Seventy years after the first Tiger Moth took flight over English fields from the quaintly named ‘Stag Lane’, cars have parked on the verge of Old South Road to witness a similar scene. As a child sits atop their father’s shoulders, an older gentleman with a straight Air Force back casts a knowing eye. A little embarrassed by the attention, my passenger and I clamber into our respective seats and ready ourselves for flight.

Strapping into a vintage biplane has always been a snug fit, particularly with the necessary multiple layers of clothing. Sitting in tandem, with heads poking outside the cockpit, leather helmets and goggles provide further protection from the elements. Within, the furnishings are equally basic. Enveloped in the bare metal frame and its fabric skin, exposed control cables weave their way past our feet. A solitary ‘control stick’, two pedals, a couple of levers and a few ancient gauges in a varnished wooden panel complete the picture.

The antique machine is literally ‘swung’ into action with a downward thrust on the propeller. Great care is taken during this practice, particularly when alone, as tales endure of runaway Tigers. A couple of coughs and puffs of smoke and the engine throngs with a charm, reminiscent of ’Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’. At runway’s end and ready, power is increased and the aircraft slowly accelerates along the gravel runway. As momentum builds, the aircraft comes to life and the tail rises from the ground. Shortly thereafter, at a speed acceptable to the Highway Patrol, the Tiger Moth breaks its shackles and the earth falls away. Slowly. Far from being sleek, the two wooden wings are joined by a maze of struts and bracing wires, all of which fight the air as the wooden propeller drags the aeroplane aloft.

As the Tiger gains height, the surrounding countryside unravels. A push of the stick and a squeeze of the pedals wheel the machine about the horizon. Views from Razorback to Joadja greet the eye. Initially Mittagong, and then Mount Gibraltar pass to the right as the rolling green fields to the south begin to appear. The scene could be from a bygone era in the skies over England, where the Tiger Moth taught its lessons in darker times. This setting is picturesque, though any hint of peacefulness is broken by the roar of the engine and the airflow that blasts past the face at 140 km/h. The small glass windscreen is misnamed as it affords only token protection, though the modern luxury of radios replace rubber tubing to enable pilot and passenger to stay in touch.

Cruising a kilometre above the treetops, the Illawarra coastline peeps above the hamlet of Robertson whilst Fitzroy Falls looms larger ahead. The Spartan nature of the Tiger Moth adds to its allure. There are no autopilots or navigation systems beyond the map and liquid-filled compass that bounces in harmony with the engine. Many a map has last been seen flying past the tail, having been sucked from its owner’s lazy grip. Over the Falls, we turn tightly for the best view and maximum fun. Fully aerobatic, the Tiger can ‘loop the loop’, spin and weave its way through the sky in a variety of manners. Manoeuvres that were necessary as it trained the ‘Top Guns’ of yesteryear. Even so, many cherished moments are to be had simply wandering aimlessly about the sky. In a world dominated by schedules, it is an absolute pleasure to dawdle about the clouds with no particular place to go and no particular time to be there. With Burrawang behind and Berrima ahead, we take time to ‘waggle the wings’ at children waving from a dam’s edge just beyond Moss Vale. The Highlands chill bites at the cheeks and suggests without subtlety that it is time to set course for home.

Firstly Chevalier, then Bong Bong Racecourse slide beneath as Bowral sits nestled to the left. Passing ‘The Gib’, radio calls are made and the aircraft readied to land. Checks completed, power is reduced and the pop, pop, pop of the Gipsy Major engine signals that the flight’s end is near. A final turn to align with the runway, gently descending, the wind whistles through the wires. The airfield fence is crossed and the runway draws closer until man, machine and Mother Earth are once again reunited.

In an age when footraces are timed to the hundredth of a second and the Internet blinks across the globe, it can be difficult to capture a truly timeless moment. Thanks to the Tiger Moth, it may be difficult but not impossible.

(c) Owen Zupp 2011

After 14 hours of extended night, a 747-400 rolls onto final approach at Brisbane Airport. Gear down, final flaps and checks complete the modern monolith readies for its return to earth after what seems an eternity to its 350 passengers. As the wheels smack the 1500’ markers, the blue smoke puffs from the tyres and another trans-Pacific epic is over. A mere matter of wingspans away from the 747’s final place of docking, one can almost hear the contempt of the use of the term ‘epic’ rising from a landscaped garden and discreet glass fronted hangar. Within these glazed walls stands a worthy recipient of the terms pioneer and legend. Within these glazed walls stands Sir Charles Kingsford Smith’s ‘Old Bus’, The Southern Cross.

The Fokker Tri-Motor stands proudly, wrapped in a carefully controlled air-conditioned environment and surrounded by artifacts and plaques relating to its days of glory. Retired, but not forgotten, its current home pays due respect to the trials and tribulations of its historic past but is a far cry from the weather-lashed reality of its heroic adventures. To view the Southern Cross, up close and personal, is a rare privilege. Inside the confines of its stable and approaching across the clean grey floor, one cannot help but be struck with a sense of awe and reverence. This is not a replica; this is the actual craft that wrote history. An integral part of Australian aviation heritage from a time before pressurisation, GPS and affordable safety; a time of Bradman and Phar Lap.

