The Epilogue – Part One
We all have that special place in our hearts, either somewhere we called home, or somewhere that has done much to influence who were are. This eBook is about an aerodrome and about my fight to save it, from what I often describe as “inappropriate” redevelopment. The emphasis is in the word “inappropriate”, because nothing in life stays the same. Even our most prized and architecturally important structures and sites are transformed by the passage of time and changing needs and attitudes.
Most of us appreciate good architecture. What is also important, yet harder to quantify, is the contribution made towards our history and social/cultural wellbeing, by numerous, mundane buildings, that go unnoticed, until it’s too late. Sometimes these are aesthetically pleasing to the eye, but most are utilitarian in design, and accordingly their fate is usually terminal.
I was once told to be objective when dealing with the good, the great and the influential, and not to be subjective. This was while trying to convince others that our aerodrome heritage is important enough to be saved from the wrecking ball. I tried this tactic and it failed – not only me – but the countless number of historically important buildings that no longer exist. This book therefore goes against the grain, partially because of the pain and suffering inflicted by the ineptitude of others, and because it’s time to tell it how it is.
Strawsons Property
It’s been a few months since the fate of RAF Driffield was decided. I can’t even remember how I found out that Roger was unsuccessful in his bid. I was truly devastated – not knowing what went wrong, or who to turn to. The good news is that Strawsons Property, who bought the site, were kind enough to hear my concerns. I met Adrian Sail (Property Manager) on camp on April 20th 2007, and I again walked around the site, detailing my proposals. I think I made an impression, but it’s still early days. The bad news is that Strawsons Property have an unsympathetic track record for redeveloping former RAF bases.
In 1997, this Retford-based development company bought former RAF Swinderby (near Lincoln) and soon afterwards, most of the domestic site was demolished. It appears that no attempt was made to reuse the original buildings. Ten years after being sold, and only now has the site largely been redeveloped. The houses that have been built are selling from between £175k and £250k. Strawsons Property also bought former RAF Upwood, a site not dissimilar to Driffield. Most of the buildings on both sites are identical. The future of RAF Upwood is questionable. The local planning authority are not keen to see the site become one giant housing estate, yet it appears that Strawsons Property will again end up demolishing the existing buildings.
I was recently informed by Strawsons Property that they are in talks with the Army Cadet Force (ACF) over their training centre at Driffield. This has been confirmed by the ACF. I understand that Strawsons Property have offered to relocate the ACF to another part of the camp, in exchange for this valuable enclave.
As someone keen to see the site preserved, I’m deeply concerned that the ACF might be hoodwinked into relinquishing the enclave, based on false promises. I suspect that the guardroom, former station headquarters and sick-quarters might be demolished to make way for executive housing.
Strawsons Property make money from building luxury houses, and not by leasing 70-year-old refurbished buildings. I understand that reassurances have been made that these buildings will be preserved, but this does not make financial sense. The cost of building a new cadet training centre will be too costly to be recouped from renting out the existing buildings, contained within the enclave. However, building twenty or thirty £200,000 houses does make financial sense.
I understand that several signs were recently erected and I believe that Strawsons are prepared to sell parts of the site to other developers. I still keep in contact with Roger Collins, feeding him information regarding the sale of other MoD married quarters. There might even be the possibility of him buying part of RAF Driffield from Strawsons Property.
In order to put across my proposals, I would still like to produce a series of illustrations and plans of RAF Driffield to help prove a point. I am also hoping that Strawsons Property will allow an archaeological survey of the site. I suspect something is buried in the land between the officer’s mess and the accommodation blocks, possibly rubble from when the airfield was bombed in 1940. Although the aerodrome only opened in 1936, there is still a lot we don’t really know about its history.
There also needs to be a full field survey of the site before any of the buildings are demolished. When the final act of demolition is carried out, I won’t be present, but that final act also needs to be documented. I still believe that flying could return to Driffield, even after the camp has been demolished.
Looking at the wider picture, there may be only one or two people I know who can make things happen, and secure the return of flying to Driffield. Whether they themselves would agree is another matter. Locally there is both support and opposition to my proposal.
