John Nash: ‘I’m John. Fly Me.’ (With apologies to 10cc: ‘I’m Mandy. Fly Me.’,1976

I’m John. Fly me.

John Nash is a retired, well sort of retired, fruit farm manager in Kirdford who enjoys scribbling about life on the farm from the now to days gone by.

I feel very sad today my friends. Just after breakfast one of our resident ducks came to visit the garden. She first came four days ago, along with ten beautiful young ducklings. Two days later she once more presented her brood but this time only seven babes clustered around her. Yesterday just two followed her onto the lawn. Today she was alone. She quacked forlornly for her babes but to no avail. They were gone!

Such is the way nature has shown its harsh side over the last few years. The balance of predator and victim has altered. I’ve spoken of this before, so I don’t intend to press further on the subject today, but it does worry me that many of our good intentions may well have brought other problems to the natural world.

On a lighter note… I’ve been on holiday. What’s more I threw caution to the four winds and took that most nail-chewing method of travel at the moment… a plane!

So it was with trepidation that we arrived at Gatwick airport early one morning in May.

However, without hassle or delay our suitcases were taken and our passports examined. No problems. Then followed the usual fully expected bottleneck at the hand luggage check. You know, everything from your pockets, all metal items and of course your belt and braces dumped into a tray to be x-rayed for safety. Then through the detector arch for a personal scan. I’m OK with this but my other half has a replacement knee that always stirs the detector into life with flashing light and much beeping. A quick body search with her arms stretched out and legs akimbo gives us clearance to proceed through to our waiting tray of personal trinkets, and I can once more try to thread my belt through the multitude of loops that adorn my shorts. Trouble is I don’t twist round like I used to; something to do with a waist line that has expanded ever so slightly I believe, so I always fail and miss one of the darn things and spend the rest of the journey with an irritating and uncomfortable crease in my waistline.

Then it’s queue for a last passport check, queue for breakfast and a coffee, queue for a newspaper and queue for the loo. Seek out a seat, and wait.

At last the boarding gate number comes up.

Do you know Gatwick? I feel without a doubt they could hold a marathon in those walkways and still have room for the 800 metres! They go on forever. And please tell me… why is my gate number always the one at the far end?

You plod on. On to moving platforms that double your speed, but still are not fast enough for some folk who charge by as if the Valkyrie are in hot pursuit.

At last your gate is reached. Once more you sit and wait. Seat row numbers are called and there’s a surge of activity. The big rush. Why do we act like this? The darn plane is going nowhere till we are all on board, but we still try to gain that few feet of territorial advantage over the family with three kids and a pushchair! Anyway, we got on board and quickly settled down to suck on a sweet ready for take off. Helps the ears to pop apparently. The plane was pushed back. The engines started and we trundled forward for a few yards. We then stopped and a 20-minute delay followed, due to what appeared to be every plane in the airport queuing up at the same time, to take off from its solitary runway. I ran out of sweets before we left the ground. Never mind… once (at last) airborne I relaxed in anticipation of my eagerly awaited tot of brandy and ginger ale. A tipple that has become a tradition on any holiday flight, no matter what time of day or night. “Sorry, sir. No brandy.” I mean… What?! No brandy on a duty-free flight? Never mind… Cyprus is four and a quarter hours away. Plenty of time to have a Gatwick? Gatwalk more like bloody good sulk! The holiday was great! Super hotel with fabulous staff. Lovely weather and meeting up with friends from years past. Then comes the day to return home… The phone buzzes… e-mail. Ahhh! Ummm! No aircraft available. 24-hour delay. Never mind, an extra day at our hotel. Sorry… no! We have to follow the normal booking-out routine, along with a coach trip, as if the standard service is still operating, so that all passengers can be settled together at a convenient hotel for the airport. Two hours later, after a meandering ride to the airport picking up our fellow travelling companions from hotels along the way, we swap to another coach and then drive to the designated hotel, we at last collapse into our new room. Three quarters of the day gone and just a touch irritable. Nice hotel though, good food, lovely setting, and the view from the beautiful lawns was very appealing. So a wander down to the magnificent cliff top vista of some quarter of a mile or so down to the next hotel. It was the one we had just come from over two hours ago! We could have walked it in ten minutes. A certain phrase centred around a poorly organised visit to a party at a brewery came to mind. Next day, home. The plane was big. Very big. It was called a Dream Liner I believe. No hot food available though, not even a toasted sandwich. But, yes, they did have brandy! Off again soon. I eagerly await the journey. It’s quite good fun if you don’t weaken, I believe. Honest! John Nash