There was remarkably little traffic leaving Filton. I went with Rob, as he managed to score another ticket, and we got there nice and early, in the rain. It cleared up a little later, then got windy. We persevered. Then the rain came back. But everyone was happy in their bubble of aviation nostalgia. Then the rain stopped. There was much rejoicing.

Then the hail started. The rejoicing faltered.

Then the rain joined it, and the rejoicing turned to cries of "God, it's cold". And Lo, the almighty heard, and grinned nastily, and threw down upon us a great wind also, to intensify the sensation of hailstones down the back of our necks and wet trousers beneath out waterproof coats.

But, we faithful few (ie about 20000 people around and about), shrugged our shoulders, huddled deeper into our damp outer garments, and wiped rain from our cameras, because we were warmed by the sight of a great winged icon approaching from the east, ablaze with light and roaring with power. It moved past the assembled multitudes who gazed up at it with admiration, in near silence, and disappeared into the western sky, and as it did a miracle happened: the rain stopped, the wind died, and the sun almost came out.

In the quiet after the vision, another, smaller, icon ascended into the heavens and proceeded to roar around like a maniac, one of the few remaining airworthy spitfires. There was much rejoicing.

Soon, the huge pointy-nosed symbol of commercial aviation's brief ascendancy over sonic velocity came back, and once more there was quiet, broken only by low chatter and the dulcet tones of four Olympus engines. The great machine swept low over the ground, and once again disappeared into the distance.

The weather, deciding it had been obliging for long enough, began to produce the sort of rain tha the British Isles are so rightly famous for, the sort that penetrates any waterproof covering known to man and then forgets how to get out again. Still, the crowds stayed put.

Finally, at just after 1PM, the last ever flight of the last ever Concorde began it's final approach, coming slowly, so incredibly slowly from the east into the wind. Everyone gathered together in that huge airfield watched in silence as the machine dropped onto the runway at a speed that seemed impossible, and without a single bounce or judder rolled over the horizon and stopped.

It was a memorable occasion.

The aircraft turned around and taxied back, stopping at several places along the runway and turning to face the crowd, while applause rang out from thousands of people. We were in a group of mainly current and ex BAE staff, many of whom had designed and built the machine, and there was real emotion present, a lot of sadness and much anger as well. No-one felt that the end should have come so soon.

I'll post some pictures later, when I can feel my fingers again. Anyone who knows me knows that I had a fairly high tolerance for low temperatures, so bear that in mind when I say once more, with feeling: It was COLD. Absolutely bitter. The news helicopter hovering 100 meters above the section we were in didn't help, but even so it was freezing, dipped in liquid nitrogen, swimming in the arctic in winter cold. Thousands of people, the majority of whom were without umbrellas since they had followed the request of the organisers not to bring them because they'd interfere with peoples view, standing in the rain, hail, and wind for three hours to see the final flight of an aircraft is testament to something, although I'm not entirely sure what.

Anyway, that's what I did today. How about you?

pca