One local businessman has expressed an interest in setting up the Driffield Flying Club, while another is keen to relocate his aviation business to Driffield, though only if the airfield was to reopen. Personally, I would like to establish the Yorkshire Vintage Gliding Club, while another individual is or was keen to relocate his Parachute School to Driffield. Obviously, the airfield is still owned by the MoD, and will remain so for some considerable time. That said, there will come a time when they will leave, and then I hope that aviation will again return to former RAF Driffield.
and another thing…
According to my dentist I grind my teeth. Apparently, this is a sign of both stress and anxiety. I’m not surprised. With each passing day, I increasingly feel like kicking and screaming. The uncertainty over the future of RAF Driffield, and my inability to do anything constructive, makes me restless. The incompetence and inconsideration of others, or rather their actions, also adds to my anxiety. Paranoia is another demon that constantly rests upon my shoulder.
My biggest discovery is that being attentive or nice doesn’t work. You may collect a few brownie points by opening a door for someone, but being polite towards those who care little for your cause is just a waste of civility. The problem is, I’m not an aggressive type of person. I rarely get angry or raise my voice. I am a subservient campaigner: unwilling to upset my opponent. I have also found it impossible to raise awareness about the plight of RAF Driffield or our crumbling aerodrome heritage.
I once thought about dumping marker dye in the River Thames. The premise was simple. During the war, when bomber crews ditched in the North Sea, they would often throw green marker dye overboard to attract attention. Turning the River Thames bright green would have attracted a lot of media attention. Politicians and their minions rarely do what you want them to do, unless provoked by either the media or mass opinion. They are rarely persuaded by a lone voice, especially one from East Yorkshire.
The problem is not me or RAF Driffield. The problem is with our society. What should be important isn’t, and what isn’t important is hyped as being essential. We are celebrity driven. Our society and its values have become so disjointed as to undermine the tremendous sacrifices made in our recent past. The real tragedy is that New Britain (and its media led/created fads and obsessions) make it nearly impossible to be heard, unless you do run amok and cause mayhem. Even then, you’re only guaranteed 15 minutes of fame, which is not enough to do justice to any cause.
The only danger of kicking up a fuss is in alienating your supporters, or more likely, those who sit on the sideline; those unwilling to get their own hands dirty. The best way to distract from your own inadequacies is to ridicule or debase those who really stand up and fight for what they believe in. So, I can’t see me chaining myself to a JCB as it smashes into the officer’s mess on camp. Being chastised is a strong deterrent against subversion. I also don’t want to debase the memory of those who served at RAF Driffield, and who paid the ultimate sacrifice.
But what to do? Time is running out and that adds to my anxiety. English Heritage walked away from RAF Driffield in 2003. The East Riding of Yorkshire Council also refused to get involved – not wanting to upset the commercially-sensitive applecart. The Driffield Times and Post publish my articles, usually when they need to fill space during a slow week. The next twelve months will be critical for former RAF Driffield and there is little a lone voice can do to change the course of progress. Feeling powerless is unnerving. You can’t run away. You simply can’t. You’re locked in a collision course with the destiny not of your making.
I often dream about RAF Driffield. Like most dreams, they are abstract and disjointed. They usually involve the camp on the verge of oblivion – not totally gone, but neither complete. I welcome them, but worry that they do some damage inside. I am truly hurt by the indifference of others and by my inability to do more than just write letters or emails.
That said, I am not alone in voicing my concerns over our neglected aerodrome heritage, nor indeed am I the only one who wants to see RAF Driffield preserved. But we are few in number and most of my supporters are not native to Driffield. But what can I do?
Some have argued that my “obsession” relates to saving my childhood home. However, if Driffield Aerodrome is to survive, then those attributes that I hold dear will be the first to go. What made RAF Driffield special to me was its windswept abandonment – an old airfield that demanded to be explored. If RAF Driffield is to survive and prosper, then the RAF Driffield of my youth has to go. The site will require new buildings juxtapositioned with the old. The grass will need to be cut and windows repaired.
But I really do have a problem with the apathetic populous of Driffield.
Yet, as I write this, and after all I have gone through, the truth is that I, and no one else, failed RAF Driffield. Not because it was always a lost cause, but because of my inability to motivate myself, especially when battling against indifference, and after my failed business ventures. With me at the helm, the writing was always going to be on the wall.
