Note: Words in italics appear in English in Beaumont’s original French account. Where Beaumont is discussing flying I have often given the original French in square brackets for the record and because exact translation is often impossible – Tom Brearley, Sept 2012.
Translated from
'Mes Trois Grandes Courses'
by André Beaumont (1912)
Chapter V
Circuit of Britain
INCENTIVE GIVEN BY THE "DAILY MAIL".||FROM BROOKLANDS TO HENDON.||FROM HARROGATE TO EDINBURGH.||THE STIRLING RAIN.||DRAMATIC FLIGHTS IN SCOTLAND.|| HALT AT SETTLE.||TRIBULATIONS FROM CARLISLE TO MANCHESTER.||FINALLY, AT BRISTOL.||THE CALM AFTER THE STORM.||LONDON FETES THE AVIATORS.
A few days after the Circuit of Europe, I get ready to participate in the Circuit of Britain [le tour d’Angleterre], organised at the initiative of Lord Northcliffe, the proprietor of the London Daily Mail.
Lord Northcliffe will be remembered as a great patron of Aviation. It was he who, in 1909, put up a prize of 50,000 francs to reward the first aviator to cross the English Channel: and Blériot’s historic victory of 25 July 1909 opened up a new, triumphal era for flight.
It was also he, who, in 1910, promised a prize of 250,000 francs for the aeroplane which flew from London to Manchester: Paulhan demonstrated, by his brilliant success, that long distance flights were from then on a real possibility.
Finally, it is Lord Northcliffe, who today, through a further prize of 250,000 francs, wishes to encourage aviators from every country, and machines and engines of every design, to compete against the other, to attempt to identify the best flying machine of 1911 and to bring it to the attention of his fellow countrymen.
I minutely study the course to be completed. Essentially, one must fly right round England and pass through the south of Scotland. This Circuit of Britain presents numerous and serious difficulties.
1st It will be necessary to fly over the mountains of Scotland - jagged, steep- sided, scattered with peaks - and, therefore, formidable for landings.
2nd The British year contains, on average, three hundred days of rain, mist and fog – the pilots will have, without doubt, a difficult struggle to maintain the correct heading.
3rd A rule prohibits the substitution of either machine or engine – five parts of the one, and five parts of the other will be marked at the start. At the finish two parts of the machine and two parts of the engine must be shown to be unaltered. The propeller and the undercarriage, particularly vulnerable parts, may be replaced.
4th There will be three compulsory rests of twelve hours (‘resting time’), at Edinburgh, at Bristol and at Brighton.
The need to retain the same engine and the almost certain inclemency of the atmosphere give me some quite lively concerns. But, thanks to the well known sporting instinct, the lure of these obstacles overcomes my reasoned fears, and I decide, gladly, to enter my name for the race.
The preliminary elements of the contest begin some days before the Circuit of Europe. For, from the 18 July, the English officials draw the starting order of the contestants.
I learn that first place has been allocated to me. The English and French newspapers have the courtesy to consider this hazard a happy omen. People congratulate me from both sides of the Channel. I am far from sharing the pleasure of my friends.
To start first from the take-off line is in reality to be under a disadvantage. Every aviator participating in a race by far prefers to get away after the second or third competitor; in assisting the first two or three take-offs [en assistant aux deux ou trois premiers vols], he can study the turbulence unique to each aerodrome [les remous particuliers à chaque aerodrome], the direction to follow, and he also has time to master his emotions.
If my starting number does not exactly enchant me, I am nonetheless very happy to have the opportunity to attempt a long flight of 1,600 kilometres in new, very practical conditions.
I embark from Dieppe. All the passengers ignore me on board: no postcards to autograph! I have signed so much for the last month and a half, in all weathers, and in all places, that my present anonymity feels extremely pleasant to me.
But then, on my arrival at Newhaven, a station employee cries out, “Beaumont! Beaumont!” a telegram in his hand. Pens and papers come out of pockets as if by magic… and the agony of autographs begins again. I try to escape them by jumping into a passenger compartment.
A reporter from the Daily Mail is waiting for me in Victoria-Cross Station [sic] at customs. To avoid mistakes as to identity, and loss of time, he had despatched a detective to find me, who picks me up as the train stops and brings me before the pleasant journalist. We climb into a taxi and are instantly whisked away to the Savoy Hotel! The reporter begins questioning me straight away. He tries very hard to conduct an interview there and then; but the driver of the vehicle, who had recognised me, tries even harder to show me that he can do 60 as well as I can – in streets crowded with pedestrians and traffic! We proceed at a break-neck speed, which prevents all conversation. In the various countries where I have raced, motorists always drive me at the same devilish pace. Courtesy? A bizarre caprice? I do not know. We reach the Savoy, and the interview continues in my rooms. My interlocutor asks me what I think of the Circuit of Britain, stage by stage. The question embarrasses me. It is not really possible for me to explain, in great detail, the tactics I hope to employ. Nethertheless, I show him my maps from the War Office, prepared for the race. “How long will the Circuit take?” he asks with a certain anxiety, no doubt slightly concerned over the result of this perilous line of questioning. “One cannot say – three, four days if circumstances are favourable, if accidents to the machines do not occur, if … “ His countenance brightens, and he moves on to talk to me of the article which I wrote for this morning’s edition of the London Daily Mail (20th July) (1)
Footnote(1) How I feel in air race [sic]. M. William, editor of the Daily Mail, has translated my text into English with a literary elegance for which I thank him.
