MWCQ_EDITION 03 by marloewatchcompany

COVER: THE R33 TAKES TO THE SKIES ABOVE THE EAST COAST OF ENGLAND. PREVIOUS SPREAD: SOME OF THE OFFICERS THAT BUILT AND WOULD FLY WITH THE R101 AIRSHIP ON ITS FATEFUL JOURNEY. MAJOR SCOTT IS 5TH FROM THE LEFT.

Welcome to a very unique edition of MWCQ. For the past 13 weeks we have been operating under the most incredible of circumstances, with COVID-19 running rampant around the world, we’ve battened down the hatches and pressed on as best we can.

Oliver Goffe & Gordon Fraser Co-Founders

This edition of MWCQ has been written during this period of strange worldwide downtime, and as such it features some very long read pieces surrounding our latest design, the Atlantic. So many interesting stories have been discovered in the process of designing the Atlantic and Gordon in particular has found himself neck-deep in the Aeronaut world, the Industrial Revolution and the history of flight. Unfortunately COVID-19 has impacted our production schedules and the launch date of the Atlantic has been pushed back, but nevertheless we wanted to share these stories with you now. We would like to thank you all for sticking with us, and for those of you who happened upon us during ‘lockdown’, welcome. You have all been instrumental in keeping our business ticking during this frightening and troublesome period of mankind’s existence, and we want you all to know that we are extremely grateful for the support you’ve shown. We hope you enjoy this edition - it may very well be the last. In this guise anyway! Stay safe everyone. To the future, whatever it may hold.

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A YEAR OF WAITING DAEDALUS AND THE SON

THE R34

A LUCKY BREEZE

CONQUERING MY ATLANTIC

THE FORTUNE

RISE & FALL: THE MARCH OF PROGRESS

CHANGE OF FORTUNES

THE FLYER

BEGINNING OF THE END

THE SPIRIT

CHRONOWHAT?

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WHATâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S NEXT?

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A WORD OR TWO

ROUGH POSITION AND SIZE OF THE R34 AIRSHIP SHED. QUITE THE BEHEMOTH!

Â© Crown Copyright: HES.

THE H OM E O F THE R34 :

EAST FORTUNE AIRFIELD, NEAR NORTH BERWICK, SCOTLAND. HOME NOW TO THE NATIONAL MUSEUM OF FLIGHT

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The worldwide pandemic, known as COVID-19, struck swiftly and resolutely as 2020 began, leaving no part of the globe untouched. As a young business, it’s been an interesting time.

oming into 2020 we knew it would be a big year for us. We’d made the decision to move to Scotland and planned, as best we could, for all the things that might change as a result. Soon we had our feet firmly on the ground, ready to charge at our production schedules, recruiting and development of our business - now that we had the ability to grow. By mid-March we had our next team member lined up ready to join our growing business, but news of a virus travelling with untold speed around the world had us apprehensive, but not outright worried; we were seeing steady sales, a growing customer base and the advice at the time was that the UK would be ok. Our advertising rollout had begun and things seemed to be stable, for us anyway. As the world grappled with this new virus, Oliver and I started to chat more fervently about what we should be doing to safeguard MWC and reduce any potential risks, should the unthinkable happen and our country go into a lockdown. Sure enough by the end of March we were doing just that. “Stay at Home” was the advice and we followed the advice diligently.

Quickly, British governments gained a better understanding of the virus and its impact. They allowed for people, like us, who relied on a business that couldn’t be operated from home, to continue to attend our place of work. In Britain, through indiscriminate speed and crushing efficiency, COVID-19 killed thousands and infected many tens of thousands more. The Scottish population wasn’t as badly affected as the rest of the UK, but our care-homes suffered significantly. For us here at MWC, we’ve quietly assumed the position of supplying the demand placed upon us and nothing more. We’ve watched as our customer base has swelled and the concept that we have championed from the very start slow living - become embraced by most under lockdown. A reassessment of what is important to each of us, and how we spend our time and why has been considered more than it ever has been, and out of that environment we have seen a real resonance with MWC and what we are doing. It has been wonderful to connect with so many new people and have the excitement and joy of discovering mechanical watches shared, during such a challenging time.

Both Oliver and I have been on the ragged edge trying to keep the Marloe ship afloat and we’ve managed it, just. Bringing our newest recruit into the fold was postponed, due to the lockdown measures and advice on social distancing, which left just Oliver and I to run the entire operation. It has been exciting, exhausting and challenging. But as we approach a relaxation in the measure designed to prevent the spread of COVID-19, we are now able to bring our new people in, lighten our loads, support our growth and get back to some semblance of normality. As the world has been aflame, our production processes have continued and our dialogue with our various manufacturers has been constant and thorough. Our schedules for launching new ranges are still in limbo as we try to assess the reality of delays that the virus has caused, whether due to measures that each company is putting in place and resulting downcast in production, or through the new regulations imposed. Regardless, we are incredibly excited with what we have been receiving in the way of prototypes and samples, with each new range hitting the high standards we expect from our manufacturers. We cannot wait to get them out into the world. For me personally, the year so far has been a myriad of emotions. Excitement as we brought the company more under my wing and I became heavily involved in the daily running of it, and seeing it grow. Apprehension that I do a good job, but mostly it has been of introspection, much like everyone else. What is important to me? What am I using my time for, and is it worth it? What are my values? As you will see from what follows in this edition of MWCQ, I’ve spent a lot of time writing and thinking about the impact we have on the world, and how our drive to succeed and conquer new things is both the best and the worst of us. I’ve thought a lot about legacy and how we are

retrospectively appraised. It’s been a lot of time spent bashing on a keyboard and researching more than I’ve researched before. A lot of this investigation was already in place for the Atlantic project, but I’ve since gone on to dive deeper into each story and each element that inspired the design of our latest Chronoscope, and how it is all connected at a fundamental level with the desire to conquer the world. Whilst I’ve been reflecting through words and managing the shipping of our watches around the world, Oliver has been feverishly working in the background to put in place a scope of expansion and development that has already been delivering results. We have, despite the indicators to the contrary for similar businesses, never been in a better place as we are right now, which is an example of how upside down this whole period in our lives is. A vast part of that strength is down to Oliver and his ability to see which direction we need to be going in, and making sure we are flying on that exact bearing; a hard task at the very best of times. As you read through this rather expanded edition of MWCQ we hope you gain some useful insight into how we have approached and developed the Atlantic, as a project, and how much it means to us. We hope you enjoy reading about Captain Scott and his abilities as an Aeronaut, as well as the R34 airship and the impact that the Industrial Revolution had on the world as we know it. Most of all we hope you read the various features with an open mind. It has so far been a year of waiting for everyone at MWC, but it has been an unbearable year of loss for some. We know a few of our MWC family have lost loved ones, and we think about you. Most of all we are thankful, to everyone, that we have such astounding support through a time that could easily have caused our little company to struggle. We appreciate you. Stay strong and take care.

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I NSP I R ED BY THE E RA :

A MULTITUDE OF FINISHES, ANGLES, TEXTURES. THE ATLANTIC IS AN EXERCISE IN FINDING THE BEAUTY ON EVERY FACET.

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ABOVEL: DAEDALUS EQUIPPING HIS SON ICARUS WITH WINGS MADE OF FEATHER AND WAX.

DAEDALUS AND THE SON

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To soar into the sky and f loat aloft in the wind, peering down on the world below, knowing that, if you so wished, you could touch the stars.

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light, the process of removing oneself from the terra firma of Earth’s surface, is something we perhaps take for granted these days. How easy it is for us to click a few buttons on our computers and then sit, in air-conditioned comfort, whilst a skilled pilot takes us around the world to wherever we like. It’s almost a thoughtless process by this point and as such, instead of taking stock and marvelling at our fortunate position of convenience flying, find gripes in the delay of a flight, or the lack of food service on-board. I am one of the incredibly fortunate few to have hands-on access to something that I can fly, and I also know that each time I launch the drone into the air I take a moment to marvel at the utter magic that is playing out before me. The age of dreaming about taking to the skies and drifting amongst the clouds is now a real prospect, albeit through the medium of ultra high-definition footage and small display screens. The concept of flight is something that has driven humankind for centuries. Flying beside the birds, seeing the land from above. It’s all been a fascination, and for some a sole reason for existing, since the dawn of the human race. From Greek mythology to the dawn of powered, winged flight in the early 20th century, there has been a slow, inexorable trudge towards getting humans in the air, and it’s this desperation, this unwavering desire to fly, that has inspired the Atlantic. The most well known, and probably earliest, version of this desire to fly is the story of Daedelus and his Son Icarus. I know of this story from a Commodore-64 game given to me by my uncle in the early 90s. The principle was easy - stab a key each time you want to inject lift upon Icarus, keeping him precisely in the middle of the screen. Too high and his wings will melt from the power of the sun, and he will fall to his death. Too low and he hits the water and, with his

feathers soaked through and the potential for lift dramatically reduced, drowns soon after. Pretty simple concept; extremely difficult game! But in researching where the desire to fly started, I realise that the story of Icarus and his waxy wings has an altogether more complex narrative, one which has sent me down a particularly fantastical and surprising rabbit-hole. The story of Daedelus and Icarus is embedded deep within a larger framework called Metamorphoses, written by the Roman poet Publius Ovidius Naso, or Ovid for short. This framework, comprising 15 books each of which contains a number of mythologies, charts the history of the world from the creation of this earth to the present day, as Ovid lived and breathed. In book 8 the poet focuses on Scylla and Minos, the daughter of a ruler called Nisus and the King of Crete respectively. Minos attacks the city of Alcathous, where Nisus rules, and in the process his daughter Scylla falls in love with Minos. As a show of what some might call love, Scylla lops her dad’s scalp off so that she can transfer his power to Minos, but in doing so she upsets Minos; he sees her overly close haircut as an unforgivable betrayal to her father. He leaves the city triumphant but despondent, she chases him in her boat, but before she gets to him the recently bald Dad finds her, in his own new guise as an Osprey, and turns her into a bird too. Shame that. When Minos returns to his homeland of Crete he finds more pressing matters to attend to. At once he orders Daedalus, the chief Architect and craftsman, to construct a labyrinth; a clever maze that Minos would use to conceal what appears to be the by-product of an unlikely “union” between Minos’ wife, Pasiphaë, and a bull. Minos, praying to the god Poseidon for a beautiful white bull to show that he held Poseidon’s favour, received said beautiful white bull and, rather than sacrificing the bull as he had promised to,

BELOW: ICARUS FLIES TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN

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Minos kept it instead, to admire. Poseidon took umbrage at this and, in his own unique form of retribution, had Daedalus construct a wooden cow, covered in genuine cowhide, so that Pasiphaë, now cursed into lusting for the bull (thanks very much Aphrodite), could satisfy her urges. Sure enough, and with a certain frowning of the brow from onlookers, the grotesque Minotaur was conceived. But as the bullchild grew into a bullman, increasing in size significantly as he did, his appetite grew with it and, owing to the fact he was a human bull hybrid, couldn’t find nourishment other than devouring humans. Minos tried to fix this awkward situation by having Daedalus construct the Labyrinth to conceal the half-bull-half-human and keep it from eating everyone. It seems that

Daedalus, and his knowledge of both the labyrinth and the Minotaur’s existence, were too much of a risk for Minos - the blab factor spiralling out of control. The solution was to send both Daedalus and his son, Icarus, to a tower in isolation. It was in this tower of isolation where Daedalus invented the wings upon which they would both fly out of the tower, and into fresh air freedom. It is said that the wings represented art and that art, in any of its guises, has both the power to elevate and the power to destroy. In the wrong hands, or those who don’t understand the power and responsibility that the art demands, can cause harm to themselves or harm to others. So it came to be that the wings that sent the

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two imprisoned men into the skies and towards their freedom, were not fully understood by the young, naive Icarus. In his excitement at soaring in the sky, he flew too close to the sun. The wax that held the feathery wings together melted and he plummeted, with extra super speed, to his watery death. Despite being the master of his art, Daedalus could still be destroyed by it. He saved himself with his art, but in doing so he killed his son. A broken heart is all that remained. Daedalus reached Sicily where he was welcomed by King Cocalus and, knowing Daedalus had a penchant for building things, asked him to build a temple in the name of Apollo. He did so, giving the god of sun and light, music and poetry, healing and plagues, prophecy and knowledge, order and beauty, archery and agriculture his wings too, for the social media posts. Minos, realising that Daedalus and Icarus had escaped, set out on the path to find them and constructed a puzzle that only Daedalus could solve - running a string through a spiral shell. Sure enough, after a long quest, he arrived in Sicily and asked King Cocalus about the puzzle. The King, knowing that Daedalus could sort that puzzle right out, asked him to and sure enough Daedalus attached the string to an ant who wandered effortlessly through the shell. Aha! Minos had him bang to rights. But before he could enact his punishment, the King offered Minos a nice, relaxing bath. Whilst he was luxuriating in his bubbles, the King had his daughters slice Minos a new mouth in his neck, and Minos teetered slowly, painfully to the underworld, where he would set up shop as Judge of the Dead. Note to self, read more Greek Mythology.