Like many, I still daydreamed about a better life or becoming more ambitious, but I never really thought seriously about saving RAF Driffield, until it was too late. Therefore, I find it hard to blame the apathy and indecision of others, even if I’d like to. Even though I did more than most, the hard reality is that compared to the hardworking ethos of others, what I did was insufficient and below par. At the end of the day, I did not give 100%.
From the heart, I simply feel I can do no more. I wish I could say I tried my best, but I didn’t and the thought of losing RAF Driffield is becoming unbearable. I could also say that my reputation is at stake, but my reputation is one of a sad and rather annoying enthusiast, bent on becoming a nuisance to anyone in receipt of one of my emails. Many still feel that the future of this site is no concern of mine. Yet my detractors don’t know me:
My relationship with RAF Driffield changed two days after it
finally closed as a military camp in 1996.
In 1995, I started my own business with the help of the Princes Youth Business Trust (PYBT). But I failed, and accordingly I lost everything – including my rented home in Bridlington. I subsequently ended up in a Salvation Army hostel in Hull – a wretched place, filled with petty criminals, drug addicts and unwarranted discipline. On June 28th 1996, RAF Driffield closed. I wanted to be at the closing ceremony, but my Giro went missing (possibly stolen by another resident – I can’t remember). Unable to afford the train fare to Driffield, I sat in my small 10ft x 8ft cubical – cold and miserable.
That day, the Royal Air Force said goodbye to RAF Driffield. The event was marked with a flypast by the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight’s Avro Lancaster PA474 and the symbolic lowering of the RAF ensign. That evening I waited to watch the local news, but some thug marched into the communal lounge and switched the TV onto another channel. What could I do?
My debts ran into thousands and I felt trapped. For three years, my life was my business (and vice versa) and I saw no way out. The worse part of it was waking up in the morning – that moment between sleep and being fully conscious – when you’re unaware of your surroundings and predicament. Lasting maybe a few seconds, I became to despise that short moment in time – that moment of tranquillity. I became very depressed and despondent. I hated being alone – on my own. My mind would drift towards blackened despair. I wanted to end it all. But something happened that would change my life around, albeit gradually.
I ended up in Driffield a few days later (Sunday, June 30th), visiting my sister (my mum was also visiting for the weekend). Before or after tea (I forget which), I walked the walk – down to the camp – for what I felt then would be the last time. The majesty of my home – my camp (no one else’s). The people had gone – the airmen – few in number, but the sun shone on my final parade. The rain of two days previous had been replaced by a glorious summer’s afternoon – so reminiscent of my childhood days, never bettered.
I walked past the officer’s mess and the housing estate, where I grew up. Past the guardroom, now empty. Past the MT section and firing range and towards hangar No.1. Then the airfield – empty. Indeed, no more happy landings. I first set eyes on the airfield in the spring or summer of 1973. I was only seven. Now in 1996, as then, I stood there, looking across my airfield. I cried like a fucking baby. The control tower had gone, and so had the runways, but I was home.
I don’t know how long I stood there. Maybe an hour. Thinking all the time. All those happy memories. There was no covenant, not even a sense of purpose. Being with my old friend put things into perspective. I never thought about suicide after that day, and while [recent] times have been hard, RAF Driffield [that day] saved me. I never mentioned this to anyone – until now – not even to my family or friends. The changes in my circumstances were gradual, but RAF Driffield saved me. My perspective on my predicament changed, and while I did my best to save my business, its inevitable end was less painful than otherwise would have been the case.
Looking back, my biggest regret is the upset I caused my mum. Before being evicted from my rented office in Hull, and before the phone was cut off, my mother left a message on the answer phone. A couple of years ago, I found the tape and listened to that final message from a mother – her voice strained – not knowing if her son was alive or dead. At the time, it didn’t register that my mum was also going through hell. That tape – that recording – my mother’s voice, haunts me to this day.