I leave London the next day, the 21st, to establish myself at Weybridge, about 2 kilometres from the track at Brooklands - the take-off point for the aviators. Someone tells me the curious origin of the aerodrome. A lord with a passion for fast automobiles found himself reduced to a speed of 10 or 12 miles per hour by the law. He therefore resolved to have a motor track for himself alone, and created, on an immense estate, a concrete race track four miles in circumference. He had to carve through a small hill, cut through a forest, and pay out one to two millions. But what did it matter when he was throwing his motors round at 150 kilometres per hour! In the course of time a club bought the track from him, to race cars and bicycles. Now in recent times, the centre of the track has been transformed into an aerodrome for the use of Londoners. The siting does not strike me as exactly perfect: 32 kilometres separate it from London; a river runs through it; and its magnificent trees make a belt round it as dangerous as it is picturesque.
I see an embryonic flying school there, with permanent hangars made of wood. Temporary hangars have also been erected here and there, made from canvas: one has been reserved for me. It is there that I find my monoplane: 50 horse power with a standard propeller. The representative from Shell petrol accompanies me. We make our way with difficulty through the crowd of people and motors, because today they are competing for the Prince Henry cup for automobiles – automobiles which shoot past at immense speed! At last I make contact, near my hangar, with the mechanics who will follow me on the Circuit.
The heat is suffocating. There has been no wind the past three days.
While waiting for the machine to be made ready, I lie down on the ground in the hangar. An English portraitist comes towards me and asks if I would like to pose for ten minutes to complete the collection of aviators’ portraits appearing in the Daily Mail. Although tired, I agree, and sit myself down near to the tent. While he sketches, the artist – who is talented by the way – reminds me (him too!) of my article in the Daily Mail. He perceived from it, to my deep astonishment, that I have “the soul of a poet and of a dreamer!”
After having lunched at the aviators’ hotel, the pleasant Heath Club, with some English friends, I return to the airfield through the oppressive heat. As the thermometer rises, my courage sinks. Fortunately, I am only a spectator for the moment.
Indeed, here are the officials who will imprint my machine with the permanent marks. They choose the two wings, a longeron in the fuselage, the tailplane, and the rudder. They pass a steel wire through the wings and put in place a seal, which they emboss with a special mark: a circle painted red surrounding the pierced point [Ils passent un fil de fer dans les ailes et mettent un plomb, qu’ils écrassent avec un cachet spécial: un cercle à la peinture rouge entoure le point troué].
The marking of the motor is effected by means of a little portable electric drill, which is used to engrave two letters on: 1st two cylinders; 2nd the forward tank; 3rd the crankcase; 4ththe rear end of the crank shaft [la partie arrière de l’arbre] – making five parts in all. The various items are recorded in an official logbook, which the aviator must wear round his neck during the whole journey and present to the race steward on each stopover, for the times of landing and take-off to be added.
From then on, my big bird [mon grand oiseau] is properly under starter’s orders; it inspires me with confidence. I had added a tank capable of holding 15 litres of petrol in order to carry my flying time from three hours to three hours forty-five and allow me to accomplish the long Hendon-Harrogate stage without a stop (292 kilometres). Wishing to test it, I take-off to go and reconnoitre the route from Brooklands to Hendon, which is in general difficult [difficile en général].
The majority of competing aviators take to the air, while the others undertake the final tasks to ready their machines. I note with what care the English correct their compasses. Everyone is astonished that I do not imitate them; I reply that two or three degrees of compass error is insignificant due to the prevalence of drift in an aeroplane. An approximation is sufficient. [Je réponds que les deux ou trois degrés d’erreur d’une boussole disparaissant par suite de l’importance de la dérive en aéroplane. Une approximation suffit.]
I see the famous machine of the Austrian Lieutenant Bier brought out, with its 140 horse power engine. Notable also is the aeroplane of Cody, quickly nicknamed The Cathedral. The machine does justice to the name of Cody for the ingenious inventor built every part of her, without the help of a single craftsman.
A new Bristol monoplane also attracts my attention: its streamlined shape [sa forme de moindre résistance à l’avancement] has been designed by Prier, who flew from London to Paris non-stop in four hours using the machine Leblanc flew in the Circuit of the East.
