Panic on a passenger aircraft.
© July 2011
The Aer Lingus Viscount turboprop flew steadily westward, its throttled back engines whining less urgently as we made our gradual descent towards Cork airport on a beautiful, clear, summer evening in the 1970s. Flying a mile or two off the coast, I was enjoying the view of Ireland's lush green fields and southern coastline from my window seat. I love flying. I enjoy trying to identify places and objects far below. I particularly enjoy looking for traces of archaeological sites that become clearer when illuminated by the late evening sun, faint circles in fields, some cut through by roads and lanes, questionable patterns, man-made? Perhaps.
I tried to ignore the man beside me who seemed determined to engage me in conversation about the horror headlines and photographs in his London evening paper. I knew it recounted violence, bombings, internment and murder in Northern Ireland, ugly demonstrations in Dublin and elsewhere in the country. The headlines about Northern Ireland's Troubles were nearly always like that in those days. I was enjoying the flight and was not in the mood for such discussion.
We passed the popular seaside town of Youghal with its long beach and caravan parks. Smoke from a few fires drifted vertically upwards before spreading horizontally; a very calm evening. Then, as the famous Midleton Distillery appeared, the stewardess issued the pre-landing instructions and commenced her inspection tour down the centre aisle, checking that our safety belts were fastened.
As the eastern suburbs of the city of Cork came into view a ripple of anxiety seemed to spread along the seats on my side of the aircraft. I heard the word 'smoke' gasped several times. Some seat-belts were again released along the opposite side of the aisle as the occupants crossed to my side and, stooping low to peer out at the the cause of the sudden anxiety.
'Please return to your seats and fasten your safety belts immediately!' shouted the stewardess.
'But the smoke! All that smoke!' someone shouted back.
The stewardess was about to lean across me for a look through my window when a woman passenger began to scream, 'Don't land! Don't land! Tell the pilot to turn back! Tell him now! Please don't land!'
The stewardess vanished rapidly in the direction of the cockpit. I heard the undercarriage go down. Through the elliptical window numerous columns of dense smoke could be seen rising vertically into the clear calm sky from every area of Cork city. Angry, orange-yellow flames flickered at the base of most of the black, writhing pillars.
The public address system crackled and a man cleared his throat.
'This is your captain speaking. We are making our final approach to Cork Airport. Welcome to Cork on this, the 23rd of June, St. John's night. Tonight is bonfire night all over Ireland.'
Grinning sheepishly, the red-faced stewardess emerged from the cockpit, sat on her seat and continued to grin as she secured her own belt mere seconds before the wheels touched the concrete of runway 35.
Was I worried on seeing the pillars of smoke? Not in the slightest.
I was returning to my home in Cork city from a one-day business trip. For at least a week previously boys from 8 to 18 had been dragging wooden pallets, old car tyres, odd planks and discarded (?) furniture past our gate. 'Anything for our bonfire, Sir?'
Two days before my visit to London one of our fine trees had been roughly deprived of a few substantial lower branches by persons unknown. I had also been obliged to systematically excavate and rescue various personal items of some value from the growing combustible pile that had materialised in a corner of the garden. No doubt our own three young pyromaniacs would be awaiting my homecoming impatiently. It would be my paternal duty to perform the formal ignition ceremony and send another column of smoke skywards in honour of St. John and add to the terror of yet more unenlightened incoming airline passengers.
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