RAF Driffield is worth saving, and I’m not giving up, even though I have waded through so much indifference and derision. It would be wrong to say that the apathy and contempt shown by those who don’t have the courtesy to even reply to my emails hasn’t hurt, but I would endure the almost unendurable in equal measure again and again, if I felt it would make a difference. I only wish my efforts were acknowledged or appreciated locally. I’m seen as a crackpot by some, but common sense dictates that I am right. RAF Driffield can be preserved and realise a return on investment to those in a better financial position than me.
I cannot and will not blame my interest in saving this aerodrome for all my failings in life. I am who I am, but without RAF Driffield, either then or now, I would probably be a more successful and happier person. There is a lot wrong with my life and I have many regrets, but I wouldn’t change a thing (though, I wish I had joined the RAF – too late now). Yet, I cannot walk away from RAF Driffield, simply because the writing is on the wall. I know and have been proven right. The future preservation of former RAF Driffield, through sympathetic redevelopment, can be profitable. And what is profitable is viable – and what is viable can happen. I just need – I don’t know – maybe a cattle prod?
The Future?
I know in my heart of hearts that if I haven’t achieved anything substantial by late autumn, then its time to shut up shop for the winter. I’m still keen to start another business, but my funds are limited and my motivation has waned.
The future? Well, once this eBook has been published, I plan to finish Bomber Boys. The idea is to secure enough funds from TX/DVD sales to secure my own PC and DV camera, using match grant aid available from my local council. Thereafter, I hope to set up my own low budget production company, specialising in making ‘small’ documentary films. I’m also working towards finishing my photographic essay on Hull’s thriving band scene. Entitled Earplugs Optional, I hope to mount and frame 40 prints for an exhibition in the summer of 2008. This will also appear on my website.
Also, to prove a point, I might revisit one or two past projects –
like postcard publishing, using my own images and outsourcing the printing to China. I would also like to start a much smaller aeronautical heritage project. I’ve given much thought about opening an RAF Driffield History Room, attached to an existing museum or commercial entity in Driffield. I’m desperately in need of some more brownie points, and perhaps the locals will start to respect their own heritage.
One problem I have overcome is my morbid obesity. In the final year at school (1981 to 1982), I would sign myself out during lunchtime to visit Scabby Jack’s Fish and Chips Emporium in the town centre. For nearly a year, I ordered on a daily basis: “chips on a tray with scraps, please” (20p). This would be liberally smothered with FREE ketchup. At the same time, the amount of sport at school was reduced to make way for exams, so I started to pile on the pounds. Just prior to my 40th birthday in 2005, I suffered from a mid-life crisis (my second or third?). I tried to cheer myself up by eating ‘happy food’. Some idiot (a postman) posted through my letterbox a booklet of BOGOF vouchers for McDonalds. For two weeks, I ate and ate Big Mac after Big Mac, until one day I realised I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t even wipe my…
Anyway, I weighed myself in Boots the Chemist and discovered I weighed in at 26 stone (364 pounds), I poo’d myself and instantly lost three pounds. Shocked at my predicament I visited the doctor and he referred me to a dietician and an ‘active lifestyle’ advisor. I lost a few pounds, but it wasn’t enough. After watching several TV programmes on the subject, I decided the only solution was to have my stomach stapled, and it worked. My operation was on May 19th 2007, and since then I have lost around six stone (84 pounds). For the first time in 15 years, I have dropped below twenty stones (current weight: 17st).
It’s not been easy, but things are improving. By the first anniversary of the operation, I should be down to my ideal weight (168 pounds). And all because I wanted to finally accomplish two childhood ambitions – to go scuba diving and gain my glider pilot’s licence. With losing so much weight, I feel great. I’m more active. I feel the difference.
Well, my story is all but told. I hope you enjoyed reading my eBook – a factual account of what is happening to our crumbling aerodrome heritage. Juxtaposed with this insight, is my own personal account of being on the front line. I hope that being honest about who I am, and where I come from, will help secure support for my endeavours. I’m not after the sympathy vote, not unless it comes wrapped in a dollar bill or sponsorship. Neither do I wish to be seen as a victim of circumstance (bad luck), and therefore someone to be pitied. I wrote this book, because I want Royal Air Force Station Driffield preserved, for future generations to explore and to appreciate. Can you help? Please feel free to forward this eBook (or hard copy) to your family, friends and colleagues.
