Three days on the Sussex coast last December and one doesn't stand a chance.
At least that's how it was for me.
Half-lost and driving along unfamiliar roads, it was as if something guided us deliberately past a rather small sign that read 'Aviation Museum.' Despite the pouring rain and a heading toward our Southampton hotel, we reversed and made a right-hand turn into a narrow drive that led toward a hangar and a few old aircraft that stood guard directly outside.
The hangar door was just slightly open and there was a handful of men, bundled for the dank weather, some sitting on stools working on small aircraft parts.
Then I saw a sign that informed us that the museum wouldn't be reopening until April. Never accused of being a wallflower, I grabbed my Nikon and walked up to the men and introduced myself.
Long story made short for your reading pleasure, this wonderful group took pity on the fact, I'm sure, that two lost and tired (international tourist) souls ought to, at the very least, be shown some of the aircraft inside.
Now, having made previous trips to England these past few years and spending inordinate amounts of time at the Imperial War Museum, London (take the Bakerloo line and get off at Lambeth North - a few minutes walk to the IWM) I wasn't about to let ceremony, or a sign that could well have read 'Come back in the spring,' deter me from breathing in the musty, oil-drenched scent of WWII aeroplanes. My imagination was already flooded with ideas for a new novel.
Mind you, at about the same time, another voice in my head screamed, "Are you mad? Another novel? More endless months of research and writing and keeping dates and times and authenticity at the forefront?"
God, yes!
This was, after all, the old RAF station, Tangmere.
Tangmere!
Could it have been any more coincidental that the museum we stumbled upon was the one I had read about numerous times when researching Vera Atkins, SOE, and the French Resistance? Here was the very place where RAF Group Captain Hugh Verity flew so many Lysander missions into occupied France.
And so I pushed on. Half-aware of my please-show-me-more attitude and my commitment to common courtesy, I gushed over displays and discussion of SOE artifacts and RAF pilots who flew bravely into unknown territory across the English Channel during the all-important 'moon periods.'
With my Nikon in hand, I snapped as many shots as I could, so that nothing was left to memory.
On the remainder of the drive to Southampton, we marvelled at our luck, though I couldn't help think it was more than luck, that we had crossed long-lost paths with F-Section's pilots and agents and Vera herself, all those years ago.
The story was already taking form.
At least that's how it was for me.
Half-lost and driving along unfamiliar roads, it was as if something guided us deliberately past a rather small sign that read 'Aviation Museum.' Despite the pouring rain and a heading toward our Southampton hotel, we reversed and made a right-hand turn into a narrow drive that led toward a hangar and a few old aircraft that stood guard directly outside.
The hangar door was just slightly open and there was a handful of men, bundled for the dank weather, some sitting on stools working on small aircraft parts.
Then I saw a sign that informed us that the museum wouldn't be reopening until April. Never accused of being a wallflower, I grabbed my Nikon and walked up to the men and introduced myself.
Long story made short for your reading pleasure, this wonderful group took pity on the fact, I'm sure, that two lost and tired (international tourist) souls ought to, at the very least, be shown some of the aircraft inside.
Now, having made previous trips to England these past few years and spending inordinate amounts of time at the Imperial War Museum, London (take the Bakerloo line and get off at Lambeth North - a few minutes walk to the IWM) I wasn't about to let ceremony, or a sign that could well have read 'Come back in the spring,' deter me from breathing in the musty, oil-drenched scent of WWII aeroplanes. My imagination was already flooded with ideas for a new novel.
Mind you, at about the same time, another voice in my head screamed, "Are you mad? Another novel? More endless months of research and writing and keeping dates and times and authenticity at the forefront?"
God, yes!
This was, after all, the old RAF station, Tangmere.
Tangmere!
Could it have been any more coincidental that the museum we stumbled upon was the one I had read about numerous times when researching Vera Atkins, SOE, and the French Resistance? Here was the very place where RAF Group Captain Hugh Verity flew so many Lysander missions into occupied France.
And so I pushed on. Half-aware of my please-show-me-more attitude and my commitment to common courtesy, I gushed over displays and discussion of SOE artifacts and RAF pilots who flew bravely into unknown territory across the English Channel during the all-important 'moon periods.'
With my Nikon in hand, I snapped as many shots as I could, so that nothing was left to memory.
On the remainder of the drive to Southampton, we marvelled at our luck, though I couldn't help think it was more than luck, that we had crossed long-lost paths with F-Section's pilots and agents and Vera herself, all those years ago.
The story was already taking form.
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