The Journey to Flight It’s with a not-small sigh of relief that we move on, following the journey towards flight as we know it today. It includes no mention of lady-bull frissons, bald Osprey dads or labyrinths. The next step

in the chart of flight is kites, with the Chinese creating these airborne follies; entertaining pastimes that captured the imagination of people around the world. Of course it’s a natural extension, upon seeing this fabric square fluttering high above the ground, that the men

ABOVE: FRANKLIN, HIS SON AND THE ELECTRIFIED KITE

thought “wouldn’t it be ace to attach someone to that kite and see what happens?” - one suspects nothing good. The Chinese again, from ancient times, had understood that hot air rises and had invented the paper lantern as a way of scaring the enemy when in battle. It’s also said that the Chinese had managed to invent the balloon, as we roughly understand it, hundreds of years before the 18th Century. It is widely documented that Benjamin Franklin, one of the founding fathers

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MORE THAN HOT AIR MONTGOLFIER BALLOON, BUILT IN THE GARDEN OF JEAN-BAPTISTE REVEILLON, RUE DE MONTREUIL, FAUBOURG ST ANTOINE, PARIS, FUNDED BY THE ACADEMIE ROYALE DES SCIENCES. DEPICTED HERE BEING FILLED BY GAS.

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TAKING TO THE SKIES

THE PIONEER

THE WRIGHT BROTHERS’ 46TH POWERED MANNED FLIGHT ABOARD THE “WRIGHT FLYER III” IN HUFFMAN PRAIRIE, OHIO. 4TH OCTOBER 1905

HENRI GIFFARD’S STEERABLE AIRSHIP OF 1852

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of the United States, performed an experiment that tested whether or not one could harness the electricity from the rumbling skies above, using a kite in 1752. We head into the Renaissance and Abbas ibn Firnas, an Andalusian polymath. He is said to have made good progress in the human-carrying-glider and managed, according to “eyewitnesses”, to fly for a good distance before doing his back in. He neglected to give himself an undercarriage, an oversight obviously. It’s also widely believed that Leonardo Da Vinci was a pioneer in flight and contributed to the development of this human endeavour. Alas, it’s not true. Whilst Da Vinci certainly had some groundbreaking concepts that turned out to be relatively successful, when produced in the modern age and tested, his drawings and engineering prowess was not discovered until 1797, a few years after the two pioneering French brothers, Joseph-Michael and Jacques-Ètienne Montgolfier, invented the “globe aérostatique”, or by any other words the very first hot air balloon.

Not satisfied with his early attempts with parachutes, it was a chance observation of some laundry drying over a fire that Joseph realised that he could use this miraculous invisible force to assist him in his quest to fly. At that time the siege of the fortress in Gibraltar was hot news and he was trying to devise ways to get into this impenetrable place. Originally he assumed it was the smoke or the embers which created this billowing of the sheets on his washing line, and set about understanding this magical new force. Sure enough, within weeks, he had discovered a means to propel a small model, made from fabric and wood, rapidly into his ceiling. With this triumph in hand, he made a larger human scale model which, upon lighting the wool and hay beneath, shot so rapidly into the air that they lost control of it, and it flew for 2 miles before coming down abruptly. Over the course of the intervening years the brothers developed this method of flight and with it the advent of man’s focus on flying with the birds.

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A man named Henri Giffard took the Montgolfier brother’s concept and applied the principles of steam engines to the method of lifting the balloon into the air, and in doing so created the first known, reliable, manned, powered flying contraption, or as it became known, the Dirigible. Many attribute the Wright Brothers with achieving the first known “powered flight”, but as history shows, it was indeed Giffard that should be known for this feat. It is here though that the myriad grades to which powered, manned flight, is split into. Giffard’s balloon is deemed to be “lighter than air” powered flight, owing to the hydrogen sacks that filled his contraption. The balloon weighs less than the air surrounding it and thus it is lifted, rather than thrust, into the air. The method of lifting a structure into the air and moving it around with engines and control surfaces was to welcome the arrival of the Airship. Over the convening two decades from Giffard’s invention to the early 20th Century, these “nonrigid” dirigibles were developed into realistic methods of transportation. The designation of being non-rigid was due to the balloon having no internal structure - just an inflated skin. It was with the arrival of the Luftschiff Zeppelin LZ1 in 1900, which saw the meteoric rise of the “Rigid” dirigibles, or as they were referred to at the time, the Zeppelins. The more test flights carried out, the more these Aeronauts learned, and the development of these Airships was quick and permanent. Bigger, more powerful designs emerged and the possibility of controlled, directional, non-wind influenced vehicles was now a reality. The airship went on to be deployed in both World Wars as means of reconnaissance and offense, as well as leisurely pursuits. At the same time as the non-rigid dirigible was being developed into rigid dirigibles, there was

a second path being formed called the “heavier than air” methods of flight. The Wright Brothers are attributed as the first people to ever achieve heavier than air, powered, manned flight, with their Wright Flyer in 1903. This invention, the result of many iterations, failures, successes and glider prototypes constructed by the Wright Brothers over the course of 4 years, was to welcome the advent of flight as a method of transport over long distances. Little did the two brothers know that their efforts in the early 20th Century would go on to inspire both flying within our spherical confinements of earth, but also the ability to leave our planet, set human feet on the Moon and, much to my eternal delight, allow me to fly by proxy and film in 4K resolutions from heights up to 400ft (follow the drone code people), effortlessly from the comfort of my back garden. Think about that for a second. It took humans well over 2000 years to get from walking on the ground to flying in the air with the shoogly, often unreliable Wright Flyer. Two thousand years. It has taken thereafter 100 years from that point to enjoy convenient, comfortable, safe transatlantic flight, not so comfortable, not so safe space travel, recreational flight and arrive at a means of reliable, renewably powered, remote controlled flight in an envelope smaller than a shoebox, that is deployable anywhere, free to move independently in all 5 axis, at any time with anyone controlling it. One hundred years. When I head outside to send my little drone up into the blue skies above I contemplate not just my incredible fortune to be able to do this so easily, but also now, with this research in mind, the path through which this has all been possible. What an incredible world we live in.

SOARING AMONGST THE STARS DISCOVERY AS SEEN FROM THE INTERNATIONAL SPACE STATION, ORBITING OVER THE SOUTH COAST OF MOROCCO MARCH 2017

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TE XTU RAL BEAUTY :

INSPIRED BY THE COLOUR OF THE AIRSHIP THAT SHARES THE SAME DESIGNATION.

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THE R34 T H E C A PTA IN O F T H E S H IP

THERE ALWAYS HAS TO BE A LEADER, THE ONE WHO POINTS THE SHIP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION. DRAWING ON THE COLLECTIVE EXPERIENCE GAINED OVER MANY YEARS OF DUTY; THE CAPTAIN SETS THE MOULD UPON WHICH

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ALL OTHERS FOLLOW. IN TIMES OF STRESS, THE CAPTAIN IS LOOKED TOWARDS FOR GUIDANCE AND REASSURANCE THAT EVERYTHING WILL BE OK. THE SAME GOES FOR THE ATLANTIC CHRONOSCOPE. FROM

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THE VERY START THE R34 DESIGN WAS THE BLUEPRINT UPON WHICH WE RETURNED, EACH TIME, WHEN THINGS GOT A BIT HAIRY. IT’S ONLY RIGHT THEN, THAT THE R34 SHOULD BE THE

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ONE TO LEAD THE NEW LINE-UP.

… TAKING ITS BEAUTIFUL DARK BLUE-GREEN COLOURING FROM THE ENVELOPE OF THE R34 AIRSHIP, THE DIAL HAS GLORIOUS DEPTH FROM A DEEPLY DEBOSSED TEXTURE. CONTRASTING SUB-DIALS AND AN OUTER PERIMETER OF SILVERY-WHITE OFFER CLARITY AND SEPARATION OF PURPOSE. GOING ONE STEP FURTHER, THE HANDS ARE FINISHED DEPENDING ON DUTY - MIRROR POLISHED HANDS FOR MAIN TIME-TELLING, AND PAINTED HANDS FOR THE CHRONOSCOPE FUNCTIONS. IT’S ALL IN THE DETAILS, BIG OR SMALL.

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D YNAM I C D I AL :

APPLIED MARKINGS, RAISED SIGNTURE BLOCKS AND A BEAUTIFUL QUILTED DIAL TEXTURE ALL COMBINE TO GIVE A REAL FEELING OF PURPOSE AND EXCITEMENT.

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A LUCKY BREEZE To Captain a new airship across the Atlantic and back surely demands some fundamental understanding of airmanship? What made Major George Herbert Scott the right man for the job?

ajor George Herbert “Lucky Breeze” Scott, CBE, AFC - who we shall henceforth fondly refer to as George, to save a bit of time - is best known as a British airship pilot and engineer, and perhaps most notably of all, as the pilot of the airship R34 which completed the first return Atlantic crossing in 1919. Engineering was in George’s blood - the son of a civil engineer, he grew up between Plymouth and Yorkshire before attending the Royal Naval Engineering College, then went on to work on the construction of naval vessels in Ferrol, Spain, until the looming threat of World War I became a reality. George was quick to join the Royal Naval Air Service as a Flight Sub-Lieutenant, keen to realise his dream of working with aircraft. His first command was No. 4, a non-rigid airship designed by August von Parseval; sparking the beginning of a career working with these enormous, unusual crafts. Shortly after taking command of No. 4, George was involved in the first of a string of accidents; the airship struck a shed in foggy conditions and was damaged. A few witnesses came to George’s defence - apparently he had been trying to avoid an enormous bonfire, which had misguidedly been lit in an attempt to guide the crew back to the shed - but it was, nevertheless, the first in a series of incidents which put somewhat of a mark against his name. Despite this incident with No. 4, George had well and truly caught the airship bug, and was becoming known as a passionately involved, highly skilled and enthusiastic character. In April 1917, he was posted to RNAS Howden, as captain of HM Airship No. 9r, the first British rigid airship to fly. He went on to command the same ship in a variety of locations, without incident, throughout the remainder of the war before being gazetted into the rank of Major. William Beardmore and Company, of Renfrewshire, Scotland, had been busy during this period building the R34; an airship which you may well be familiar with by now. Completed in 1919, it was the pinnacle of airship engineering at that time, and George was - to his delight - ordered to ‘prepare for a voyage to the United States of

America’. Unfortunately, damage to the airship during a trial flight forced a delay in departure, meaning that a pair of British aviators named Alcock and Brown beat the R34 to the distinction of making the first non-stop transatlantic flight. Unbowed, the R34 and its crew eventually set out from its base at East Fortune, Scotland, in the early hours of 2nd July 1919. The crew now had one aim; to be the first aircraft to make the return journey across the Atlantic. And they did; George was awarded the CBE in honour of his role in the successful flight. With the airship’s status within Great British aviation cemented, George’s exploration began in earnest into how these craft could best be used in life after the war. George retired from the RAF shortly after, in October 1919, subsequently joining the technical staff of the Royal Airship Works. He had a fascination with airships, despite development of these magnificent crafts languishing during peacetime, and George was somewhat of a nucleus at the centre of the skeleton staff retained until development of airships was resumed in 1924. At the RAW he researched, designed and patented a new “high mast” that would allow the airships to dock safely, and reduce the amount of manpower required to land an airship. Before masts were adopted, ropes were lowered to the ground to which people would dangle from to bring the airship to a slow and loosely controlled stop. The airship would then be tethered to the earth using guy lines which pinned the ship in place. This caused a multitude of issues, primarily that an airship naturally wants to head into the wind, and the tethers wouldn’t let it. This new mast attachment would allow the airship to swing with the wind and remove the necessity for human tethering. The new masts were quite effective and the US Navy adopted the design for their own use, including fitting one to a ship, to allow docking at sea. In 1921, George trialled a new passenger airship the R36. During one demonstration flight the R36 suffered a failure of the top rudder and starboard elevator and plummeted rapidly for around 3,000 feet, nose-diving towards the ground. Thankfully, Scott had decided beforehand to conduct the test

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at a higher altitude than was normal to allow for any such incident, and he was somehow - in the heat of the moment - able to move crew members about within the hull to rebalance the airship and bring her safely to earth. This quick thinking and in-depth understanding of the anatomy and behaviour of the R36 no doubt saved both his own life and the lives of the crew, as well as the airship herself.

