Yeovilton

GUIDELINES - HERALD EXPRESS 14.7.09
EVERYONE had come to see the Vulcan.
You had to feel a little bit sorry for the Royal Navy, celebrating 100 years of naval aviation with the spectacular pageant of the Yeovilton International Air Day.
The Royal Naval air station was decked out in its finest and it was estimated on the local radio that more than 30,000 people were making their way there.
Most of them, it seemed, were with us on the A303 near Ilchester watching distant helicopters flying to and fro.
But despite the Navy's best efforts, the aeroplane that everyone wanted to see was the Vulcan.
The last of the giant delta-winged bombers went out of active service with the Royal Air Force in 1986, four years after the extraordinary Black Buck mission to the Falklands.
Six years later the last flying Vulcan, XH558, was retired from airshow service, and that, it seemed, was that.
But ever since then the Vulcan To The Sky Trust has been using public donations, bequests and lottery money to restore the aeroplane to flying condition, and it is now airborne again.
There were Vulcans on show from the minute you got inside the gate at Yeovilton — on hats, on T-shirts and inflatable ones in the hands of small children. You could buy model Vulcans and DVDs of Vulcans flying.
All week I had been checking the weather forecast for Yeovilton on Saturday, and at no point in the week did it get any better. I checked the Herald Express online weather, the BBC, Metcheck and the Met Office but they were all unanimous.
However nice it was in the few days leading up to the weekend, it was going to hammer down on Saturday on the Somerset Levels.
But while the skies were grey and the clouds lowering, it was dry when we arrived and it stayed that way right up until the last 20 minutes.
Having battled through the jams, we got out of the car just as a flypast marking the 100 years of naval aviation swept overhead.
I was all excited.
Back in the 70s Dad and I frequented airshows at Exeter, Chivenor, Yeovilton, Farnborough and Greenham Common.
We saw the first flights of Tornados and Jaguars, we watched anxiously as the Red Arrows made the tricky transition from the Gnat to the Hawk, and we held our ears and grinned like idiots as Buccaneers, Lightnings, Phantoms and Starfighters tore great fiery holes in the sky.
I hadn't been to an airshow since, and I wondered if Saturday's excitement would live up to the memories. It did.
The low cloud meant things got off to a bit of a slow start, with the Typhoon unable to do its display and the Red Arrows making just a couple of red, white and blue smoky runs up and down the display line before heading back whence they came.
But that just gave us more time to enjoy the massive static display, where you could buy souvenirs and get up close to some aeroplanes.

Prince Andrew paid a quick visit and then departed by private jet. A Sea Vixen made lovely shapes in the sky and the Royal Jordanian Falcons performed intricate aerobatic manoeuvres in time to a slinky disco beat booming over the speakers.
A French pilot leaned casually on the crowd barrier in front of his beautiful Rafale fighter plane. He smiled a lot, chatted happily to the crowds and looked as if he should be modelling something. A few minutes later he ran his hand through his immaculate coiffure, climbed into his beautiful Rafale fighter plane and threw it around the sky in a rage of sound like a tempestuous tango partner to the cheers of the adoring crowd.
I hated him.
Back on the ground, the unmistakable sound of Vulcan engines sent a stir around the aerodrome. The great beast, visible across on the other side of the airfield, was being brought to life ready for its flight later.
And it still hadn't rained, although the low cloudbase was playing havoc with the programme.
Two giggling girls under an umbrella had their photograph taken by almost every photographer in the press area just in case it did rain later and their editors wanted a picture to illustrate the downpour.
Somewhere in the skies above, in the cockpit of his beautiful Rafale fighter plane, a handsome pilot shook his fist at the photographers below. "Photograph me!" he shouted. "Photograph me!"
Over on the apron, a blinking red light on top of the Vulcan's fuselage showed that another stage had been completed in its preparation for flight. Small boys of all ages gnawed their knuckles in excitement.
In the sky an F16 multi-role combat aircraft of the Belgian Air Component poked the low cloudbase in the eye and did a display anyway.
As it turned sharply through the wet air a cloud formed momentarily over its wings and was gone again. Then the pilot completed his display by simply hammering down the crowd line from one end to the other as fast and as low as he was allowed to.

My vital organs vibrated. Over in Ilchester people trying to watch the cricket on TV looked up at the sky crossly and said "Bah!". The photographer in front of us nearly fell off his little stepladder with excitement.
It was absolutely brilliant, and I remembered standing with Dad and grinning like an idiot at fiery holes in the sky again.
According to the programme, an F16 of the Royal Netherlands Air Force was up next, and this one was painted bright orange like a Dutch football shirt from the 1970s.
Now we were REALLY excited.
Imagine Johnny Rep and the drummer out of Golden Earring unleashed at the controls of a fighter plane.
Now THAT'S exciting.
But there was bad news. The orange machine had been shut down and the pilot had got out. A mechanical problem was blamed, but we preferred to imagine the pilot claiming a prior engagement with a blonde and a roll-up.
And anyway, we had the Vulcan to look forward to.
We walked around the static displays for a bit, finding ourselves in the Airfix tent where whole families were sitting at long trestle tables sticking little plastic aircraft together and grown men were discussing Vulcan kits.
The heady smell of modelling glue was thick in the air and we almost bought a 1/72nd scale Spitfire but fought the temptation.
Back outside, the bottom of the clouds had touched the top of the hills off to the south and that, according to the commentator, was A Bad Thing.
And worse was to come. In sombre tones normally reserved for the death of a pop star, the announcer gave us the news that the Vulcan had fallen victim to a mechanical failure and would not fly.
Its blinking red light had been extinguished for the day.
Its engines were no longer being prepared.
It was, he said, a hydraulic fault. The Vulcan, being made of the same kind of technology that propelled early Austin Minis down A-roads in the hands of men wearing caps and string-backed gloves, is as susceptible to gremlins as any other piece of technology of that age.
The crowds took it well, considering, and for those who hung around, there was a treat in store.
The Vulcan was towed slowly across the airfield in front of them behind a truck, and manoeuvred into an enclosure where they could all but reach out and touch it.
It was magnificent up close — not as good as seeing it in the air, but almost.
Then, as the clouds finally emptied their contents over the runways, the finale saw the Navy flyers reassert themselves with a display full of swooping helicopters and pyrotechnics so loud they must have woken the snoozing cricket fans of Ilchester all over again.
Fly Navy. You know it makes sense.