As the de Havilland DASH 7 thrashed up though the murky sky, chunks of ice were hurled from the propellers and clanged into the sides of the fuselage. Only those inured to such seemingly pioneering flying ignored the noise, ostentatiously dozing or stagily thumbing through the handout magazines. Together with the nervous old ladies, I jumped at every bang. I had found it convenient to fly from Prestwick. A visit to an old friend who lives at Bridge of Weir, Renfrewshire, had been planned for some time and as Daws has always impressed on me that one of my chief assets to him is my independent way of life, my invisibility as he calls it, which means that he doesn’t have to find excuses for me to be in various places, it seemed a good idea to keep my appointment then fly on from there. The flight from Halifax to Port Charles was short, only taking forty-five minutes, and when we landed snow had reluctantly given way to driving rain. But my spirits were well and truly raised by now, partly due to a last minute phone call from the Colonel.