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George continued to champion the airship, keen to promote its suitability both as a passenger carrier and as a useful tool for the British people. He flew the R36 over the Ascot races later that year, with numerous journalists and representatives from the Metropolitan Police aboard, hoping to show the airship’s potential in road-traffic control. However, just one week after the successful Ascot showcase, the R36’s career was ended when it was severely damaged during a landing accident. George was blamed for this; he had taken over command from the ship’s captain, and witnesses reported that he conducted an excessively rapid approach to the mast. Once again, exacerbated by his growing penchant for alcohol and the subsequent doubt upon his physical capability, George’s judgement as a pilot was brought into question. A growing unease took hold; George remained at the forefront of the airship world despite this. Any doubt that people around him were feeling was overcome by his undeniable knowledge, ability and experience with airships and their development. In 1924, George assumed the position of Officer in Charge of Flying and Training in the Air Ministry’s Airship Directorate, before going on to become Assistant Director of Airship Development. At this point, there was a particular push to use airships to connect Britain’s worldwide colonies and dominions, but political and economic difficulties slowed progress - George nevertheless continued to push the design of two new airships, the R100 and R101, with this purpose

PREVIOUS PAGE: MAJOR GEORGE SCOTT ABOARD THE R101

in mind, and displayed unwavering determination to keep up what little momentum there was. The airships R100 and R101 were finally launched in 1929 alongside the Imperial Airship Scheme. While George himself didn’t command either airship - the R100 being commanded by Wing Commander Booth, and the R101 by Flight Lieutenant Irwin - he took an active part in both ships’ test flights, and period accounts seem to suggest that he may have struggled a little in finding his place within the running of both ships. Shortly before the R100 left for Canada in July 1930, the potential difficulties that may have arisen between George and the ship’s captain were raised at an Air Ministry committee. The ruling was that the captain should have complete responsibility and that George, an observer by any other name, would give no orders to any crew member. George nevertheless told Flight magazine that he was ‘officer in command of the flight’ and ‘decided all such points as when the ship would sail, her course, her speed, her altitude’ while the captain was responsible purely for crew discipline. His passion for airships often seemed to overflow and present as well-meaning yet overly dominant assertion; something which, when all went smoothly, he was lauded for. Such was the case with the flight of the R100; despite some encounters with stormy conditions which caused some damage to the ship, it successfully flew from Cardington to Montreal and back, making excellent time. This was George’s second Atlantic crossing; his third attempt at a long-distance flight was tragically to be his last. After the R100’s successful trip to Canada, attention turned to similar plans for a flight to India by the R101, in which Lord Thomson, who was then Secretary of State for Air, and other

dignitaries would take part. Only one test flight was conducted before departing for India - it was intended to be a 24-hour flight, but it was cut short as George was content that the ship was behaving well, and the stage was set. It has been noted by several sources, including one of the main structural designers of the R100, that the R101 was in no fit state to fly anywhere. It was heavier than anticipated and half as powerful as expected. The sheathed wiring system that had previously been between the gasbags and metal frame was removed to save weight, but with this omission the bags would now rub against this frame and have the potential to rupture. Which is exactly what happened, causing a slow release of hydrogen, and with the gas escaping the airship sunk lower and lower. To try and counter this drop in buoyancy the R101 released almost all of its emergency ballast on launch. This ballast would have given them a quick jump in height should anything untoward happen but now, with no such protection, the R101 was left handicapped and, as fate would have it, be the one thing that could have saved the airship. Despite being already overweight, the R101 was also lumbered with Lord Thomson’s personal effects, including a bulk of silverware, crates of Champagne, a carpet - not sure why he wanted to bring a carpet - and his young servant. All that additional weight, coupled with the deterioration of the R101’s outer skin, meant that as the R101 drifted along, the bad weather ripped the front of the sinking ship to ribbons. In reapplying the skin during refurbishment it was deemed to be a good idea to apply a belt-and-braces approach to the skin’s strength. Additional tape was added to the inside of the skin, but in using a rubber glue, they inadvertently caused a chemical reaction with the dope that saturated the skin, disintegrating the envelope rather than strengthening it. And so it was; the R101 left Cardington far too heavy,

far too underpowered, untested, unproven and sinking constantly. Oh, and it was filled with the extremely explosive hydrogen gas, too. This is where accounts of George’s mindset ahead of the flight begin to differ, and where the controversy surrounding his capabilities comes to a head. According to what can be found in researching this man, there are two distinct camps; one that attributes George’s apparent penchant for pig-headed progress to the mentality of all pilots of that era - brave, stoic and above all proud, and another which documents accounts of George enjoying some lunchtime dutch courage, and as such his conduct could become erratic, strange and often downright dangerous. That he had captained the record-breaking R34, invented a new mast docking system, investigated multiple airship accidents and designed and flown airships around the world, was never questioned. That he was the same man who delivered such triumphs, was pondered. The R101 took to the skies with George and 53 other people aboard on 4 October 1930. They were bound for Karachi, with a stop planned in Egypt. Almost immediately the weather was rough. Fine rain fell on the envelope making the R101 even heavier and the second engine presented oil issues. Despite having the clear option of aborting, George did not heed advice to call the game a bogey and return to base to await fairer weather. He deferred to his now trademark bluster and reinforced his opinion that they should just get on with it. There were a lot of pressures, political and personal, that prevented anything but forward motion. The engine was deemed fine, a failing oil gauge being the culprit, which was replaced. By the time they had fixed all this, the R101 was limping on one engine at 4mph over the English Channel - walking pace. Speed picked up with the second engine back in service, but weather continued to deteriorate. Just a few hours into

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ÂŠ The Royal Aeronautical Society (National Aerospace Library)/Mary Evans Picture Library.

OPPOSITE PAGE: MAJOR GEORGE SCOTT LEAVING EAST FORTUNE ABOARD THE R34

the flight in the darkness of early morning over Northern France, the R101 flew into stormy conditions. Realising they had both drifted wildly off course and that they were perilously low, the R101 had to rely on “dynamic lift” - using the forward momentum and subsequent airflow to push the airship up into the air - to maintain their altitude. With a recognisable hill ahead and with little warning, the R101’s forward gas bags, which had been pummelled by the wind and rain due to the skin deterioration, and the chafing due to the removal of the wiring encasements, burst open releasing all the bow gas. Without that crucial nose lift, the R101 pitched into an uncommanded dive. Men were thrown from chairs and aroused from slumber. The command crew wrestled with the controls. The airship managed to recover momentarily but then quickly entered a second dive. Orders were immediately issued to slow the airship but, with height and time in short supply, it was at a sprightly 13mph that the nose struck the ground. What would have been an easily survivable shunt became an immediate inferno, courtesy of the hydrogen gas filling the R101. George and 45 others were killed in the blaze, and two more individuals died of their injuries shortly thereafter; there were only 6 survivors. While a subsequent investigation blamed a ‘substantial loss of gas’ for the accident, there’s little understanding of exactly what happened on board that night. George had seen stormy conditions many times before and prided himself on his ability to maneuver around such obstacles; for such a high profile flight to have gone so drastically wrong purely because of a technical or navigational error seems very strange. Some have speculated that George’s determination to prove the capability of airships in front of such esteemed passengers could have led to an error of judgement; perhaps he pushed the airship through

the storm when he should have abandoned the flight. The fact that the R101 was in such a poor state to fly, coupled with the less than ideal weather conditions and the R101 flying heavy, it seems that George and the rest of the crew were but passengers, awaiting their fateful, horrible end. George’s body was never identified; all of the victims of the accident were returned to London via special trains and warships to lie in state in Westminster Hall, prior to a memorial service in St Paul’s Cathedral and a common grave burial in the cemetery of St Mary the Virgin. George was survived by his wife, his son, and his three daughters. It’s a tragic end to the life of a man who dedicated his career, his heart and his soul to championing the airship. While his abilities were sometimes called into question, his passion and skill speak for itself; George Scott was truly at the centre of Great British airships and air travel within his generation, and his technical contributions are numerous and far-reaching. His work on airship mooring and the design of airship masts, leading to systems which were adopted by the US Navy, remained pioneering. He contributed to the design of airships themselves, being awarded patents for frame designs, gas valves, and passenger accommodation. George touched every single facet of airships and his legacy has never been in doubt. Many years after George’s death, in April 1972, the Goodyear blimp Europa - a descendent of the airships which George had honed, captained and loved for so long - broke away from its mooring and came to rest, deflated, in a tree in the grounds of George’s former home; a poignant coincidence, but one he would have undoubtedly revelled in.

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LUG S OF INC IDE NC E

SWEPT BACK LIKE THE STABILISERS ON AN AIRSHIP, AND MORE RECENTLY THE WINGS OF FAST JETS, THE MULTI-FINISHED LUGS ON THE ATLANTIC EXUDE THE MAGIC OF FLIGHT.

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CONQUERING MY ATLANTIC Bringing the next line of Chronoscopes to market proved to be both a long, arduous process, but also one that highlighted the old engineering dictum: what looks right, must be right. The inverse, therefore, must also be true; what looks wrong, must be wrong.

he sophomore album. The second go. The sequel. There seems to be a lot of stigma attached to the follow-up of a successful debut. Film directors panic, musicians go into meltdown. Why is the next iteration of something so stressful? I sort of get it. Although let’s not kid ourselves here, we’re talking about a moderately successful launch of a watch from a very new company, but the Lomond resonated so well with so many that soon the cries of “when is the next one?” were quick and deafening. Even to this day, a year after retiring the Lomond collection, we still get enquiries on a daily basis about this beautiful watch. The temptation to reignite production was palpable, but one of the reasons the Lomond was so special was its limited run of only 1,000 pieces in total, ever. Therefore it remained, reluctantly, a no-go area for us. The Atlantic project didn’t start as a Chrono, or for that matter called the Atlantic. It started as a railroad style watch using the Miyota 8218. The idea was to have a symmetrically arranged dial with a sub-6 second. I fancied the idea of having an internal rotating bezel, much like a compressor style watch, but without the diver aspect. Around four months later I had a technical document prepared and lovingly sent it off to our Japanese manufacturer for thoughts. A slow, painful death ensued as each design element was bounced back as unachievable or unworkable. The date window, as I’d positioned it at four o’clock, wasn’t achievable because the date printing wasn’t customisable and thus the numerals would sit at a peculiar angle. Furthermore, having the subseconds wheel positioned at 6 meant that the date, for some inexplicable reason, wouldn’t sit precisely at 3 o’clock either. Instead it sat at a nicely jaunty 4.1613°, or in layman’s terms, squint. The compromise therefore was either to have the sub6 wheel just off 6 o’clock, or have the date window and numerals drunk. No dice. It’s a shame when things like this happen; the assumption that we designed things to follow whole numbers and angles. I would assume that all movement manufacturers want conformity and alignment in their offerings, to allow people

like me to easily adapt and specify their products. Yet here we are, with what you’d assume to be a “sure thing” in the watch world; that people like a sub-6 wheel and date window that’s straight. Yet because of this issue, we moved on from using that movement, and it’ll sit on Miyota’s shelves for longer, unfulfilled and unused. I note now actually, 3 years on, that the Miyota 8218 is discontinued. If only they’d sorted those angles out - there will likely be a very sound and mechanical reason for this arrangement, but like I said - unfulfilled and unused. The elephant in the room was outed - what if the concept was applied to a Chronograph layout? Thoughts turned to what movement to use, what dial layouts we could adapt and, crucially for the project, what to call it now. The second coming of a chronograph isn’t to be sniffed at, so we wanted a name that conveyed the vast undertaking it would require. As luck would have it I had planned a trip down to East Fortune, which you can read more about in this edition, to see what inspiration I could find for an aviation watch design I had boiling away within me, and maybe, just maybe, stumble upon a golden nugget. Which was exactly what happened. Not far from the Concorde and the Avro Vulcan, across the airfield from the Sopwith and the Tornado lies a small, unassuming bunker. Inside this bunker rests the entire historical remnants of the East Fortune Airship Station, and its role during the First World War. Pride of place, front and centre of this small bunker, is the story of the R34 Airship and its achievements. As you can read in this edition, the R34 was the first aircraft to make a return journey across the Atlantic, setting off from East Fortune, arriving at Mineola, New York, 108 hours later - returning to RNAS Pulham 72 hours after that. Crucially for me there were a few artifacts on display that intrigued. First was the colour of the Airship. Typically in all the historical photographs and drawings that you see of these giants of the skies, depict silver or white pristine elongated lozenges of hydrogen and metal. Yet the R34 was, as shown in the scale model and small patch of actual R34 outer skin, a luscious blue/green colour. How odd, I thought. I wondered if this is some artistic licence by the

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… Phase 1: Couldn’t reprint the date disc

Phase 2: Date window can’t be at 3 o’clock

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museum? Maybe the dopamine used to paint the envelope has oxidised? The story captivated me regardless and I headed home charged and excited to research the R34 further, and see if I could somehow garner inspiration and apply it to the almost dead-in-the-water project. I emailed the museum of flight and was directed to the man in charge of the R34 exhibition, Ian Brown. I was enquiring about the colour, firstly, but also to see if there was a reason for it being this colour. With delight Ian replied: “I can confirm the blue-painted linen is indeed genuine outer fabric from the R34 airship and this is indeed the colour the airship was painted. We believe it has oxidised over the years and is slightly darker than it would have been originally. The model displayed in the same case is contemporary and is very close to the true colour. I can, however, confirm that all images, drawings, books, etc, which depict the R34 as painted with silver dope (as were almost all other airships) are entirely wrong. The airship was not silver, it was most certainly not white, but was indeed painted blue.

This is documented fact.” The idea was set - I would attempt to adapt the original project into an aviation-inspired range and use this beautiful shade of blue. We decided, for obvious reasons, to call the project the Atlantic and it would use the rather wonderful Seiko NE88 movement - a high-end mechanical chronograph movement that was launched by the Japanese giant to compete with the Swiss offerings. When you are inspired and motivated in anything, the time to do things is suddenly shortened and things flow quicker than you can put them down on paper. I had in my mind’s eye the Atlantic design and its perfect iteration, and had things drawn up before the week closed out. How exciting it was to have found such an incredible story, a beautiful object and all within an hours drive from my house, if I fancied any more inspiration. Inspiration and motivation turned slowly to frustration and exasperation. There’s nothing quite as corrosive to the soul as your vision of beauty being eaten away due to manufacturers inabilities or reluctances. Compromise after compromise,

… Phase 3: The trouble child

Phase 4: Manufacturer walks away

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bounceback after bounceback. Over the course of another 4 months the Atlantic project had gone from a burning ember, to the first flicker of a fire, to a project that we were desperately trying to get to a conclusion with at least something intact from the original. Come early 2019 we had received our first prototypes and they were, to put it mildly, underwhelming. Oliver really liked them and I did too, but there was just something amiss. Proportion is a fickle mistress, especially when you are designing on a computer screen with the ability to zoom all the way in and see how things look close-up. Something about the Atlantic at this stage just didn’t sit right with me. It ate away at me silently and, coupled with reassurance from Oliver that it was just my tendency to fiddle, we carried on and developed the project further. There’s a really interesting book called “Blink” by Malcom Gladwell. It discusses intuition and how we are able to make a snap decision in a blink of an eye, which more often than not is the correct decision. Yet at other times we deliberate and debate and analyse other decisions, which more often than not turn out to be the wrong decisions.