We all have that special place in our hearts, either somewhere we called home, or somewhere that has done much to influence who were are. This eBook is about an aerodrome and about my fight to save it, from what I often describe as “inappropriate” redevelopment. The emphasis is in the word “inappropriate”, because nothing in life stays the same. Even our most prized and architecturally important structures and sites are transformed by the passage of time and changing needs and attitudes.
Most of us appreciate good architecture. What is also important, yet harder to quantify, is the contribution made towards our history and social/cultural wellbeing, by numerous, mundane buildings, that go unnoticed, until it’s too late. Sometimes these are aesthetically pleasing to the eye, but most are utilitarian in design, and accordingly their fate is usually terminal.
I was once told to be objective when dealing with the good, the great and the influential, and not to be subjective. This was while trying to convince others that our aerodrome heritage is important enough to be saved from the wrecking ball. I tried this tactic and it failed – not only me – but the countless number of historically important buildings that no longer exist. This book therefore goes against the grain, partially because of the pain and suffering inflicted by the ineptitude of others, and because it’s time to tell it how it is.
Strawsons Property
It’s been a few months since the fate of RAF Driffield was decided. I can’t even remember how I found out that Roger was unsuccessful in his bid. I was truly devastated – not knowing what went wrong, or who to turn to. The good news is that Strawsons Property, who bought the site, were kind enough to hear my concerns. I met Adrian Sail (Property Manager) on camp on April 20th 2007, and I again walked around the site, detailing my proposals. I think I made an impression, but it’s still early days. The bad news is that Strawsons Property have an unsympathetic track record for redeveloping former RAF bases.
In 1997, this Retford-based development company bought former RAF Swinderby (near Lincoln) and soon afterwards, most of the domestic site was demolished. It appears that no attempt was made to reuse the original buildings. Ten years after being sold, and only now has the site largely been redeveloped. The houses that have been built are selling from between £175k and £250k. Strawsons Property also bought former RAF Upwood, a site not dissimilar to Driffield. Most of the buildings on both sites are identical. The future of RAF Upwood is questionable. The local planning authority are not keen to see the site become one giant housing estate, yet it appears that Strawsons Property will again end up demolishing the existing buildings.
I was recently informed by Strawsons Property that they are in talks with the Army Cadet Force (ACF) over their training centre at Driffield. This has been confirmed by the ACF. I understand that Strawsons Property have offered to relocate the ACF to another part of the camp, in exchange for this valuable enclave.
As someone keen to see the site preserved, I’m deeply concerned that the ACF might be hoodwinked into relinquishing the enclave, based on false promises. I suspect that the guardroom, former station headquarters and sick-quarters might be demolished to make way for executive housing.
Strawsons Property make money from building luxury houses, and not by leasing 70-year-old refurbished buildings. I understand that reassurances have been made that these buildings will be preserved, but this does not make financial sense. The cost of building a new cadet training centre will be too costly to be recouped from renting out the existing buildings, contained within the enclave. However, building twenty or thirty £200,000 houses does make financial sense.
I understand that several signs were recently erected and I believe that Strawsons are prepared to sell parts of the site to other developers. I still keep in contact with Roger Collins, feeding him information regarding the sale of other MoD married quarters. There might even be the possibility of him buying part of RAF Driffield from Strawsons Property.
In order to put across my proposals, I would still like to produce a series of illustrations and plans of RAF Driffield to help prove a point. I am also hoping that Strawsons Property will allow an archaeological survey of the site. I suspect something is buried in the land between the officer’s mess and the accommodation blocks, possibly rubble from when the airfield was bombed in 1940. Although the aerodrome only opened in 1936, there is still a lot we don’t really know about its history.
There also needs to be a full field survey of the site before any of the buildings are demolished. When the final act of demolition is carried out, I won’t be present, but that final act also needs to be documented. I still believe that flying could return to Driffield, even after the camp has been demolished.
Looking at the wider picture, there may be only one or two people I know who can make things happen, and secure the return of flying to Driffield. Whether they themselves would agree is another matter. Locally there is both support and opposition to my proposal.
