Must've been 1960-3, but flying was just within the grasp of our working class family.
Mum and Dad took the lot of us to Jersey from Manchester for a week.
For a lad in short-pants, plonked onto the front row seat (less foot room) of a Jersey Airlines De Havilland Heron, with full view of the tiny cockpit, it was the catalyst you'll all be familiar with.
The holiday was wonderful, but the trips there and back were the highlight.
As soon as I got home I made my own cockpit dashboard from a Formica washing machine top, fitted with every dial and switch I could rummage from our garden shed.
I was about to teach myself to fly!
I recall, all of us were stone deaf for at least two hour after we disembarked. We could only observe each other's lips move and attempt to lip-read.
Those Gypsy Queens were NOISY!
Here's what I saw, but I recall it as much more cramped when the pilots were included...
The only in-flight service, was a boiled sweet to suck on the descent!