“Southern Cross” is boldly displayed in silver along its navy blue flanks, though this was not always the case. The Fokker FVIIB had originally been owned by Antarctic explorer, Sir Hubert Wilkins and suffered through a series of trials in Alaska before coming to grief. In 1928, the fuselage and wings were subsequently bought by ‘Smithy’ and his Trans-Pacific cohort, Charles Ulm and at this time the manufacturer’s name, ‘Fokker’, graced its sides. Fitted with new Wright Whirlwind engines on its nose and silver wings, Smithy flew a series of endurance testing flights before the name “Southern Cross” was proposed by another of the team, Keith Anderson. What was to become its permanent trademark was actually supplemented by a reference to a truck manufacturer, “Faegol Flyer”, along with “The Spirit of California” in somewhat smaller sign writing. These latter examples of “American Graffiti” were removed for the trans-Pacific conquest. Ultimately, the Australian registration of “VH-USU” would adorn the fuselage in company with its name.

If the bearing of the machine impacts upon the spirit, making one’s way to the door on the starboard side is ripe with anticipation. Stooping to gain access through what is best described as a hatch, the interior is now manned by a lone wicker chair and a brass fire extinguisher that still hangs at the ready. Within this chamber Jim Warner would strain against the deafening roar to detect the hint of a radio signal that may lead them to land as they traversed the Pacific. Nearby Harry Lyon plotted the Southern Cross’ course in one of the great efforts of dead reckoning. Thrashed by weather and incessant vibration, Lyon’s sextant was of limited value and he relied on the constant of time, heading and groundspeed. Drift was calculated by throwing powder by day and flares by night into the Pacific below and subsequently flying a constant heading. Such rudimentary techniques safely saw the intrepid aviators cross over 11,000 km of ocean by day and night in three historic legs. Whilst seat pitch may not have been an issue in the Southern Cross’ cabin, there were few other ‘positives’. The noisy, draughty environment rendered communication ineffective and left the crew temporarily deaf after shutdown. Messages were exchanged between the cabin and cockpit by means of a stick with notes pinned to the end. These notes were not only used to relay operational information, but humourous and uplifting messages between the crew as they set about defying the odds. In later life the cabin played host to 12 passengers in joyflight operations, or 8 in the upmarket role of airline transport. Today the tube and fabric hull holds only memories......

Check back soon for the conclusion to "If  These Walls Could Speak"

Only a little more than an hour from Sydney lies the NSW Southern Highlands and the hamlet of Bowral. Set to a backdrop of green fields that would not be out of place in Britain, it was the boyhood home of Sir Donald Bradman, the famed cricketer. Today it is home to the International Cricket Hall of Fame http://www.internationalcrickethall.com/, which includes the Bradman Gallery.

As I wandered through the halls past intriguing artefacts and interactive displays, I couldn’t help but be impressed at this tribute to not just a man, but a wonderful game. And yet, something even more striking pervaded my thoughts; just as the game had changed, so had we. Time has seen an amateur game grow into a global business being instantaneously flashed across the globe via satellite. Families no longer huddle around the wireless to hear the broadcast from far flung fields, but check the latest scores on their iPhone Apps.

It’s almost a case of innocence-lost in an effort to keep pace with the ever-changing world and ever-increasing competition for market share. And yet in these halls, there are interviews continuously broadcast with elder statesmen using well chosen words in modest tones; there are no ‘high-fives’ here. One can only wonder at the sponsorship dollars ‘The Don’ would have accrued in the 21st Century.

And yet, just as the Hall of Fame takes the guest on a journey through the ages, I recognise that change is inevitable. I respect the professionalism and dedication displayed by our modern players in a game that now demands so much of their lives beyond the picket fence. But like life in general, we all have a secret longing for a ‘simpler’ time I suspect. Furthermore, all too often the good that stems from the sport can be overlooked. The Bradman Foundation is a charitable organisation with a specific charter. A number of players past and present have their own foundations; Glenn McGrath,  Steve Waugh and  Ricky Ponting just to name a few.

As we move forward at an ever-increasing pace and seemingly demand instantaneous gratification from everything, including our past-times, maybe we should stop and pause. Stop and pause to remember those who have founded our institutions, those who have excelled and those who have tirelessly kept the dream alive. Stop and pause to think about the simple pleasures and the sheer joy of youngsters playing the game for the game’s sake and little else. Stop and pause about where the future lies and making change for the right reasons.

Sport in itself is not life, but is rich in life’s lessons. From a young age, it teaches humility, disappointment, determination and joy. It teaches co-operation, patience and the fact that anything worthwhile takes time and effort. There are so many fledgling qualities that can be introduced through sport and carried through on the larger stage of life.

For my part, I will continue to wander these hallowed halls in Bowral and step lightly between yesteryear and today, trying to learn what I can from past and present. I will recognise that it’s ‘only a game’ but value the lessons and respect the traditions. Places like the International Cricket Hall of Fame are national treasures and not just for the sporting enthusiast, for they offer a glimpse into the past with one foot in the present. And as we know, there is much to be learned from those who have gone before.

Cheers.

Please support these very worthy foundations.

The Bradman Foundation. http://www.bradman.com.au/

The McGrath Foundation. http://www.mcgrathfoundation.com.au/

The Steve Waugh Foundation. http://www.stevewaughfoundation.com.au/

The Ponting Foundation. http://pontingfoundation.com.au/