One local businessman has expressed an interest in setting up the Driffield Flying Club, while another is keen to relocate his aviation business to Driffield, though only if the airfield was to reopen. Personally, I would like to establish the Yorkshire Vintage Gliding Club, while another individual is or was keen to relocate his Parachute School to Driffield. Obviously, the airfield is still owned by the MoD, and will remain so for some considerable time. That said, there will come a time when they will leave, and then I hope that aviation will again return to former RAF Driffield.
and another thing…
According to my dentist I grind my teeth. Apparently, this is a sign of both stress and anxiety. I’m not surprised. With each passing day, I increasingly feel like kicking and screaming. The uncertainty over the future of RAF Driffield, and my inability to do anything constructive, makes me restless. The incompetence and inconsideration of others, or rather their actions, also adds to my anxiety. Paranoia is another demon that constantly rests upon my shoulder.
My biggest discovery is that being attentive or nice doesn’t work. You may collect a few brownie points by opening a door for someone, but being polite towards those who care little for your cause is just a waste of civility. The problem is, I’m not an aggressive type of person. I rarely get angry or raise my voice. I am a subservient campaigner: unwilling to upset my opponent. I have also found it impossible to raise awareness about the plight of RAF Driffield or our crumbling aerodrome heritage.
I once thought about dumping marker dye in the River Thames. The premise was simple. During the war, when bomber crews ditched in the North Sea, they would often throw green marker dye overboard to attract attention. Turning the River Thames bright green would have attracted a lot of media attention. Politicians and their minions rarely do what you want them to do, unless provoked by either the media or mass opinion. They are rarely persuaded by a lone voice, especially one from East Yorkshire.
The problem is not me or RAF Driffield. The problem is with our society. What should be important isn’t, and what isn’t important is hyped as being essential. We are celebrity driven. Our society and its values have become so disjointed as to undermine the tremendous sacrifices made in our recent past. The real tragedy is that New Britain (and its media led/created fads and obsessions) make it nearly impossible to be heard, unless you do run amok and cause mayhem. Even then, you’re only guaranteed 15 minutes of fame, which is not enough to do justice to any cause.
The only danger of kicking up a fuss is in alienating your supporters, or more likely, those who sit on the sideline; those unwilling to get their own hands dirty. The best way to distract from your own inadequacies is to ridicule or debase those who really stand up and fight for what they believe in. So, I can’t see me chaining myself to a JCB as it smashes into the officer’s mess on camp. Being chastised is a strong deterrent against subversion. I also don’t want to debase the memory of those who served at RAF Driffield, and who paid the ultimate sacrifice.
But what to do? Time is running out and that adds to my anxiety. English Heritage walked away from RAF Driffield in 2003. The East Riding of Yorkshire Council also refused to get involved – not wanting to upset the commercially-sensitive applecart. The Driffield Times and Post publish my articles, usually when they need to fill space during a slow week. The next twelve months will be critical for former RAF Driffield and there is little a lone voice can do to change the course of progress. Feeling powerless is unnerving. You can’t run away. You simply can’t. You’re locked in a collision course with the destiny not of your making.
I often dream about RAF Driffield. Like most dreams, they are abstract and disjointed. They usually involve the camp on the verge of oblivion – not totally gone, but neither complete. I welcome them, but worry that they do some damage inside. I am truly hurt by the indifference of others and by my inability to do more than just write letters or emails.
That said, I am not alone in voicing my concerns over our neglected aerodrome heritage, nor indeed am I the only one who wants to see RAF Driffield preserved. But we are few in number and most of my supporters are not native to Driffield. But what can I do?
Some have argued that my “obsession” relates to saving my childhood home. However, if Driffield Aerodrome is to survive, then those attributes that I hold dear will be the first to go. What made RAF Driffield special to me was its windswept abandonment – an old airfield that demanded to be explored. If RAF Driffield is to survive and prosper, then the RAF Driffield of my youth has to go. The site will require new buildings juxtapositioned with the old. The grass will need to be cut and windows repaired.
But I really do have a problem with the apathetic populous of Driffield.
Yet, as I write this, and after all I have gone through, the truth is that I, and no one else, failed RAF Driffield. Not because it was always a lost cause, but because of my inability to motivate myself, especially when battling against indifference, and after my failed business ventures. With me at the helm, the writing was always going to be on the wall.
