noise that suited well with a wind that had quickly risen to a breeze of twenty miles. He was a hundred and twenty feet up, perhaps, before he sailed forward down the course, and the wind came over the sand-dunes from the sea to the west and shook him till he seemed to stay still, working his planes to turn by the pylon; then he got his angles right and swept on again. He kept on for three laps, and flew just short of six miles before he was down ; and before he came down the wind had carried him clean over one of the larger enclosures ; you realised the height at which he flew looking straight up at the working rode and buffeted planes. But even M. Rougier's flight, with its fight and flurry in the wind, and the pace the machine flew with the wind behind it—was it the ideal thing which most who bad never set eyes on a biplane had hoped to see? The mastery of the man in the air was plain enough, but the sheer grace of flying ? The disappointment for most of the spectators on Wednesday was that there was no opportunity of comparing the flight of the biplanes with the monoplane. The biplane, whatever may be its stability in the air, has something the look of a Japanese box-kite about it; the monoplane spreads its wings and tail like a hawk, and should slant and skim like a hawk. So it will skim, doubtless, at other flying meetings to come later; perhaps even next year we may see monoplanes and biplanes racing, as adver- tised, with something like the certainty of yachts. But not for some time, apparently, in a high wind. That factor remains to be reckoned with ; perhaps at some future flying meeting a prize may be offered for an aeroplane capable, like a sea-going vessel, of riding out a gale.
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