Flying, for those who like it, is an excellent way
of getting about, provided you are not in a hurry. Last week a writer not unknown to me went over to Paris for a few days. On the outward trip he was only a matter of an hour and a half late, the result, it was said, of "a snag in the radio," which held up the start from Heathrow by that length of time. Coming home this week, anxious to do nearly a full day's work in his office, he duly presented himself at Les Invalides air station at 6.45 a.m. (London time). The bus to Le Bourget was to start half an hour or so later. But the bus to Le Bourget didn't. There was understood to be fog in England, though there was none in Paris, and "the O.K." from Northolt was necessary—necessary but not forthcoming. Talk of the 'Golden Arrow' from the Gate du Nord got ominously insistent, and at last the passengers were told to mount the bus that would take them to the station. However, just then Northolt did O.K., with the result that the aircraft took off rather more than three hours late. After a perfect trip in brilliant sunlight till close to the English coast, the fog-bank was reached. Aircraft directed to Blackbushe, four miles the wrong side of Camberley. Blackbushe is an emergency aerodrome, with one customs officer available for such occasions as this. Actually it was a fairly considerable occasion. Four aircraft had just arrived, nine were said to be circling waiting to land. Officials and buses were called up urgently from everywhere, but new con, signments of passengers came in faster than earlier consignments were worked off. In the case of the particular journey which occasions these remarks normal arrival time was II a.m., actual
time 4.15 p.m. No one's fault, of course. Fogs will be fogs. * * * *
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