I won't pretend to be a massively experienced pilot but flying has been something I always wanted to do - like most bikers, I'm fascinated by any sort of vehicle that gives you a buzz. I started flying in a Cessna high-wing trainer: two seats side-by-side in pleasant, comfy cabin not unlike the front of a car, except that it is filled with instruments, radio, navigation aids, and a million other things. You step in through a car-style door, buckle in and start it up with a key - all very civilised and familiar. Once at height, the plane almost flies itself; the complication for the trainee pilot comes from systems management and procedures. For example even when just flying along straight and level, one needs to do a ‘FREDA’ check every few minutes: Fuel - tank cock turned on and tank contents sufficient and fuel flow adequate, mixture set; Radio - on, tuned and set; Engine - all indications in the green, carburettor heat if needed; Direction - direction indicator aligned with the compass and aircraft on course, any navigation aids set correctly; Altitude – altimeter correctly set, aircraft at correct height….

It wasn't always this complicated. Fifty years ago, aircraft were simpler and the skies were a lot less crowded; Air Traffic Control and strict rules about where you could or couldn't fly were a thing of the future. So, when my flying club Cubair at Redhill in Surrey acquired a war-time De Havilland Tiger Moth biplane, I couldn't resist the lure of the open cockpit and the chance to sample a time warp into the early days of flight.

Having kitted up like some giant teddy bear, I clambered up the wing and swung myself into the open front cockpit and whilst I settled myself, the fitter secured the four webbing straps that hold you in with a pin and a split pin....hmmmm. Bit primitive. A quick look around. Well, it's all pretty familiar, but there's a lot less than I’m used to. Four dials - how fast, how high, going up or down and engine revs. A compass like something off a boat and.... that's it. Hmmmm. Rudder pedals and stick, throttle and mixture. Not much to worry about. Now unlike the Cessna which has a nose wheel, this aircraft sits on its tail and I'm sitting well down in the fuselage so my view forward is just about zero. Big Hmmmmm, but there’s no time to worry about it because it’s time to go. Starting the engine is by hand – the fitter swinging the prop just like in the films. Chocks away (no brakes on a Tiger), a whiff of throttle and we move off, the experienced Tiger Moth pilot in the cockpit behind me swinging the nose to see ahead as we taxi out to the active runway. Lined up, the throttle goes forward and the Tiger roars. Quickly, the tail comes up and within a hundred yards the jolts from the rough grass runway soften and the Tiger is flying. I still can't see much ahead so I'm craning round the side of the engine as we turn even before we've used half of the runway length and slowly climb over the old hangars on the south side. Those hangars housed Tiger Moths in the 1950s when the RAF still used this airfield; in 1940 Spitfires raced from that same grass to meet the Luftwaffe overhead. I feel that I can almost reach out and touch the spirits of those ethereal airmen...

Brought back from my reverie by the intercom, the main sensation is noise - engine noise, wind noise, my jacket flapping even in the depths of the cockpit. The pilot hands control over to me - God knows how pilots managed to communicate through this racket in the days of the 'Gosport tube' which was just that - a tube. Before we took off, we'd walked round the aircraft and the ailerons had been particularly pointed out.

Now, on your modern Cessna if you want to go left, you turn the control wheel left, the left aileron goes up, the right one goes down, the left wing goes down and with a bit of encouragement from the rudder, the aircraft turns. Not so in the Tiger: shoving the stick over to the left pushes the right aileron down whilst the left one...stays where it was. 'Not over-aileroned' was the term the pilot used, which sounded like he was saying it was a blue aeroplane rather than a red one. Nothing so innocuous - it's like saying a one wheeled motorbike is 'not over-wheeled'- it's a real handicap. Just staying level becomes actually quite a challenge and you begin to realise that there is flying and there is Flying. Consider the difference between bumbling along in a car and riding a motorbike and you've got it. If you let go of everything in the car, it’ll just trundle to a halt as long as it doesn't hit anything first. Do that on a bike and it’ll crash - that's just how the Tiger feels.

The next step is to learn to turn the Tiger and we're faced with that aileron problem again. After a couple of feeble Cessna driver attempts, I learn the Tiger way - tip it in with a bit of aileron, lead it round with the rudder and balance it through the turn with opposite aileron... counter steering? This really is an airborne motorcycle! Too much rudder in one turn and the aircraft side slips – it skids in the air. I don't have a dial in front of me to tell me this, but I know because my face gets cold on one side as the airflow hits the side of the cockpit and I begin to understand why pilots in the 1930's complained that covered cockpits would reduce their feel and control of the aircraft.

Flying back to Redhill, we're headed into a choppy summer wind and maintaining a steady heading takes all my attention, such that I forget to scan the instruments and start losing height until a gentle prompt from the rear cockpit encourages me to bring the nose up. I'd been fooled by the poor frontal vision and had unconsciously let the nose drop a bit so that I could see ahead as I can in the Cessna. Navigating a light aircraft today is not that different from the way that the pilots have always done so - by following features. Fifty years ago, the pilot of this Tiger would have been guided along by the railway lines, today I follow the M25 and watch the cars heading west disappearing under the trailing edge of the wing only to re-emerge from under the leading edge a few seconds later. Cruising at about 70 knots, the motorway traffic is overtaking me. We rejoin the circuit overhead the airfield and I reluctantly hand over control. We float down the approach with the pilot occasionally side-slipping the Tiger to move the nose over so that he can check that we’re still lined up with the runway. A jolt and we're down and taxing back to the club-house and shutting down.

Getting out proves to be another challenge; I’m absolutely exhausted. My legs are aching from continually pushing the heavy rudder, the noise from the wind has left my ears buzzing and I’ve flown it for less than an hour. Pioneers such as Amy Johnson and Bert Hinkler flew aircraft not very different from this one around the world - I can’t begin to imagine what that must have been like.

Well, that’s one flying ambition taken care of. Now, if I can just find someone with a Spitfire and an F4 Phantom for hire….

Back to Mr Wegg's index...


Some more links:
The Cubair home page, the DH Moth Club, and the RAF.