Like many, I still daydreamed about a better life or becoming more ambitious, but I never really thought seriously about saving RAF Driffield, until it was too late. Therefore, I find it hard to blame the apathy and indecision of others, even if I’d like to. Even though I did more than most, the hard reality is that compared to the hardworking ethos of others, what I did was insufficient and below par. At the end of the day, I did not give 100%.
From the heart, I simply feel I can do no more. I wish I could say I tried my best, but I didn’t and the thought of losing RAF Driffield is becoming unbearable. I could also say that my reputation is at stake, but my reputation is one of a sad and rather annoying enthusiast, bent on becoming a nuisance to anyone in receipt of one of my emails. Many still feel that the future of this site is no concern of mine. Yet my detractors don’t know me:
My relationship with RAF Driffield changed two days after it
finally closed as a military camp in 1996.
In 1995, I started my own business with the help of the Princes Youth Business Trust (PYBT). But I failed, and accordingly I lost everything – including my rented home in Bridlington. I subsequently ended up in a Salvation Army hostel in Hull – a wretched place, filled with petty criminals, drug addicts and unwarranted discipline. On June 28th 1996, RAF Driffield closed. I wanted to be at the closing ceremony, but my Giro went missing (possibly stolen by another resident – I can’t remember). Unable to afford the train fare to Driffield, I sat in my small 10ft x 8ft cubical – cold and miserable.
That day, the Royal Air Force said goodbye to RAF Driffield. The event was marked with a flypast by the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight’s Avro Lancaster PA474 and the symbolic lowering of the RAF ensign. That evening I waited to watch the local news, but some thug marched into the communal lounge and switched the TV onto another channel. What could I do?
My debts ran into thousands and I felt trapped. For three years, my life was my business (and vice versa) and I saw no way out. The worse part of it was waking up in the morning – that moment between sleep and being fully conscious – when you’re unaware of your surroundings and predicament. Lasting maybe a few seconds, I became to despise that short moment in time – that moment of tranquillity. I became very depressed and despondent. I hated being alone – on my own. My mind would drift towards blackened despair. I wanted to end it all. But something happened that would change my life around, albeit gradually.
I ended up in Driffield a few days later (Sunday, June 30th), visiting my sister (my mum was also visiting for the weekend). Before or after tea (I forget which), I walked the walk – down to the camp – for what I felt then would be the last time. The majesty of my home – my camp (no one else’s). The people had gone – the airmen – few in number, but the sun shone on my final parade. The rain of two days previous had been replaced by a glorious summer’s afternoon – so reminiscent of my childhood days, never bettered.
I walked past the officer’s mess and the housing estate, where I grew up. Past the guardroom, now empty. Past the MT section and firing range and towards hangar No.1. Then the airfield – empty. Indeed, no more happy landings. I first set eyes on the airfield in the spring or summer of 1973. I was only seven. Now in 1996, as then, I stood there, looking across my airfield. I cried like a fucking baby. The control tower had gone, and so had the runways, but I was home.
I don’t know how long I stood there. Maybe an hour. Thinking all the time. All those happy memories. There was no covenant, not even a sense of purpose. Being with my old friend put things into perspective. I never thought about suicide after that day, and while [recent] times have been hard, RAF Driffield [that day] saved me. I never mentioned this to anyone – until now – not even to my family or friends. The changes in my circumstances were gradual, but RAF Driffield saved me. My perspective on my predicament changed, and while I did my best to save my business, its inevitable end was less painful than otherwise would have been the case.
Looking back, my biggest regret is the upset I caused my mum. Before being evicted from my rented office in Hull, and before the phone was cut off, my mother left a message on the answer phone. A couple of years ago, I found the tape and listened to that final message from a mother – her voice strained – not knowing if her son was alive or dead. At the time, it didn’t register that my mum was also going through hell. That tape – that recording – my mother’s voice, haunts me to this day.