He coins it “thin slicing” and it’s something I’ve really warmed to and a concept I have adopted fully, especially when deliberating with Oliver over something important. I’ll shout “thin slice” and we will decide there and then, more often than not the decision being the first solution we suggested. Over the course of 2019 we had set the Morar project in place and production was going great. We had also concluded our Crowdcube funding campaign and it had, for the Atlantic project, problematic results. We had arranged a few open evenings where investors, potential or current, could come down and meet us, see what we are about and chat to us. It was a great way to pick the minds of people who would buy the Atlantic, and people with bold opinions. The overwhelming feeling was that the Atlantic prototypes, that were stationed in glass cabinets around our office, were beautiful and perfect and desired that very second. Yet I still wasn’t happy. Despite the positive feedback something continued to eat away and after a few more weeks of thinking about it, I decided the time had arrived to bring this disquiet to Oliver.

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Once again Oliver tried to head off my discomfort with reassurance, but I was convinced. The Atlantic, if it were to succeed, needed a complete rehaul. A rethink from the ground up. A rehash. A new set of legs and some rocket fuel in the tank. With a good amount of heated debate and a fair amount of reluctance, Oliver agreed, but the money we had spent already to get these prototypes to the point they were at, as well as the re-prototyping of the 2nd iteration of the original concept, had cost us a lot. We didn’t want to throw all that away, but to rebuild this project would mean throwing it away. … … 42 … …

It had to be done. I couldn’t live with myself if I saw the Atlantic launch as it stood and be criticised for all the things I knew were wrong with it, but didn’t want to change for fear of losing money or being held responsible. It was our name on the line here and I needed to sort it. I justified it as R&D costs and, over the course of an intensive week of late nights and headaches, I went back to the drawing board and designed a new case, more angular and aggressive. The original was supposed to look like an engine cowling but looked chunky and featureless instead. The new case looked purposeful and intentional, aviational and beautiful. It felt right. The biggest concern I had with the original design was the sub-dials and the proportions thereof. I had narrowed the issue down to the sub-dials being too small which caused a strange shift in perception. Generally quartz chronographs are easily identifiable for their sub-dials are small and clustered around the middle of the face - a byproduct of the generally small size of movements within these watches. The Atlantic looked just like that centralised and clustered, and it meant our high end mechanical chronograph looked like a battery powered fashion watch. Not good enough. The dial design was re-engineered to give us two main sub-dials of substantially larger diameter, with

a smaller central sub-dial for the chronograph hours. Immediately it felt right, akin to a painful dissonance gently resolving itself into a single note. The proportion was immediately in balance and aligned; it sang in harmony with the rest of the dial and I was elated. Two weeks is all it took for the Atlantic project to be redesigned entirely, drawn up and documented in a revised Technical Document, and sent to our manufacturer. The excitement was palpable - I had finally resolved my long burning anxiety and soon everyone would also see how far it had come. We were approaching Christmas at that point and all going well, we would have this model in production come early 2020. A week passed with no response from our manufacturing partner. Two weeks passed with only a recognition that they had received the redesign and were discussing it with their team. Three weeks later we received the arrow through the heart. “The project is too complex. We are stepping away from it.” Stepping away? To where? Will you come back? It was incomprehensible, even more so after almost a year and a half of working with this manufacturer. All that effort, all that time and money. Merry Christmas. What followed was a frantic search for a new partner who would be committed to making this technically challenging watch. We spoke with our contact at Seiko and asked them to recommend a partner to us - they offered us two names. The first flat-out denied the project, again on the basis of technicalities. The second contact did not. Instead, they praised our detailed Technical Document and said that they would come back to us with thoughts. Shortly before Christmas the project was greenlit and we quickly ironed out any issues and placed an order for prototypes. In late January as we unpacked our office in Perth, the prototypes arrived.

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Not only were they spot on, direct physical incarnations of my design document, but they were even more fantastic in the metal. I knew right then, in that moment, that my decision to destroy the project and send us hurtling through the most dire of circumstances we’ve encountered so far, was the right call. Out of the burning embers of desperation, arose a phoenix of such beauty, of such potential that it was electrifying. I sat silently appraising these prototypes on the sofa in our new office, with Oliver next to me “ooo-ing” and “ahhh-ing” and I knew that the Atlantic was the right project to follow the Lomond. I knew that our Chronograph hopes had come through and that, finally, we had our Atlantic. The prototypes had a small number of things that required tweaking, but as a whole these watches ticked every box I had personally set out for myself. From starting the project in May 2018 to receiving these prototypes in January 2020, the project had run the gamut. From excitedly sharing the first concept with Oliver, through the design phase and technical document preparation, through compromise and reluctant project shelving, to reincarnation as a chronograph, to absolute desperation and death. I’d been through it all, and dragged Oliver along with me. It resulted in a complete shift in my mental state, more often than not arriving at inadequacy and doubt. I went through one of the darkest periods I’ve been through as a designer - I can tell you that imposter syndrome is real and frightening. But from that journey we’ve received a belter of a design and I cannot wait to see production arrive, leave our office and be worn on the wrists of you all around the world. That the project has been the most turbulent to date, that it has been one of the most challenging projects I’ve ever worked on, that it resonates with you all as much as the Lomond, is second only to the bitter-sweet joy of looking back and seeing how far we’ve come and how much experience I’ve gained from it. Long may it continue, but please, can we try to limit the swing from champagne-joy to smoldering death to a minimum.

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F OR T UNE FAVOU R S T H E BR AV E :

SPEED, EXCITEMENT, DANGER. ALL THOSE THINGS AND MORE ARE INCORPORATED INTO THE ATLANTIC FORTUNE. EAST FORTUNE IS PARTLY USED NOW AS A RACE-TRACK - WHAT BETTER INSPIRATION?

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THE FORTUNE MODE R N DAY S PE E D S E E KE R S

THE “PANDA WATCH” IS A SPORTY DESIGN, IN GENERAL. IT WAS PAUL NEWMAN’S FAVOURITE WATCH, AND WE ALL KNOW HOW MUCH HE LIKED SPEED!

… EAST FORTUNE AND THE RUNWAY WITHIN IS NOW PARTLY USED AS A RACETRACK, FOR THOSE SEEKING SPEED THRILLS AND EXCITEMENT. WHEN THINKING ABOUT WHAT VARIANTS TO

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OFFER FOR THE ATLANTIC, WE KNEW THAT THE PANDA WOULD BE HIGH ON BUYER’S LISTS. THAT EAST FORTUNE NOW HAS A

RACETRACK, IT MADE EVEN MORE SENSE TO INCLUDE A PANDA IN OUR LINE UP.

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TAKING THE SAME DESIGN STYLE AS THE R34, BUT ESCHEWING THE QUILTED TEXTURE FOR A SMOOTHER SILVERY-WHITE FACE, THE PANDA BRINGS A POTENT FEELING OF EXCITEMENT AND FUN TO THE ATLANTIC RANGE. RED IS THE COLOUR THAT ELLICITS THE MOST REACTION WHEN IT COMES TO COLOUR PSYCHOLOGY - IT’S WHY FIRE ENGINES, EXTINGUISHERS, DANGER SIGNS AND HIGH RPM’S ARE DENOTED IN RED - IT’S THE DANGER ZONE. WE’VE USED RED SUBTLY HERE, BUT STILL WITH MAXIMUM IMPACT - THE RED PAINT-FILLED LINE WITHIN THE HANDS, THE CIRCUMFERENCE OF RED AND THE LITTLE ACCENTS ON THE HANDS, ALL COMBINE TO GIVE A FLASH OF THE COLOUR THAT EXCITES. PLUS, WHAT’S MORE COOL THAN BLACK, WHITE AND RED?

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BLAC K, WHI TE A ND R ED :

SIMPLE YET INCREDIBLY EFFECTIVE, THE RED ACCENTS POP ON THE MONOCHROME BASE. THE SHIMMERING WHITE/ SILVER DIAL, ALONG WITH THE SUNKEN BLACK RADIAL SUBDIALS COMPLETE THE LOOK.

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RISE & FALL: THE MARCH OF PROGRESS We have not inherited an easy world. If developments like the Industrial Revolution, which began here in England, and the gifts of science and technology have made life much easier for us, they have also made it more dangerous. President Ronald Reagan, 1982

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PREVIOUS SPREAD: PRINCE ALBERT (LATER KING GEORGE VI) WALKING WITH WILLIAM BEARDMORE JR AT THE SHIPYARD IN GOVAN, GLASGOW, 1919 OPPOSITE: THE R34 FRAMEWORK, UNDER CONSTRUCTION AT INCHINNAN

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hat follows began as research into the R34 airship’s creation and the Beardmore legacy, from early business establishment right through the Industrial Revolution, First and Second World Wars to the ultimate demise of the Beardmore empire. Through immersing myself in this story, my long held views have been ratified and solidified, but I’ve also been exposed to new thoughts and ideas about what technological advancements cost, not just from a monetary standpoint but from an ethical, environmental and even personal standpoint. The R34 airship was manufactured by a company who developed and grew as a byproduct of one of the worst periods of human conflict. However, that period also resulted in incredible advancements in technology and materials for which we rely heavily upon today to support our way of life. The things I’ve found are not revelatory or profound, but I think it resonates at a time when we, as a collective global community, are at our weakest. We are in a state of reflection and as we look inwardly at what we have done, what we are doing and how we will resurface from this pandemic with different attitudes, it seems right that these questions are, at the very least, contemplated once more.

The Rise of Steel To know how the R34 airship came to be, and to find out how a group of people soared across the second largest body of water on this fragile earth, we must look back to a time when the planet and its health were not so much scarcely considered, but rather completely ignored. More specifically we must look to the arc of industrial development in one area of new-age materials; a little alloy that we call Steel. During the First Industrial Revolution the world advanced from making things by hand, to making things with the help of machines. Mechanisation

made the process of manufacturing things easier, quicker and of a higher quality, especially when it came to textiles. Britain led the way in innovation, but as these revolutionary advances, such as industrial weaving machines, became more commonplace and accepted, a recession began and the march of progress slowed. Iron was now commonly used but despite the growing use of industrial machines that relied upon iron to function, there was a limit to what it could be utilised for. Iron remained heavy on resources to produce and suffered from various compromises, such as oxidation, rusting and brittleness. For the few decades following this slump, the manufacturing industry and its development stagnated. This remained the case until the turn of the century when, in a rapid series of developments referred to as the Technological Revolution, or Second Industrial Revolution, the technologies required to ignite the fuse that had been set during the first revolution were discovered, developed and put into action. Mass-production and economies of scale were introduced as concepts, and steel wa s developed. Railroads, previously made from softer and weaker wrought-iron, were now made from stronger steel permitting heavier loads and cheaper production of rails, allowing for quick and cheap transportation of large or bulky materials. Coal mining until the late 1800s was done by pick and shovel, but more efficient industrialised extraction methods meant more coal could be mined and underpinned the acceleration of the steel industry, in particular. Rapid developments in steel manufacturing, specifically the Bessemer process, allowed for quicker and better quality mass-production of steel. This process turned pig-iron into steel with less energy expenditure and removed more excess carbon and impurities from the metal. A further innovation of iron and steel processing by Carl Wilhelm Siemens was developed to recover the

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heat lost during the processing, and in doing so reduce the energy required to make better steel by 70-80%. This “open-hearth” furnace method introduced a significant saving in both energy and scrap, but was still not widely adopted by industry until a French engineer, Pierre-Émile Martin, partnered with Siemens to create a hybrid openhearth based technique. Not only was this a far more energy efficient way to process the iron, but more importantly it allowed the recycling of the scrap steel which had been amassing. Mild-steel, a cheap and quickly made metal using iron and a small percentage of carbon, had arrived. It wasn’t the strongest steel and had low tensile strength you could bend or stretch it relatively easily, but it was very strong and tough under other loads, like compression. By developing this new SiemensMartin process, steel and its mass-production was thrust to the forefront of manufacturing worldwide. Soon the availability of high quality mild steel welcomed the advent of new bridge engineering, shipbuilding, railroads and taller buildings.

Napier and Beardmore It was in 1861, the latter part of this surge in steel production and demand, that Robert Napier, the “father” of shipbuilding on the Clyde, found his Parkhead ironworks company running into a spot of financial trouble. An Admiralty ship being built at Parkhead demanded a very high specification of wrought-iron armour plating that Napier wasn’t achieving. This caused a huge financial drain as he tried again and again to meet this standard. At that point in time William Beardmore Senior was operating as a successful steam engine and boiler producer in London. Beardmore Sr had already worked with Napier on a patented ship engine, used in many of Napier’s ships, so was recruited to Parkhead to try and help Napier out of this sticky fix. Sure enough, Beardmore resolved the ironclad woes but Napier was still struggling to hit his financial obligations; the Bank of Scotland wouldn’t loan him any more money to try and win new work.

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A family feud with his sons on the direction of the business, coupled with the drought in funding, exacerbated the problem and, in 1871, forced Napier to sell his interest in the Parkhead business and retire. His wife died in 1875 and he followed soon after, in 1876. William Rigby, manager of the Parkhead Ironworks and married to Napier’s daughter Jane, was an expert shipbuilder himself. He bought the Parkhead facility from his father-in-law and Beardmore Sr entered into partnership with Rigby. Together they operated a very successful and burgeoning business until a few years later when William Rigby died. The business continued to operate with Beardmore Sr and Rigby’s widow Jane at the helm. Soon Jane dissolved the partnership due to legacy financial issues tied to the Napier’s business, and Beardmore, together with his brother Isaac, created William Beardmore and Company. To add one last denouement of complexity to an already confusing exchange, William Beardmore Sr died prematurely, Isaac retired and handed the entire operation, in 1886, to William Beardmore Junior. Despite his uncle Isaac’s trustees’ reservations about whether Beardmore Jr could run this company successfully, he went on a campaign of expansion and diversification. The ironworks company at Parkhead bought over Robert Napier and Sons’ shipyard in Govan and from there, over the course of the following decades, William Bearmore cultivated his manufacturing portfolio to include ships, diesel engines, locomotives, aircraft, airships, cars, motorcycles and trucks. It is the airship arm of his vast manufacturing empire that interests us, for it includes the Inchinnan Air Station where he began the construction of the R34 airship.