A pilot about to fly must have a store of physical energy [doit s’approvisioner de forces physiques] and his nervous system must be rested. I get up very late the following day, the 22nd July, despite the smart servant at the Hand and Spear (Hotel of the Hand and Spear, in Weybridge) arriving repeatedly to let me know that it is 8:30, 9:30, and 10:30. Towards 1 o’ clock, at lunch time, the principal aviators of the Circuit sit down together for a meal; relations between them remain friendly.
I reach Brooklands at 2:15.
To my great surprise, my engine is not in good condition: the spark plugs are fouled [encrassées]. I get them changed. The series of problems is going to continue. Changing into the aviator’s garb, I notice that my wool cap [mon polo] has disappeared – my faithful companion from Paris to Rome and on the Circuit of Europe. Poor hat! It witnessed my disappointment at Nice, and my victory at Rome. It protected me in Holland, and reached Vincennes. It’s loss exacerbates my bad mood. The heat irritates me too. I damn the wind and turbulence [le vent and les remous] of Brooklands to all the devils. And I curse those curious spectators who, in their hundreds, invade my hangar.
But that is not all.
As I am bringing out my machine to the starting line to get away at 3 o’ clock – the officially designated start time – one of the fifteen or twenty photographers present says to me, with a dumbfounded air: “You’re leaving already! The start isn’t taking place until 5 o’ clock!” I must take off first, they have scheduled the start for 3 o’ clock, I am ready, and without telling me they change the time! Moreover, they have told no-one. Some lively protests are made and get lost in an intense commotion that follows. We learn that the first take-off will be at 4 o’ clock. What a frantic hour, what an unsporting delay!
I complain like everybody else and become, despite myself, the centre of a group of reporters swarming around an aviator who is talking at last! I hear this explanation for the unjustifiable delay: “The English are of the opinion that if the start were held now, there would be only two aviators able to take-off, Védrines and yourself.”
At 3:45, the machines are brought up to the white line. We follow. A magnificent spectacle! Some thousands and thousands of automobiles are arranged with perfect symmetry between the aerodrome and the far side of the race track. They resemble the rays of a circle whose centre is the aerodrome. The innumerable spectators give the impression of an immense living field from which emerge legions of multicoloured parasols. There is something uniquely extraordinary about the scene, incapable of description.
At 3:50, a little calmed by so much beauty, I see representatives of the press at my side. I remember my hat, and the idea comes to me of using the organs of the press to get it back. I advise the journalists that I wish to talk with them. One of them comes over and asks me if I have a complaint about one of his colleagues: “Not at all, on the contrary, I am seeking your help. My cap has vanished, a woollen cap of no value whatsoever. But it recalls a host of memories for me, whenever I hold it. I promise a substantial reward to whoever brings it back to me.” Nervous and hurried, I spoke in French. M. Ratmanoff, the maker of my propeller, translated my words. The journalists offered their condolences and allowed me to publicise the disappearance of my old cap. I am in my machine – it is 4 o’ clock.
I climb rapidly and very steeply (as I was later able to observe thanks to a London cinematographist). I was worried that the eddies over the wood would pull me down into the trees which border the track. My rise is so rapid that my motor slows down considerably. It seems not to be running quite as it should, it seems to me it is performing poorly. The sun scorches down and the wind tires me out. That layer of air which is in contact with the sun-baked surface of the track is superheated [surchauffée].
---
This dangerous state of the atmosphere does not surprise me. I was prepared for the struggle and bring everything under control, despite the treacherous air [la traîtrise de l’air]. To the great astonishment of the spectators, my machine flies on without the least worrying oscillation. After having made a semi-circle round the aerodrome at an altitude of 300 metres, I set out across the very pretty and green London region, looking out for the Thames, Ariadne’s thread, to lead me to Hendon. I recognise the hotel at Weybridge, adorned with its charming red brick tower, clothed in ivy. Very quickly, I find the Thames, which is thin and meandering at this point. In the distance, I see it lose itself among large ponds, then widen to bathe the city of London and take on the character of a majestic river. I follow its eastern loops with my eyes, but make sure I do not drift towards them.
All along my course, the country which unfolds is covered with handsome villas, surrounded by attractive gardens and shady parks. I pass over the populous suburbs of Hounslow and Acton, shaken from time to time by air currents; but they are more unexpected than violent. A fairly strong North West wind pushes me to my right, towards London, black and smoky. The largest city in the world is there, under my right wing. Its most exclusive suburbs appear, neatly laid out and sharply illuminated in the bright sunlight. Those furthest from me take shape only vaguely and disappear into the haze of the horizon. All around the vast metropolis shines a tangled network of railways, converging upon the heart of England, resembling a great spider’s web.
This wonderful vision, absorbed in a few seconds, is so striking that it will for ever remain an indelible memory.
A little beyond London, I recognise the reservoirs of Hendon through the flashing disc of my propeller. They are located hard by the airfield. My engine is now running with such force that I am compelled to throttle back several times. I land in the middle of a welcoming crowd.