FLYING HIGH
Even the best laid plans can go awry, as Stella’s story illustrates!
The best laid plans . . .
It was two a.m. on a chilly August morning. Along with a hundred other passengers,
my daughter and I were attempting to sleep, on the floor of Orly Airport in Paris.
Lying uncomfortably on our winter coats, with hand luggage for pillows, we dozed
intermittently.
Fourteen year old Joanne stirred, gave a sleepy smile and jokingly asked, ‘Will they
be serving us breakfast in bed’? I looked at her ruefully and said “more likely we will
be brushed out with the rubbish in the morning.”
We were on our way back to South Africa, after spending three very pleasant weeks
with my family in England. It was 1976, and as far as we were concerned not a good
year for travel. Looking back I recalled that the journey on a Boeing 747 from
Johannesburg to England had been tiring but uneventful. The nightmare only began
when we reached London.
Our connecting flight to Newcastle had been cancelled due to an air strike, and we
were given rail tickets instead. This added another four hours to our journey –
actually five, because the train halted at a siding for fifty minutes. We assumed the
train driver was having his lunch.
On reaching Newcastle with its familiar hustle and bustle, and general air of grime, I
was dismayed that no one was there to meet us. The confusion was caused by the
unexpected change in travel plans, but by now, Joanne and I were both exhausted.
On the next platform a porter was waving a flag and ushering people onto the train.
Grabbing our luggage I shouted, “Is this going to Sunderland?”
“Yes missus – hurry aboard please, the train is leaving now,” and he shoved us
unceremoniously up the steps.
I became rather anxious when the train didn’t stop anywhere, and the scenery looked
unfamiliar. It was early evening, and I felt an increasing sense of panic that we were
on the wrong train. Joanne was asleep with her head against the window. It was
twenty four hours since we had left South Africa. I had a throbbing headache and felt
as though our lives were out of control.
Catching the eye of a ticket inspector, I asked if the train was going to Sunderland.
“No madam, this is the non stop express to Scotland.” He would have passed on
without further interest, but I grabbed his arm and almost in tears begged him to stop
the train. When he understood our plight, this angel of mercy arranged for a train
coming in the opposite direction to stop and return us to Newcastle.
Thankfully my father was waiting on the platform, and with a great sense of relief we
fell into his car and finally reached our destination. It was good to see my father and
stepmother again and to spend time in my old home. Auriol my sister-in-law and her
husband Norman, with their daughter Kay took us to Durham Cathedral, and also
boating on the river. Friends I had not seen for several years made us very welcome.
They lived on the rugged north east coast line and took us for leisurely picnics on
Whitburn beach. But all too soon it was time to return to our adopted land.
Flights from Newcastle had returned to their normal pattern, and we waved goodbye
to my Dad and Gwen at the airport, wondering if we would ever see them again.
Refreshed by our holiday we relaxed and assumed our journey home would be
inconsequential. What a mistake! The afternoon flight from London was an hour late
in leaving, because the passenger door would not lock. Then the plane touched
down briefly to collect passengers from Paris. When the pilot attempted take off
again, there was a sharp jolt followed by the plane completing a circle and then
returning to the ground. It appeared there was a problem, and we eventually heard
that two tyres had burst in mid air.
Sitting on the tarmac under a darkening sky, with no idea of what would happen next,
we all did a lot of positive thinking. Some passengers appeared to be reading, but we
suspected there was a great deal of praying going on behind the newspapers.
Dinner was served at midnight, dress was casual and not very smart, but eating on
the runway was a first for many of us! Later we were told that we would have to
spend the night at the airport, because a conference was taking place in Paris, and
there were no hotel vacancies in the area. Which brings us back to resting our weary
bones on a hard concrete floor at Orly Airport.
Dawn brought very little relief. We washed sketchily in the ladies room and waited to
hear what our fate would be. The news was not good, and it seemed the plane
required extensive repairs before it would be ready for take off. We were informed
that we would be taken into the city for breakfast and then given a tour of the Palace
of Versailles. This was all very pleasant, but most of us were too anxious and too
tired to really appreciate the gesture. However, to this day my daughter remains
enthusiastic about the tour and it appears to have been a highlight of her life.
It was late afternoon when our plane smoothly ascended into a clear blue sky. As we
reached cruising speed, white cotton wool clouds drifted slowly past the window.
Passengers tried to appear nonchalant as we winged our way back home. When we
finally arrived in Johannesburg I was tempted to kiss the ground, but thought this was
overly dramatic. My husband and son were anxiously waiting for us, and as we later
enjoyed sundowners on the patio, I vowed never again to make long journeys
overseas.
I have kept my word. Destinations such as Durban, Cape Town, and Zimbabwe can
be tackled without inducing a nervous breakdown. But far away exotic locations like
Mexico, Australia and Peru are only a pipe dream and will never appear on my
itinerary.