The Outbreak of War As the 19th Century became the 20th Century, William Beardmore had a large and diverse

manufacturing business focussed on forged steel, armour plating and gun manufacture. The takeover of Napier’s shipbuilding business in 1900 prompted a new shipbuilding facility at Dalmuir, Clydebank and soon the Beardmores were advancing in their aviation projects. As the world found itself at war, the global manufacturing industry went into overdrive, offering every capacity to the war effort, in a bid to keep on top of the rapid developments in armaments, vehicles and logistics. The red-hot glow of the world’s smelters, refineries, production lines and delivery mechanisms were part and parcel of winning the war. The Beardmore company was contracted by the government in 1915 to manufacture various items to support the war effort too. One such request was to manufacture airships for the Admiralty and, required to quickly find a place upon which to erect the gargantuan hangers required for airship building, Beardmore chose a 600 acre plot at Inchinnan, just outside of Glasgow. It would suit his vast steel empire situated within the City. This new facility had, by 1918, successfully produced two airships, the R24 and R27 and William Beardmore and Company employed around 15,000 people. In late 1917 as the war continued, the government awarded the contract to develop and manufacture two new, substantially larger, airships called the “R33 Class”, to Armstrong-Whitworth in North Yorkshire, and a second variant of this class, the R34, to William Beardmore and Company. This new class of airship was launched in response to the new German airships seen in the skies over Britain. It’s an indication of the comparatively rudimentary understanding of airship design by British heads compared to Germany, that during the early design stage for the R33 class airships, a lucky break afforded the Admiralty a chance to examine something they never expected to see: enemy technology. With this incredible insight the design of the R33 was modified and Britain’s

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overall understanding of airship design took a giant leap forward.

managed to compete, and the R34 certainly would not have crossed the Atlantic.

Zeppelin

The R-class Zeppelin airship was a trailblazer and a highly secretive project. Designed to be an extremely capable and devastating bomber, reconnaissance and naval patrol craft, the R-class used pioneering design in the structure of the airship, eschewing the parallel lines of the previous “P” and “Q” generation of tubular airship, for a more streamlined, aerodynamic form. On the 24th September 1916 the LZ 76 R-class airship, on another of its nightly bombing sorties, was shot down by anti-aircraft fire over British soil.

Such was Count Ferdinand Adolf Heinrich August Graf von Zeppelin’s contributions to the airship industry, that his surname became known worldwide as the synonym for airships. Despite his background of nobility, he was an army officer during the Austro-Sardinian war, later serving through the Austro-Prussion War, American Civil War, Franco-Prussion War and, after many misfires and botched demonstrations, led the way in Airship design during the First World War. He spent a vast amount of his later life devoted to the development of this new and exciting mode of airborne transportation, first witnessed during his time in Minnesota fighting in the American Civil War.

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OPPOSITE PAGE: THE INCHINNAN AIRSHIP SHED, SPECIFICALLY CONSTRUCTED FOR THE R34.

Zeppelin took leave from the Prussian Engineering Corps to act as an observer for the Union’s Army of the Potomac. He joined an expedition to travel to the source of the Mississippi river and, upon a chance meeting with a German aeronaut called John Steiner, enjoyed his first flight in a lighterthan-air balloon. It was this flight that set Zeppelin on course to become one of the most renowned dirigible designers in history. He returned to Germany with one goal: to develop guided balloons. Despite bankruptcy visiting him multiple times, Zeppelin persisted in his pursuit of sending man into the air. If it wasn’t for the outbreak of World War I, his innovations may not have seen the light of day. His airship developments and knowledge, amassed from his persistence and dedication to his craft, were far beyond the comprehension of Britain’s finest engineers. Such was his advanced know-how, that if it wasn’t for a rare grounding of one of his finest designs, Britain may never have

Upon sinking slowly to the ground with hydrogen gasbags deflating, the crew disembarked and attempted to set alight the LZ 76 and destroy it. However the amount of hydrogen remaining in the bags proved too little and the vast LZ 76 remained, on the whole, intact for the Brits to descend excitedly upon. The crew, unharmed, went on foot to try and escape only to be apprehended by one solitary Policeman. He arrested them all and took them to the nearby Police Station in Little Wigborough. From close inspection over 5 months, the engineers were able to salvage significant innovations in design within the LZ 76 and adapt it to the development of the R33 and R34 airships. The German military also learned valuable lessons from it, making all subsequent R-class Zeppelins lighter and in doing so, allow them to fly higher and avoid the antiaircraft attack problem. At this point it would have been wonderful to dive into the beautiful details of the R34’s construction at Inchinnan, and see just how Beardmore and Co. created this magnificent craft, but sadly this is no longer possible. In a post-war slump and, with his vast empire of businesses overstretched, William Beardmore and Company went bankrupt, was dissolved and his empire dismantled. The

Parkhead facility and his Dalmuir Shipyard were bought by Sir James Lithgow. The Inchinnan facility remained active throughout the Second World War and as such it was a primary target for the Germans and their nightly bombing campaigns. During a particularly heavy night of bombing in 1941, the Inchinnan facility was destroyed and with it the records and processes used for the construction of the R34 airship. A tragedy, robbing us of any in-depth reference to call upon. With Germany on the verge of defeat in the war and the people of Germany standing up against the flagging military in the Revolution of 1918-1919, the First World War ended on November 11th 1918 with the signing of the Armistice of Compiègne, and 7 months later, the Treaty of Versailles.

The R34 The R34 was completed in late 1918, resplendent in its greeny blue shell, decked with machine guns and offensive purpose. However, the war had ended before the R34 was completed and thus the military reason for the R34 to exist was gone. The discussion of what to do with the airships turned to testing the limits of their performance, and in particular the long-distance capability of these vast vessels. Establishing whether or not a post-war commercial service was viable, carrying

passengers and mail around the world, needed proof. The R33 class was just the type of craft to be able to prove it. The Imperial Airship Scheme was a vision of the future, connecting Britain and the British Empire with various air routes operated solely by airships, offering a select few the chance to enjoy the luxury of new places, people and cultures. William Beardmore would watch on as the R34 broke records, amassed a worldwide fame and launched the bid to join the world together by air. He too would enjoy the spoils, being given a peerage as Baron Invernairn of Strathnairn in the County of Inverness. He died in 1936, his heart giving in, watching as his dynasty was dismantled. Married, but with no children, the Beardmore Baronetcy (title) and Barony (peerage) died with him and the long trajectory of the Beardmore family came to an abrupt end. It’s unfair to state, however, that Beardmore’s legacy died with him, for it remains to this day a model of entrepreneurship and industrial capitalism. Beardmore, along with building his vast manufacturing empire, also lent his fortune to other endeavours; paths that we have already crossed in our previous projects. One such path is Antarctica and the 1907 Nimrod Expedition, led by Ernest Shackleton to capture the South Pole. This campaign was sponsored by Beardmore and, despite not succeeding in being the first to

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the South Pole, the stretch of glacier that the adventurers crossed as they trekked further South and closer to the Pole than ever before, was named after their patron, Sir William Beardmore, and to this day remains known as the Beardmore Glacier.

Legacy There’s a lot to be said of the inexorable rise of mankind’s desire to command the Earth; to wrestle with the elements that make up this world and reconstitute them into something else; something useful or with purpose. There is, more often than not, an underlying drive to amass inordinate wealth at the same time, as a way to rise above the underclasses and stamp one’s name in the annals of history, perhaps passing it off as a by-product rather than a motivation. Improvement

is a perilous track, especially when it comes to developments that changed the world as we know it. William Beardmore Junior in particular was adept at diversification, answering any and all calls to manufacture whatever he was asked, which led his company to be one of the most successful of the industrial age. The Industrial Revolution is argued to be both the foundation of modern civilisation as we know it, but also the beginning of the end - of our planet; of a way of living that, despite advancing the human race, has also caused catastrophic, irreversible damage to the very place we depend upon. To denounce any historical approach to manufacturing, automation and massproduction, is to betray the benefits that we enjoy, such as global manufacturing capabilities, incredibly advanced production techniques and

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more recently the rise in ecologically friendly manufacturing techniques and earth-friendly materials. It’s a chicken and egg situation; without the early developments in the Industrial Revolution, laboured by pioneers before us and heavily destructive to the environment, we wouldn’t be in such a privileged position today, both on a process front and on a knowledge front. Yet with this understanding we still have to hold a reluctant acceptance that one day, in the near or distant future, when innovation has improved our generation’s way of doing things, we too will likely stand criticised for the methods we adopted during our generation of manufacturing innovation. Joe Simpson - the mountaineer and subject of our previous edition’s “Touching the Void” segmentwrites something in his memoir “This Game of

Ghosts”, that resonates perfectly with the subject at hand, and it’s so beautifully written that it seems silly to try and say it any other way. In talking about his work with Greenpeace and how it is the most worthwhile thing he’s ever done, he also describes how it has opened his eyes to the devastation that humankind is wreaking on the world. He writes: “Planet Earth is 4,600 million years old. If we condense this inconceivable time-span in to an understandable concept, we can liken earth to a person of 46 years of age. Nothing is known about the first 7 years of this person’s life...only at the age of 42 did the earth begin to flower. Dinosaurs and the great reptiles did not appear until one year ago when the planet was 45. Mammals arrived 8 months ago and in the middle of last week manlike apes evolved into ape-like men and at the

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PREVIOUS PAGES: THE R34 AIRSHIP BEING “WALKED OUT” OPPOSITE: WILLIAM BEARDMORE, 1ST BARON INVERNAIRN

weekend, the last ice age enveloped the Earth.

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Modern man has been around for four hours. During the last hour man took to agriculture. The Industrial Revolution began a minute ago. During those sixty seconds of biological time, Modern Man has made a rubbish tip of paradise. He has multiplied his numbers to plague proportions, caused the extinction of thousands of species, ransacked the planet for fuels and now stands like a brutish infant, gloating over his meteoric ascendancy, on the brink of a war to end all wars and without regard for this oasis of life in the solar system.” It’s a frighteningly poignant thought, especially at this present time where Coronavirus has shut everyone inside their own homes, leaving Mother Nature to spread her suppressed wings and show us all how quickly she can heal, if only we will let her. But there’s an element of hypocrisy to that too, for without all this evolution and innovation within the modern world, we wouldn’t be living as we do, using highly developed tools that are constantly at hand. I wouldn’t be typing this article on a laptop computer thinner than a slice of bread and millions of times more powerful than the computers that guided mankind to the moon. We wouldn’t be able to video call our loved ones at a time when human contact is strictly forbidden. We wouldn’t have cars or even bicycles as we know them. We wouldn’t have pens. We wouldn’t have big, expansive bridges or even tall buildings. Without industrial advancement and, as a consequence, technological advancement, we would still be quite rudimentary people. Yet, despite the clear evidence that we are destroying the very fabric of our own existence, we can’t, or won’t, revert to farming with sticks. We enjoy this age of heightened existence too much and

as such are locked in to it. The balance between advancement of the human race and the reduction of destruction of the planet we so perilously perch upon, is yet to be struck. It’s fair to state also that Beardmore had a vast impact on developments in the myriad industries within which he had a stake. His aforementioned abilities in ships, diesel engines, locomotives, aircraft, airships, cars, motorcycles and trucks all will have made progress under his tutelage and as such, his impact on the arc of technological advancement should surely not be questioned. But with that vast impact on the trajectory of the coming century, where man would fly further, longer and higher, reaching the Moon and beyond, comes with it the underlying destruction that his industry contributed. Manufacturing industries in the late 1800s and early 1900s were not governed by an ecological wariness or sensitivity to the potential devastation that such processes might create. It was pure, unabashed development and manufacturing, regardless of what amount these energy expensive processes were costing to the health of the planet. An attitude of ignorance perhaps, that would continue for decades to come, until a few knowing heads took a step back and realised what was going on. It’s a tough one. We are where we are because of it, and we can be thankful that such pioneering spirits brought us to the time where worldwide travel is enjoyed by all. Where the latest razor thin backlit OLED screens can be scrutinised by boffin YouTubers for their nit level output, or the controversial new age of the social media Influencer. We can do all these things because all the big brush strokes have already been taken care of. It came from one place, and that place was the sea change from agricultural proddings to mechanised, industrialised mass-manufacturing; the definitive poisoned chalice.

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SEI KO NE88A:

THE POWER OF THE ATLANTIC IS FOUND WITHIN THE GLORIOUS COLUMN-WHEEL AUTOMATIC CHRONOGRAPH MOVEMENT, BY SEIKO. IT’S BOTH ACCURATE AND BEAUTIFUL!

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Â© Crown Copyright: HES.

