240 



THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



Photograph by Aerofilms, Limited 



FOLKESTONE, ON THE STRAIT OE DOVER, AS SEEN EROM THE AIR 



Immediately after leaving the flying field at Hounslow, the starting point in the London- 

 to- Australia flight, the world below was lost in fog, but just before reaching the outskirts 

 of Folkestone a rift in the mist enabled the aviators to catch a farewell glimpse of English 

 shores (see text below). 



the forecast was Class Y, or totally unfit 

 for flying. This was not very reassuring, 

 but our minds were made up and, come 

 fair, come foul, we were determined to 

 start. 



A few friends had gathered to bid 

 us God-speed, and, with their kindly ex- 

 pressions and cheers sounding in our 

 ears, we climbed into our seats and took 

 off from the snow-covered aerodrome. 



THE RACE BEGINS IN EARNEST 



We climbed slowly upward through the 

 cheerless, mist-laden skies, our engines 

 well throttled back and running perfectly. 

 vSo as to make sure that all was in thor- 

 ough working order, we circled for ten 

 minutes above Hounslow, then set off. 



At 2,000 feet we suddenly emerged from 

 the fog belt into brilliant sunshine, but the 

 world below was lost to sight, screened 

 by the dense pall of mist. Accordingly, 

 we set a compass course for Folkestone, 



and just before reaching the outskirts a 

 rift in the mists enabled us to pick up 

 the grand old coast-line, every inch of 

 which is measured by history ; and so we 

 checked our bearings. 



good-bye, oed England! 



There was a certain amount of senti- 

 ment, mingled with regrets, in leaving old 

 England, the land of our fathers. Stormy 

 seas were sweeping up channel, lashing 

 white foam against the gaunt, gray cliffs 

 that peered through the mists in the 

 winter light, phantom-like and unreal. 



The frigid breath of winter stung our 

 faces and chilled us through ; its garb of 

 white had fallen across the land, making 

 the prospect inexpressibly drear. The 

 roadways, etched in dark relief, stood out 

 like pencil-lines on the snow-clad land- 

 scape, all converging on Folkestone. 



I looked over the side as the town it- 

 self, which had played such an important 



