It was one evening in the summer, when I was working a bit late on a fabric repair to wing of one of the club gliders; when I had a strange encounter. Until now I have chosen not to talk about it, in case I got my leg pulled. As you will be aware, even with summer temperatures it is preferable to leave 20 to 30 minutes between coats when spraying dope, to ensure good adhesion to the previous coat. The usual crowd who normally prop up the bar after a days flying had drifted away home or to play bowls or to ensure their evening meal was in the oven and not the dog. I decided to get the last of the five coats of dope on the fabric patch so the aeroplane might be used the following day.

They are a good bunch and I suspect were feeling a little guilty because they were leaving me to it. They had plied me with alcoholic refreshments before leaving and had left about threequarters of bottle of single malt behind the bar with the invitation to help myself. Now the mix of dope fumes and alcoholic is pretty potent stuff but having had a little practice I was not too worried. Any way I quickly got into the routine of spraying on a coat of dope and staggering across the compound to sit quietly at the bar taking advantage of my good fortune both of being left in peace and quiet and having access to the bottle. I believe I was on about the sixth coat, yes I know I said only five were required but the malt was good; when I was surprised by a visitor. I thought everyone had gone home but assumed that I was not the only one to be working a little late.

I did not recognise the newcomer but being a relatively new member myself thought nothing of it. He was about thirty years old, five foot six tall, slight build and sported a handle bar moustache. He was dressed most peculiarly; he wore plus fours and a strange leather-flying jacket of a type I had not seen before and a flat cap worn back to front with a pair of goggles perched on top of his head. As the dress of most glider pilots is a little eccentric I thought nothing of it at the time. Around his neck was grubby white silk scarf that looked soiled with a mixture of grease and blood. The blood was fresh, red not blackened as with old blood. The newcomer seemed to be very pale, naturally I offered him a drink that he was pleased to accept.

I asked what, where and why and learned that he had been demonstrating a new aerobatic manoeuvre at the local flying display. A bunt in a glider he said. After the dope fumes I had taken on board and perhaps the alcohol it all seemed plausible. As we sat talking he grew more and more agitated. Strangers often do in my company. It turned out that his great concern was that the last bunt was a bit low or did he say the ground was a bit high and he kept saying that the damage had to be fixed before Sir Alan saw it. Apparently he had smelt the dope fumes or was it the Malt and had come to ask if I had any Egyptian cotton, red tautening dope, some lengths of bamboo, some casin glue and some whipping cord. I had to disappoint him and tried to explain we only used Ceconite that we made go taunt with a hot iron and casin had been superseded by aerodux many years ago. None of this he seemed to understand although the nitrate dope was familiar to him. I offered another drink and said I would go over to the workshop and put together a box of repair materials for him if he cared to guard my bottle against all comers.

When I returned perhaps only ten minutes later he had gone. The empty bottle stood on the bar but my visitor had disappeared. Strange thing was there was no sign of a broken glider on the field of indeed of any sign of life other than the sheep.

I recalled my experience after reading Martin's thanks to the two Brians who had taken a glider down to the local village fete last summer. They told how they had met an old chap from the next village who as a boy had witnessed a glider crash at Upwood, sometime between the wars. The show was run by Sir Alan Cobham.