CHANGE OF FORTUNES

East Fortune Airfield, as it was once known, has become one of Scotland’s hidden gems; a place to find the rarest of aircraft. In 1919, it was home to one such aircraft - the R34 Airship.

live in Kinross, a small town on the banks of Loch Leven. It’s a beautiful location and just across the loch rests Scotlandwell and the Scottish Gliding Centre. The presence of gliders in the skies above is a constant reminder of our desire to fly like the birds. However, if one is willing to travel a little and “see the countryside” there is a gem waiting to be discovered, and its significance for this project cannot be underestimated. That place is East Fortune and it is the home of the R34. Sitting unobtrusively in the heart of the East Lothian countryside is the National Museum of Flight. Hidden behind a few layers of trees, you enter East Fortune airfield passing a quite timid looking security cabin and some asbestos looking bunkers, before everything opens up to the vast green fields and hangars dotted about the place. The airfield has been around for a while; 105 years to be exact. It was created as part of the Eastern defence line at the outbreak of the First World War. During the years of the war it operated as a fighter station as well as the airship station for submarine detection and destruction, and friendly convoy protection. After the war ended the airship station was closed down and, owing to the metal shortage of 1922, the gigantic airship sheds were dismantled and the metal used to fabricate a bus depot at Dunbar. In 1940 East Fortune was reopened as a training station for night fighters and included training at nearby radar stations. The Air Training Corps established a summer camp there

for training the future pilots and was a final stop for operational pilot training; both night fighter crews and anti-shipping strike crews. During the cold war, the airstrip was lengthened to allow American forces to land there, if they so wished, but they never did. The extension remains to this day and is used as a B-road. In 1961, East Fortune was adapted into an international airport when, undergoing serious refurbishment to bring it into the new age of air travel, Edinburgh Airport was closed. A small building was erected alongside the runway to serve as the “terminal” and welcomed over 100,000 passengers in the four months of operation. In 1971, and what ultimately started the journey to East Fortune becoming Scotland’s National Museum of Flight, a Spitfire was donated to the National Museum of Scotland and they had nowhere to put it. After much negotiation East Fortune was chosen to house this gift Spitfire and, with a number of aircraft cobbled together, formed the first version of what is seen today. One final point of interest - when the entire German naval fleet surrendered to the Admiralty, they sailed the lot of them up the Firth of Forth. A total of 278 ships, 70 of which were part of the German High Fleet, were escorted on both flanks by the British Grand Fleet from Scapa Flow in Orkney, down to the Forth where the German fleet surrendered. It was said to be the greatest gathering of modern warships the world had ever seen. To capture this monumental sight and as contingency bombers in the event of the German fleet changing their mind, two non-rigid airships

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PREVIOUS PAGE: CONSTRUCTION PLANS FOR THE R34 AIRSHIP SHED AT EAST FORTUNE OPPOSITE: R34 SCALE MODEL AT EAST FORTUNE’S NATIONAL MUSEUM OF FLIGHT EXHIBITION

were deployed from East Fortune and flown over the scene, taking historical photographs depicting what would never be seen again, certainly not in the small estuary between Edinburgh and Fife.

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The main attraction at East Fortune is the Concorde, obviously, but for me the purpose of this trip was solely to see the smaller, more humble exhibition for the R34 and East Fortune’s airship legacy. That didn’t stop me having a good old wander about though, and it’s maybe a good thing to start at the pinnacle of supersonic technical innovation and head backwards. So that’s what I did. Past the Concorde, in its own gigantic hangar, through the various fast jets and weapons of war, to the more pedestrian civilian aircraft hangar, each aircraft extols the virtues of our desire to see the world from above. Each carving a different niche for itself, from the little single seater Slingsby Grasshopper to the imposing, powerful delta winged Avro Vulcan, there’s a story for each of them - there’s inspiration at every turn. From aircraft instruments to aircraft parts, each one has been designed for that sole purpose and, in the case of something like the English Electric Lightning, allows it to travel at twice the speed of sound. Fascinating stuff, but still, I’m here to see something far more interesting. Tucked discreetly between the civilian aircraft hangar and the parachute store sits the “Fortunes of War” barrack, within which the history of East Fortune is on display. Entering this little place you find an interactive map of the airfield, controlled via switches that illuminate the map in certain ways, allowing you to see how East Fortune developed over the decades, from airship station to active airfield to museum. The model is really fascinating for it shows, at scale, the size of the

airship hangars compared to buildings that still exist. It makes visualising the gargantuan size of these hangars easier. Just beside this interactive map is the R34 display case, featuring a whole bunch of great artefacts, including a slice of the actual R34 skin, the altimeter, mugs, flags, brandy (for medicinal uses obvs) and the gigantic crest from the nose of the airship too. What struck me immediately was that the R34 was blue. In all my research up to this point I had seen the R34 in books, magazines and online in a silvery white guise. Why was this model replica blue? Well, the slice of skin in the display cabinet is blue, so there’s the reason - the R34 was blue in real life! How odd though, to see it everywhere as silver. Confused, I noted to email the museum later and ask. The altimeter was of particular interest and I really liked the way the numerals rested perpendicular to the outer markings - I wondered if I could adopt that style in a dial. Further into the exhibition you can see some German POW’s personal effects, including some chocolate that you can still buy today, and some shoe polish which you can’t. Outside of the exhibition is a plaque mounted on stone. This plaque, of which an exact copy sits in Mineola, Long Island, commemorates the R34’s incredible journey across the Atlantic and back. It’s a lasting memory of a bygone era, where slow moving air travel was the future and the hopes of many rested on the success of these lumbering giants. I can’t help but wish I’d seen one of these giants up close and marvelled at the sheer size of it as it rested, suspended in mid-air, before taking to the sky in a roar of propeller and diesel engine noise, before drifting away on the journey across the second largest ocean on this planet. What a sight that would have been.

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I can confirm the blue-painted linen is indeed genuine outer fabric from the R34 airship and this is indeed the colour the airship was painted. We believe it has oxidised over the years and is slightly darker than it would have been originally. The model displayed in the same case is contemporary and is very close to the true colour. I can, however, confirm that all images, drawings, books, etc, which depict the R34 as painted with silver dope (as were almost all other airships) are entirely wrong. The airship was not silver, it was most certainly not white, but was indeed painted blue. This is documented fact. IAN BROWN - Assistant Curator, Aviation - National Museum of Flight, East Fortune Airfield. We would like to thank Ian for allowing us to include his email in our MWCQ, we very much appreciate your support and advice.

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LEFT PAGE (CLOCKWISE): ONE OF TWO PLAQUES CELEBRATING THE MONUMENTAL JOURNEY OF THE R34 AIRSHIP - THIS ONE, DISPLAYED AT EAST FORTUNE. THE SISTER PLAQUE IS STATIONED IN MINEOLA, NEW YORK. SOME OF THE INTERESTING INSTRUMENTATION AT EAST FORTUNE’S NATIONAL MUSEUM OF FLIGHT

ABOVE: THE ALTIMETER FROM THE R34 AIRSHIP. NOTE THE OUTER RING AND THE ANGLED NUMERALS - ALL INSPIRATION FOR THE ATLANTIC FLYER.

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OU R WAY, ALWAYS :

OUR VERSION OF THE UBIQUITOUS “FLIEGER” STYLE OF AVIATION WATCHES. THE FLYER IS A BOLD, UNCOMPROMISINGLY CLEAR DIAL, TAKING INSPIRATION FROM THE R34’S ALTIMETER.

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THE FLYER

R E - INT E R PR E TAT ION OF T H E PILOT S WAT C H IN WATCH LAND THERE RESIDES A STYLE OF WATCH CALLED THE “FLIEGER” AND IT IS THE DEFINITIVE PILOT’S WATCH STYLE. BOLD, STARK AND SIMPLE, IT LAYS THE PATH FROM WHICH MOST OTHER AVIATION STYLE WATCHES FOLLOW. TAKEN

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FROM THE INSTRUMENTATION OF WWII ERA AIRCRAFT, THIS WHITE-ON-BLACK PUNCH REALLY MAKES THIS STYLE OF WATCH ONE OF THE MOST EASY TO READ, DAY OR NIGHT. FOR OUR INTERPRETATION OF THIS STYLE OF WATCH, WE

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WANTED TO INCORPORATE BOTH TRADITIONALLY ACCEPTED AESTHETICS AND SOME MWC QUIRKS. THE ALTIMETER DIAL OF THE R34 ALSO HAPPENS TO BE BLACK AND WHITE, WITH SOME

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INTERESTING LITTLE DETAILS LIKE THE INVERSE MARKINGS ON THE OUTER RING, AS WELL AS THOSE ANGLED, PERPENDICULAR NUMERALS. THE FLYER DIAL TAKES THESE DESIGN CUES AND ADDS TO IT; THE TOP HEMISPHERE OF NUMERALS ARE VERTICAL, WITH THE LOWER HEMISPHERE BEING PERPENDICULAR. THE OUTER RING HAS THE SAME FEEL AS THE INVERSE MARKINGS OF THE ALTIMETER WITHOUT BEING EXACT. A BLACK DATE RING WITH WHITE MARKINGS KEEPS THE UNIFORMITY OF THE FLIEGER STYLE WHILST STILL BEING ACCESSIBLE. THE ONE THING WE HAVE MATCHED FROM FLIEGER’S OF STANDARD AND OUR VERSION, IS THE TRIANGLE AT THE 12 O’CLOCK POSITION. USUALLY IT’S ACCOMPANIED WITH TWO DOTS UNDERNEAD, BUT US BEING US, WE WENT INSTEAD FOR THE TRIANGLE, PERFECTLY NESTLED INTO THE OUTER RING FOR A SUBTLE NOD TO THIS WATCH STYLE’S HISTORY. CLARITY IN SPADES AND SUPERLUMINOVA HANDS AND MARKINGS TO BOOT - THIS IS A BEAUTY TO WEAR.

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SUBTLE D ETAI LS :

THE COLOUR MATCHED DATE WHEEL RESTS SUBTLY BENEATH THE SURFACE. NOTE THE 12 HOUR SUB-DIAL SITTING ON THE DIAL SURFACE, VERSUS THE SUNKEN POSITION OF THE OTHER SUB-DIALS. DETAILS.

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AT L A N T 14:47 3rd July

09:30 4th July

NEWFOUNDLAND

HALIFAX

MINEOLA, NY 13:54 6th July 03:54 10th July

16:30 4th July

20:30 4th July

14:28 11th July 06:20 11th July

1:10 5th July 23:30 5th July 08:00 6th July

16:13 10th July 11:22 10th July

20:50 10th July

TIC OCEAN 13:06 2nd July 04:20 3rd July

EAST FORTUNE, SCOTLAND 01:42 2nd July

20:20 12th July

18:20 2nd July 06:30 12th July

13:20 12th July

23:00 11th July

BEGINNING OF THE END They might not have been the first to cross the Atlantic ocean, but without a shadow of a doubt the crew of the R34 were the first to f ly East to West, then West to East. With this feat of human spirit, the airship R34 was firmly cemented in the annals of history.

PULHAM, ENGLAND 06:57 13th July

OPPOSITE PAGE: MAJOR GEORGE SCOTT STANDING BESIDE THE R34 BEFORE TAKE-OFF.

Remnants of the war. The war had ended and with it the conclusion of one of the deadliest conflicts in military history. A new world emerged battered, bruised and downbeat. Peacetime was a novel concept to the war-worn population. Thoughts turned to recovery and embracing the legacy of what the war had cost. Questions were asked of what to do with the remnants of the military projects commissioned towards the tail-end of the fight, much like the R34 airship, which was ready to launch just as the whistle was blown. Airships had been prominent figures in the war and their capabilities went from inflated bubble low-level reconnaissance to world-conquering behemoths. The increase in size due to the lift/ size equation (the lift capability of an airship is increased 8-fold for just a 2-fold increase in size) meant that more could be done with these giants of the skies, and as the size and payload capabilities increased, so too did the distance which they could travel. With the downing of the L27 Zeppelin during the war and the redesign of the R33 class British airship, there was suddenly the ability for Britain to utilise these modes of airborne transport in a new way. At the end of 1918, the weather had proven so dreich at Inchinnan Airship Station just outside Glasgow, the R34 hadn’t left its hangar after completion. It was suggested that due to this newness, compared to her sister R33 airship which had been flying for a while already, the R34 should be the airship to be deployed for long-distance tests. This was a way to prove the concept of a new British Empire commercial flight network, called the Imperial Airship Scheme (IAS). What better way to test the abilities of their newest airship, and therefore their new IAS proposal, than have it fly across the most formidable stretch of water known to man - the Atlantic Ocean. First

though, the R34 needed to be tested to make sure that it was worthy for flying at all. An initial test flight around Inchinnan lasted just 5 hours. Everything went to plan. A second, longer test flight took the R34 down the Clyde, over north England, across to the Irish Sea and then back to Inchinnan via the Isle of Man. During this longer flight one of the control surfaces had jammed, pointing the R34’s nose skyward. This was rectified in-flight, but upon arriving back at base the airship was mishandled by the ground crew and some extensive damage ensued - a control car bursting through the skin of the R34, coming to rest within its envelope. It was this small mishap that cost the R34 the title of being the first aircraft to cross the Atlantic. During the repair works and at the behest of the Daily Mail (the 1918 version of the newspaper which didn’t partake in exploitation), the challenge was announced to cross the Atlantic, offering £10,000 to any crew who could fly from any point in the US, Canada or Newfoundland, to any point in the UK or Ireland, in 72 hours or less. At the time the Daily Mail offered a number of prizes for various aviation feats. It was the crew of Alcock and Brown, flying in a Vickers Vimy, who successfully completed the 3,040km journey across the vast Atlantic ocean, departing from St. Johns in Newfoundland on 14th June 1919, and arriving at Clifden in Ireland 15 hours and 57 minutes later. The Vimy was a modified bi-plane bomber used in WWI, with additional fuel tanks and revised undercarriage to assist in the longdistance nature of the flight. In completing this historical feat of man and machine, Alcock and Brown were quickly celebrated as aviation pioneers, although Alcock’s celebrity was tragically short lived. In December of that very same year, whilst delivering to the Paris Airshow the new Vickers Viking, an innovative amphibious design that allowed the aircraft to

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take off from water, Alcock crashed near Rouen in dense fog. News of the Atlantic crossing travelled quickly to the R34 crew, but despite losing out on being the first to cross the Atlantic by air, the tests were still deemed necessary for the IAS project and thus the R34 was readied for deployment. The guns and armaments fitted to the R34 were removed and, along with some hapdash crew sleeping quarters and a metal plate welded to the exhaust of an engine for cooking upon, the airship made its way to the airfield known as RAF East Fortune. It was from this base, on the 2nd July 1919, that the R34 was released by the ground handlers and rose up into the sky above Scotland, to cross one of the most formidable oceans in the world.