RAF Driffield is worth saving, and I’m not giving up, even though I have waded through so much indifference and derision. It would be wrong to say that the apathy and contempt shown by those who don’t have the courtesy to even reply to my emails hasn’t hurt, but I would endure the almost unendurable in equal measure again and again, if I felt it would make a difference. I only wish my efforts were acknowledged or appreciated locally. I’m seen as a crackpot by some, but common sense dictates that I am right. RAF Driffield can be preserved and realise a return on investment to those in a better financial position than me.
I cannot and will not blame my interest in saving this aerodrome for all my failings in life. I am who I am, but without RAF Driffield, either then or now, I would probably be a more successful and happier person. There is a lot wrong with my life and I have many regrets, but I wouldn’t change a thing (though, I wish I had joined the RAF – too late now). Yet, I cannot walk away from RAF Driffield, simply because the writing is on the wall. I know and have been proven right. The future preservation of former RAF Driffield, through sympathetic redevelopment, can be profitable. And what is profitable is viable – and what is viable can happen. I just need – I don’t know – maybe a cattle prod?
The Future?
I know in my heart of hearts that if I haven’t achieved anything substantial by late autumn, then its time to shut up shop for the winter. I’m still keen to start another business, but my funds are limited and my motivation has waned.
The future? Well, once this eBook has been published, I plan to finish Bomber Boys. The idea is to secure enough funds from TX/DVD sales to secure my own PC and DV camera, using match grant aid available from my local council. Thereafter, I hope to set up my own low budget production company, specialising in making ‘small’ documentary films. I’m also working towards finishing my photographic essay on Hull’s thriving band scene. Entitled Earplugs Optional, I hope to mount and frame 40 prints for an exhibition in the summer of 2008. This will also appear on my website.
Also, to prove a point, I might revisit one or two past projects –
like postcard publishing, using my own images and outsourcing the printing to China. I would also like to start a much smaller aeronautical heritage project. I’ve given much thought about opening an RAF Driffield History Room, attached to an existing museum or commercial entity in Driffield. I’m desperately in need of some more brownie points, and perhaps the locals will start to respect their own heritage.
One problem I have overcome is my morbid obesity. In the final year at school (1981 to 1982), I would sign myself out during lunchtime to visit Scabby Jack’s Fish and Chips Emporium in the town centre. For nearly a year, I ordered on a daily basis: “chips on a tray with scraps, please” (20p). This would be liberally smothered with FREE ketchup. At the same time, the amount of sport at school was reduced to make way for exams, so I started to pile on the pounds. Just prior to my 40th birthday in 2005, I suffered from a mid-life crisis (my second or third?). I tried to cheer myself up by eating ‘happy food’. Some idiot (a postman) posted through my letterbox a booklet of BOGOF vouchers for McDonalds. For two weeks, I ate and ate Big Mac after Big Mac, until one day I realised I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t even wipe my…
Anyway, I weighed myself in Boots the Chemist and discovered I weighed in at 26 stone (364 pounds), I poo’d myself and instantly lost three pounds. Shocked at my predicament I visited the doctor and he referred me to a dietician and an ‘active lifestyle’ advisor. I lost a few pounds, but it wasn’t enough. After watching several TV programmes on the subject, I decided the only solution was to have my stomach stapled, and it worked. My operation was on May 19th 2007, and since then I have lost around six stone (84 pounds). For the first time in 15 years, I have dropped below twenty stones (current weight: 17st).
It’s not been easy, but things are improving. By the first anniversary of the operation, I should be down to my ideal weight (168 pounds). And all because I wanted to finally accomplish two childhood ambitions – to go scuba diving and gain my glider pilot’s licence. With losing so much weight, I feel great. I’m more active. I feel the difference.
Well, my story is all but told. I hope you enjoyed reading my eBook – a factual account of what is happening to our crumbling aerodrome heritage. Juxtaposed with this insight, is my own personal account of being on the front line. I hope that being honest about who I am, and where I come from, will help secure support for my endeavours. I’m not after the sympathy vote, not unless it comes wrapped in a dollar bill or sponsorship. Neither do I wish to be seen as a victim of circumstance (bad luck), and therefore someone to be pitied. I wrote this book, because I want Royal Air Force Station Driffield preserved, for future generations to explore and to appreciate. Can you help? Please feel free to forward this eBook (or hard copy) to your family, friends and colleagues.
