Bobby's last flight

(Photo courtesy of Gabriel as we flew above the moulin)

In his eulogy for my Da my brother spoke about Bobby's life as an aerial photographer.  He had a lot of material to draw from.  Bobby's 'missions' abroad were legendary and also the reason why he was absent from my childhood until he became terrestrial again when I was around the age of 6.

His stories always began with 'When I was in the Bahamas/Saudi/Argentina/British Guiana/etc.....' and we knew we were in for a treat because they often involved armed border police intervention,  tales of desert crossings, flying into the eye of storms,  nights in bars and long waits for the clouds to lift so they could take decent photos from the sky.

What I'd forgotten, what Ju reminded me of in his speech at the crematorium, was that there was always a 'buggeration factor' ('The buggereration factor was that we ran out of fuel and had to make an emergency landing in Nova Scotia'). 

When Bobby got more ill, back in the winter, I contacted a friend with a plane and asked if he could take Bobby up with me on a last flight.  

There were many buggeration factors through February and into the spring (bad visibility, military manoeuvres, a flooded hangar, followed by Bobby's failing health and ultimate immobility). 

The day Bobby died I got a message from my plane friend saying that he hadn't forgotten about the flight plans.  I told him it was too late and I'd only have ashes with me.  He told me that ashes were fine and (despite a law forbidding anything be thrown out of a plane) we should do it anyway, ashes and all.

Which is how we found ourselves (Lizzie, the dog, myself and the large pringles box containing Bobby) hoisting ourselves into a 1974 Ms893a Rallye in the sweltering heat of a Sunday afternoon.

We heaved into the air and the childhood excitement I'd always had looking at the aerial photos Bobby brought back from the dark room hit me. Beneath us was the place Bobby had lived in for the past sixteen years, landscapes, disconnected by land, connect when you're in the air.
 
Didier flew us south towards the mountains, across Montbel with its white laced banks and down to the airfield at Pujols to refuel.

The main road to Pamiers/Foix passes by the airfield.  This is where 'statesmen' arrive in their private jets from Paris on the rare occasion 
they bother with our far flung département.   Accidents happen on this road because drivers are busy watching the soldiers from the parachute regiment tumble from their plane and momentarily gain height with the opening canvas.  The countless times I drove Bobby back from various administrative or medical appointments in Foix, he'd make me slow down here so he could identify the small planes.

And here we were on the other side.  The sacred runway.  

Didier told me to stop talking because he had to communicate with air traffic control which turned out to be my doctor.

Dr Monestier refuelled the plane via the wing as if he was administering a drip,  before inviting us, dog, ashes and all, to the inner sanctum (a scruffy kitchen with a fridge from which he produced bottles of beer (Bobby would have approved)).

When we took off Didier asked me which way I wanted to go back.  I said via the moulin and as he didn't know where that was he got me involved in the steering.  

And there we were, with Gabby beneath us recording Bobby's last flight above the place he loved to be.