Made it and no more. The R34 was crewed by 30 men and captained by Major George “Lucky Breeze” Scott. On board were two notable senior officers; BrigadierGeneral Maitland, a pioneering balloon expert, and Lieutenant Commander Zachary Lansdowne representing the US Navy, in a courtesy to their joint efforts in bringing the R34 from Britain to the USA. Maitland, who was also Britain’s most senior airship officer, was an early adopter of parachutes as safety devices - such was the reluctance to adopt this new-age life saving device that he vowed never to leave an airship without one - soon enough his point was made and parachutes were standard issue for all crew. In an effort to save as much weight as possible and allow a few “more important” people to board, three of the original crew were told to stand down. Despite this crushing blow, one of the dismissed crew, William Ballantyne, took it upon himself to sneak into the R34 anyway, along with their mascot tabby cat called Wopsie. Once firmly above the Atlantic he outed himself to the officers; positioned above the gasbags between girders - he had intended to wait it out till America but, owing to the horrible cold and damp, plus being squished by the expanding airbags as they heated up, he couldn’t stick it out. He also happened to be breathing in the escaping hydrogen from the emergency release valves,

making him violently sick. He hoped that the officers wouldn’t throw him overboard, which in the moments after his discovery, were discussed and considered seriously! General Maitland noted that, had he appeared earlier, he would have sent him over the side with a parachute to the land below, but the time for that action had passed. He was allowed to stay and put to work as the cook or to pump petrol into the engines. After leaving East Fortune the R34 took a route down the Firth of Clyde and up over the coast of Northern Ireland, before heading west towards the open ocean. Radio technology for airships at that time were sketchy and the RAF had set communication boats along the route of the R34 to relay any messages or weather warnings to the airship. The airship was steered and trimmed by two coxswains on separate wheels, and the man in charge of the elevators, Warrant Officer Walter Mayes, controlled the altitude and attitude of the airship - the see-saw of the airship from nose down to nose up. He was an incredibly skilled coxswain, often relying on his feet to know when the ship was not on an even keel. It was said that the crew could identify when he was in charge of the trimming at any point for his smoothness and deft touch were unparalleled. One of the problems with airships, especially one of those stuffed full of hydrogen and equipment like the R34, is of superheating. This is when the heat of the sun expands the gas within the flexible bags inside the R34’s canvas envelope. To prevent the gas from rupturing the bags there are emergency release valves that let the hydrogen out. This is a problem, for if the gas is released when expanded, it reduces the amount of gas in the bags for lift when the airship cools. For an airship as heavy as the R34, with its 18 tonnes of fuel amongst other heavy items like engines and crew, it posed a real problem, exacerbated with rain or moisture on the envelope, making the R34 even heavier. But with dense clouds comes a saviour - by positioning the airship inside these clouds, not only does it prevent superheating, but it keeps the gas inside the bags. When ordered to set the R34 precisely inside the clouds for just such an occurrence, Officer Mayes positioned the airship with such accuracy that, upon climbing the

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PREVIOUS PAGE: THE R34 LANDING AT MINNEOLA, NY OPPOSITE: THE GROUND CREW WRESTLING THE R34 TO THE GROUND AT MINNEOLA, NY.

observation ladders to take a reading, Major Scott stood in the odd position of having his shoulders and head above the cloud, with the rest of his body, and the entire R34, below it.

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As the R34 continued along, the petrol was depleted and the problem of lift and sink were equalized. Captain Scott brought the airship above the storm clouds they were trudging through and, with calm air and engines humming, settled into a long night of weary progress. It remained so until dawn where, owing to a break in the clouds, the crew could watch the icebergs drift past below them. The radio operator was now receiving messages, mostly from America and premature congratulations on the success of the R34. Major Scott wasn’t in such a jubilant mood for he knew that the engines had been using a lot more fuel than they expected and the reserves were getting concerningly low.

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At 16:30 on June 4th the R34 reached Newfoundland, 60 hours after leaving the coast of Ireland. It was becoming increasingly difficult to charge against the headwinds and, with 500 gallons remaining in her tanks, the R34 was still a long way from Minneola - her eventual destination. After much battling with winds, gusts and the occasional emergency, the R34 continued towards New York, although one storm close to their destination was so fierce that is sent the airship into a tremendous dive, followed by an even more tremendous rise, cutting out the engines and throwing crew members around the cabin. Fuel was at an all-time desperate level and upon the R34 arriving at Minneola at 9:54am local time, she held just 140 gallons of fuel - enough for around 2-hours of flying time on reduced power. As the airship circled the airfield at Minneola, Major J.E.M. Pritchard jumped from the control car and, with his parachute deploying neatly, drifted slowly to earth to become the first man

to reach the United States of America from Britain by air. He hurriedly spoke with journalists and photographers who descended upon him as he removed his parachute, before riding pillion on a motorcycle and liaising with the American ground-crew who had been preparing for the airship’s arrival. Soon thereafter Major Scott brough the R34 down, releasing the final gas and ballast to lower the tail enough to get the ropes within the grasp of the ground crew. The R34 was wrestled down and the band struck up, playing “God Save the King” as the crew alighted to raucous cheers and adulation.

Living it up in America. The crew, upon arriving in America, were given the most adulating and celebratory welcome for days on end. Once cleaned up at the airfield showers, constructed specifically for their visit, they headed off to several official engagements and meetings before journeying into New York City in a blaze of hedonism. Everywhere they went they were greeted with cheers and gifts, food and drink - when they entered a room they were met with standing applauses and shouts of congratulations. Photographers and journalists followed them wherever they went, including an opportunistic bedroom foray from a particularly resourceful photographer. Soon though it was time to head home and, with the officers concluding official business and soaking up the last of the champagne, the lower ranks headed back to the airship to prepare her for the long journey ahead. It didn’t take too long, for the R34 was in great condition. With propellers degreased by a local company for free, the various holes patched up in the envelope, fuel and oil tanks refilled, the airship was ready to go. A slight mishap before Major Scott returned to the airfield caused a little damage to the nose of the airship and, seeing how easily their potential for repeat

success could be ripped from their hands, the crew set about getting the R34 aloft posthaste. Few remaining items were loaded, such as letters and secretly delivered alcohol (due to prohibition, of course), and with the last of the tourists looking around the cabins, Major Scott rushed to finish his last highfalutin dinner in the city owing to the high-winds approaching - the R34 set its compass for Britain. Two of the crew were replaced due to the lessons learned on the inward journey, one of which was stowaway William Ballantyne, who would return by sea. At 6 minutes to midnight on 9th July 1919, the R34 was released from its ground-crew and rose majestically into the night sky. Major Scott and his crew had succeeded in crossing the Atlantic East to West - the challenge was now to successfully deliver her West to East. Despite some engine funny business and windage issues, the R34 crossed from West to East in just over 75 hours - or in a somewhat sensational show

of expertise from Major Scott, exactly three days, three hours and three minutes. As the R34 came into rest at Pulham Airfield in Norfolk to cheering crowds, the home band struck up the tune “See The Conquering Hero Comes” just as Major Scott released the final ballast from its tail. The unfortunate positioning of said band meant they also received an impromptu overhead dousing. The British welcoming party was a little less flamboyant than their American counterparts, for official reports were required to be written and feedback from the Admiralty was demanded. In place of the flowing champagne and fabulous finger foods came a resultant downcast mood as criticisms of the R34 and her performance were gathered. The following morning the three main officers of the R34 headed into London on the train to be met with little fanfare. Stepping off the train they were greeted with typical British stoicism of handshakes and “well done old boy” congratulations, before moving onto business.

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“It’s practically standing still now they’ve dropped ropes out of the nose of the ship; and they’ve been taken ahold of down on the field by a number of men. It’s starting to rain again; it’s... the rain had slacked up a little bit. The back motors of the ship are just holding it just enough to keep it from... It’s burst into f lames! It’s burst into f lames, and it’s falling, it’s crashing! Watch it, watch it, …

folks! Get out of the way, get out of the way! Get this, Charlie; get this, Charlie! It’s fire... and it’s crashing! It’s crashing terrible! Oh, my! Get out of the way, please! It’s burning and bursting into

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f lames and the... and it’s falling on the mooring mast and all the folks agree that this is terrible; this is one of the worst catastrophes in the world. Oh, it’s crashing... oh, four or five hundred feet

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into the sky, and it’s a terrific crash, ladies and gentlemen. There’s smoke, and there’s f lames, now, and the frame is crashing to the ground, not quite to the mooring mast. Oh, the humanity, and all the passengers screaming around here! I told you; it – I can’t even talk to people, their friends are on there! Ah! It’s... it... it’s a... ah! I... I can’t talk, ladies and gentlemen. Honest: it’s just laying there, a mass of smoking wreckage. Ah! And everybody can hardly breathe and talk and the screaming. I... I... I’m sorry. Honest: I... I can hardly breathe. I... I’m going to step inside, where I cannot see it. Charlie, that’s terrible. Ah, ah... I can’t. Listen, folks; I... I’m gonna have to stop for a minute because I’ve lost my voice. This is the worst thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

ABOVE: TRANSCRIPT OF THE FRIGHTENING LIVE RADIO BROADCAST BY HERBERT OGLEVEE “HERB” MORRISON, WATCHING AS THE GERMAN PASSENGER SHIP ZEPPELIN LZ129 HINDENBURG CAUGHT FIRE AND CRASHED UPON LANDING AT NAVAL AIR STATION LAKEHURST, 6 MAY 1937 OPPOSITE: THE HARROWING SIGHT CAUGHT ON FILM. FOLLOWING PAGE: THE CRUMPLED FRAME OF THE R101 IN RURAL BEAUVAIS, FRANCE, 5 OCTOBER 1930.

This is the worst thing I’ve ever witnessed. The success of the R34 laid the foundations for the Imperial Airship Scheme to launch in 1921. This would potentially become a feather in the British Empire’s cap; a way to transport people and goods around the world in style. Sure enough, after much back and forth debate, punctuated by a general election, the new government established the Imperial Airship Scheme (IAS) and commissioned two brand new airships specifically for this project; the R100 and R101 were constructed. The R100 was to be the workhorse airship, with the R101 following a more test-bed oriented development programme. Interestingly, the R100’s design team was led by Barnes Wallis, who would later invent the famous bouncing bomb used by RAF 617 Squadron during Operation Chastise, later made into the popular film The Dam Busters. … … 88 … …

The IAS programme suffered a catastrophic end when, on 5th October 1930, on its maiden flight to India, the R101 crashed over France leading to the deaths of not only the man responsible for the IAS, Lord Thomson, but also senior government officials and the entire Royal Airship Works

design team. The man at the helm of the R101 was no other than Major Scott. Quickly after the catastrophe, the IAS shut down and the entire British airship endeavour ceased to exist. The excitement, at one point fever pitch, about flying in the glorious lumbering giants, turned into abject denial that it was a safe, reputable mode of transport. A crushing blow to the airship industry, but not the end. 7 years later during docking procedures at Naval Airstation Lakehurst, the LZ129 Hindenburg caught fire and burned to the ground in what has become an iconic moment in the history of the airship. The ensuing inferno was spectacularly captured in silent black and white film and, when later added together with the frightening live radio broadcast by Herbert Oglevee “Herb” Morrison, signalled the end. Never before had such a disaster been so poetically or devastatingly encapsulated in one live-broadcasted stream of consciousness. With the news-reel playing around the world, the international airship endeavour came to a bitter close.

As for Inchinnan Airship Station, it should be noted that not only did this facility manufacture airships, but it also acted as an “Aircraft Acceptance Park” too. This was a place for aircraft manufacturers to send completed planes to be tested and checked before deployment in the field. On site was a vast hanger, built in 1916 by the Arrol Company and measured an impressive 213m long, by 46m wide, by 30m tall. At each end of the hanger sat two equally humongous concrete wings that prevented the freshly made, emerging airships from being buffeted by side-winds. Buildings for the near 400 strong construction workers and families were built as well as a number of ancillary buildings to support the site. Another shed for the completion of Handley Page bombers was erected before Airship construction at Inchinnan ceased in 1921. A tyre company called the India Tyre Company was established at the Airship Station and, after the site was destroyed by the German bombers in WW2, the tyre company remained intact and remains so to this day, along with some of the

worker’s accommodation. The rise of the Airship was made possible by the development of iron and with it the development of alloys such as steel, which itself was a product of the Industrial Revolution. The fall of the Airship was made possible by a simple choice to use hydrogen over the inert, non-flammable helium. A discovery in 1903 in the United States of America, during a routine drilling operation in Dexter, Kansas, brought about the prolific use of helium in lighter-than-air applications, most commonly in balloons and airships of the US Navy. It was such a scarce commodity that the USA protected it under the National Helium Reserve and as such wouldn’t allow the exporting of helium outside of the USA. Thus, despite designing the LZ129 to make use of this rare yet safe helium, the Hindenburg design team were forced to revert to the far more dangerous hydrogen for their new airship. With that one decision and subsequent consequence, the airship industry would not survive past the 1937 disaster.

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Author’s note: Before I started researching this article, I was already familiar with the name Inchinnan. Before MWC started I was working for a heating and ventilation company as a draughtsman. I would design services on the computer in 3D, plotting the placement and layout of the various heating and cooling systems in any given building in order to make on-site installation quicker. This was a new-age way to get the systems designed properly and resolved before heading to site, fitting these costly systems in place. During the course of 2014 I worked on a particularly complex facility called the AFRC building, situated in Inchinnan. This building, the Advanced Forming Research Centre, is a University of Strathclyde facility that researches innovative ways to form and forge metals and develop innovative manufacturing technologies. It wasn’t until I was halfway through the research for this article that I realised, to my amazement, that the AFRC building rests on the Beardmore Airship Station

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site, along with various other companies like Rolls Royce. There’s even a cafe on site called the “R34 Cafe”. Little did I know then that I was walking on the same ground that was once used to construct an airship that would travel across the Atlantic, and back again, capturing imaginations, celebrating new achievements and clinching records in the process, and for me, inspiring the design of a watch for a company I hadn’t yet established. It’s poignant in many ways that I have both unbeknownst to me visited the very place that created something that has captured my imagination so firmly, the R34, whilst similarly working to construct a place that, much like William Beardmore and Company, finds new and innovative ways to manufacture things from metal that can be used to further knowledge in what is tangible on this earth. Isn’t life funny.

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THE F UTU R E :

THE STEEL AND SILVERY FABRIC FASCADE OF THE AIRCRAFT, THAT WOULD GO ON TO TRANSPORT THE FIRST SOLO ATLANTIC CROSSING, SERVES AS INSPIRATION FOR THIS NOD TO AVIATION HISTORY.

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THE SPIRIT A NOD TO T H E FUT U R E

WE’VE COVERED THE FIRST TRANSATLANTIC FLIGHT AND THE FIRST RETURN TRANSATLANTIC FLIGHT, BUT WHAT OF THE FIRST SOLO TRANSATLANTIC FLIGHT?

… CHARLES AUGUSTUS LINDBERGH, THE AMERICAN AVIATOR, BEGAN HIS AVIATION FASCINATION AT AN EARLY AGE, GOING ON TO SERVE IN THE MILITARY AS A PILOT BEFORE BECOMING

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AN AIRMAIL PILOT, FLYING BETWEEN ST. LOUIS AND CHICAGO, AFTER THE WAR. FOLLOWING A HOTEL OWNER POSTING A PRIZE OF $25,000 FOR THE FIRST TO FLY FROM NEW YORK TO PARIS NON-STOP,

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LINDBERGH FANCIED A SHOT AT THIS PERILLOUS CHALLENGE. IN PLANNING THIS ATTEMPT, HE ENLISTED THE HELP OF SOME LOCAL ST.LOUIS BUSINESSMEN TO FUND HIS JOURNEY, MANAGING TO FIND JUST ENOUGH MONEY TO COVER THE COST OF AN AIRCRAFT TO TRANSPORT HIM ON HIS WAY. DESPITE THE RELUCTANCE OF MANY TO SELL AN AEROPLANE TO ANYONE WHO WAS FROM OBSCURITY LIKE LINDBERGH, HE EVENTUALLY FOUND A FIRM WILLING TO MAKE A PLANE FOR HIM. RYAN AIRCRAFT COMPANY OF SAN DIEGO BUILT LINDBERGH’S MONOPLANE, WHICH LINDBERGH DESIGNED ALONGSIDE RYAN’S OWN CHIEF ENGINEER DONALD A. HALL. THE FABRIC COVERED, METAL FRAMED MONOPLANE, UNIQUE WITH ITS LACK OF FORWARD FACING WINDOWS, WAS ICONIC FROM THE GET-GO. SILVERY, SLEEK AND EFFICIENT, THE NEWLY DUBBED “SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS” WAS DESTINED TO BECOME ONE OF, IF NOT THE MOST, ICONIC AIRCRAFT EVER TO HAVE TAKEN TO THE SKIES. LINDBERGH, ON 20 MAY 1927, CROSSED FROM NEW YORK TO PARIS IN 33 1/2 HOURS AND, AFTER CHECKING THE SEALED BAROGRAPH WITHIN THE AIRCRAFT, OFFICIALLY BECAME THE FIRST PERSON TO FLY SOLO OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN.

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C LAR I TY A ND D EP TH :

THE RADIAL SUN-BURST PATTERN OF THE SPIRIT’S DIAL STANDS ALONGISDE THE PRISTINE WHITE SUB-DIALS AND DARK GUNMETAL HANDS AND DETAILS. IT’S A FITTING TRIBUTE TO THE NAMESAKE.

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CHRONOWHAT? From timing race horses to timing your eggs, the mechanically driven timing machine has an interesting past.

hrono, derived from the Ancient Greek word Chronos, meaning “Time”. Graph, from the Ancient Greek word Graphos, meaning “To write”. Originally the term Chronograph was used in conjunction with an instrument that literally wrote the time, with ink. It was called a “Chronometer”, invented by a French watchmaker named Nicolas Mathieu Rieussec who, in 1821, brought this new invention with him to a horse race in Paris. The crux of this little machine was that you could, by pressing a button, drop a little dot of ink onto the rotating dial and mark that point in elapsed time. It would later be termed the “Chronograph with Seconds Indicator” and thereafter just “Chronograph”. It was to spawn not just a load of other inventions around this concept, but lead to the modern day Chronograph watch. A Chronograph is what most modern people call a watch that features a stopwatch complication. At MWC we use a different word, not because we are trying to be clever or different, but because we feel it more accurately represents what our product is. That word is Chronoscope. The reason we call our watches with timers Chronoscopes, is because of another Ancient Greek word, Skopos, which means “watcher” or “to see”. We don’t physically write the time now, like Nicolas did back in 1821, we observe the time going by. Hence Chronoscope - “Time Watcher”. Whatever you call these things, the endearment we feel for a watch that has a number of extra

dials within the main dial is real. We love to see all those little hands going around and measuring the passing of time. Even if all we are measuring is the time passing. Rieussec’s invention was large and cumbersome and a number of pioneering watchmakers attempted to translate this ink-dotting system into a wrist watch with moderate success. As these machines developed they became more accurate, able to time to 1/60th of a second, albeit with some rather incredible beats per hour numbers; to achieve a 1/60th accuracy in his wristwatch, Louis Moinet had to run the movement at 216,000 vph (vibrations per hour). Our Atlantic runs at 28,800 vph, for comparison. Over the coming 100 years nothing really happened in the way of developing this concept of independently measuring time on a wristwatch. However, in the early 20th century Longines developed what is regarded as the first modern interpretation of the Chronograph and, instead of using ink to mark a point in time, used a mechanical arrangement to independently start and stop a secondary timing device, built upon the standard watch mechanism. The idea took flight and was developed by a number of companies over the next few decades, welcoming the modern version of the Chronograph to the masses. And so we arrive at today, where we have the multitude of Chronograph movements in existence with varying degrees of accuracy, from

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the marvels of engineering novelty such as Tag Heuer’s Mikrotimer, a chronograph with 1/1000th of a second accuracy, or if you’re content with accuracy to an 1/8th of a second then our Seiko NE88a based Atlantic should suit your needs. So what then, of this NE88a inside our Atlantic range? Well, the Seiko NE88a is a bit of a beast. It was developed in 2014 by the Japanese superpower to compete with the ubiquitous ETA 7750, found in pretty much all higher end mechanical chronograph watches. The 7750 was developed in the 70s during what is now called “The Quartz Crisis”, when mechanical watches were all but discarded in favour of the new high-tech battery powered future-watches. The mechanical watch industry survived by the skin of its teeth and over the ensuing decades the mechanical chronograph has steadily become the pinnacle of many watch ranges, for both it’s technical prowess and due to our aforementioned affinity with busy dial designs. I’m sure Paul Newman had something to do with it too. The NE88a is a beautiful movement, finished with flair. It’s a thick caliber at 7.62mm but worth the little extra height to gain the incredible accuracy and dial spacing, affording people like me the chance to create some really exciting dial designs.

It uses what’s called a “column-wheel” to activate and deactivate the timing module within the mechanical movement, a method that demands the very highest of expertise and manufacturing precision to achieve. The column-wheel method also offers a softer, more tactile experience when activating the timing system, over the hard-click feel of the level/cam approach used in the 7750. Furthermore, the NE88a has a vertical clutch, which reduces the potential for stuttery seconds hand, centre-wheel wear and wheels jamming into each other; symptoms of other chronograph mechanisms without this additional clutch feature. Due to the oscillating weight on the back of the NE88a, the self-winding mechanical movement keeps going for as long as you wear it, but still features a 40+ hour reserve and can be handcranked to top it up. The movement hacks (the seconds hand stops when you pull out the crown - a remnant from military timing requirements during the war) and of course features the 12-hour chrono-timer. It’s a beautiful movement, a genuinely robust and reliable movement that will last for generations, and the perfect accompaniment to our latest flagship Chronoscope.

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MEC HA NI C ALLY I NSP I R ED :

THE CROWN AND PUSHERS ON THE ATLANTIC ARE INSPIRED BY PROPELLERS IN FULL SPEED. THAT RIPPLING VISUAL TRICK CAPTURED. IT’S A VERY SMALL DETAIL, BUT DETAILS MAKE THE DESIGN.

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WHAT’S NEXT? Over the course of the past 13 weeks we’ve been doing a lot of introspection and thinking about how we communicate with our customers, both current and potential. We started MWCQ to share all the interesting stories and tidbits that we find as we are researching during the design process.

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This latest edition has been a big one for us, obviously, as we are showing you a new design that’s taken the best part of two years to come to fruition. But it’s also highlighted that the delivery system of MWCQ would be better suited to a more steady release schedule, rather than saving it up for a quarterly publication. These stories should be shared as we are discovering them, and thus bring you all along for the ride. We’re also hearing more and more from our customers that they are finding us through our Road to Coniston documentary and other videos we’ve produced. As such we have decided, along with the other following developments, to shift the way MWCQ is presented to you. More on that later. Alongside the Atlantic we’ve been developing two new ranges; the Solent and the Harport. The Solent is a nautically inspired 42mm casual watch measuring in at a slimline 10.5mm including the domed crystal - we’re really excited about what will become a new entry-level watch in our lineup. The Harport is an exercise in what we can achieve if our budget ceiling is increased. For this Swiss Made offering we have grafted for 6-months to create the most fluid and luscious case design we can muster, accompanied by the highest grade box Sapphire crystal, Swiss Sellita movement and a marshmallow dial. It’s a beauty, there’s no doubt. We’ve also been working hard on a complete redesign of our website. When we first started MWC we had to make do with what we could realistically operate ourselves, with this came

compromises on the design and functionality by choosing a stock template and building upon it. Ultimately it’s made our website quite slow and lethargic as a result. However, our new bespoke website experience, tailored to our needs as an e-commerce business, developed from feedback gathered from our customers over the past 5 years, is starting to take shape and we’re really excited about it. For the MWCQ element we will transition away from the magazine style and integrate it more into the online experience going forward - sometimes you have to throw your creative chips up in the air and see where they land. For MWCQ we love sharing the things we have found and the inspiration behind our designs and thinking, but the delivery system needs a tweak here and there. As such, we will begin filming a new series for 2020 which will discuss, in-depth, everything we have been working on for this year; from our research projects through to the decisions we’ve made and the influences we’ve had over the course of the design process. We’ll chat about what makes us tick, our environment and why we do things a certain way. It’s an exciting prospect and one that we are keen to get going. Stay tuned for that. In addition, we’ve some other interesting projects that we’ve been working on; we have our first collaboration with another designer for an upcoming limited range of watches (which look beautiful) to be released later this year, we’ve run our first ever watch survey (thank you if you took part!) to get a better understanding of what our customers would like to see, and we’ve invested in a new team bus in the form of a Land Rover Defender 110, which we will use for upcoming events and brand awareness campaigns, as well as exploring the great outdoors.

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Having relocated our whole operation to Scotland in January, we were excited about this new chapter in MWC’s young life. However, before we were even out of the blocks, we were facing the frightening reality of COVID-19 and were locked-down. We had to act quickly; childcare plans were drawn up, exceptions were sought from local authority to continue operating as a business, daily physical contact with the outside world was reduced to an absolute minimum and, unfortunately for our new team member Gabby, her key start-date was postponed. This lengthy period of lockdown has been both frantic and stressful, but it’s also served as a time of reflection - whenever time is available to reflect, that is. Sometimes it takes something as big as COVID-19 for us to be truly present; to be here, now, and to give ourselves fully to that opportunity, to reflect on the past and how it has led us to here. And what’s most important for MWC is to take those reflections, and the learnings thereof, and to build on them, emerging from this global disaster stronger and more assured than ever before.

impatient for what the next 6 months holds. As you’re probably aware, ecommerce businesses like ours are already building up to Christmas we have some truly exceptional products in our pipeline that we cannot wait to share with you, some new partnerships that we’re looking to announce very soon, and some new people that we’re eager to introduce - all in good time though! And finally, as we have alluded to earlier, this may well be the final edition of MWCQ - in this form anyway. As a small, young business we need to be nimble and adapt as we learn, and our learnings are taking us in a slightly different direction - I suppose you could say it’s somewhat of a silver lining, in that the content we’re putting together will be more regular, more engaging and we’ll be able to show you a whole lot more of what we’re working on - so watch this space. Keep safe and well everyone, and from all of us here at MWC, thank you for your support. To the future, and whatever it may hold. Oliver, Gordon, Gabby & Stephanie

With that in mind, we’re both excited and

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Edition 03