A 747 swivels round to the end of the runway, powers up, and lumbers slowly forwards, picking up speed and growling towards me. As it passes, the livery glints in the light, and the growl fades to a dull roar as the exhausts slide into view. Gradually, the aircraft rises from the tarmac in a breath-like motion and pulls upwards, curving towards the sky. To Africa, India, Japan, carrying its cargo gracefully into the sleeping world. [1]
I’ve always been fascinated by the æsthetics of planes, and the 747 is the most beautiful of all. The swept tailplane, slender back, arching forward section and poised nose: the ultimate Speedbird. Sad, then, that it seems to be on the way out [2]. In the air, physical elevation turns to mental calm. A plane is an escape, however transient, from the world below. But the world below isn’t to be ignored. I’m a window seat person. Visual contact with the ground is part of what makes flying special – seeing the mountains of Canada; the Steppe; the Gobi Desert. Or, closer in, the Golden Gate Bridge; the snake of the Thames. A single flight becomes a zoom lens – watching the terminal shrink away after takeoff, and the destination arc into view – and sitting in a remarkable aeroplane completes the picture.
Travelling by rail doesn’t give you a zoom lens, but it does give you a wide-angle view. Tilting through the Borders between Glasgow and London on a frosty January morning, all icicled trees, blue-grey fields and steaming cows, from the warmth of the Pendolino glass, is an experience I’ve repeated happily. Trains, too, offer some momentary isolation from the real world outside, unfortunately punctuated by Carlisle, Crewe and Preston. But few trains themselves are seriously beautiful. Perhaps by aerodynamic necessity, the bird beats the bullet as far as looks go. Even the duck-billed Shinkansen looks ungainly with its boxy tail (although the 500 series is better) and the TGV snarly and rude.
And then there’s the humble ferry. Pushing through the brine of the harbour to the dazzling blue of the Hebrides, CalMac provides a (slow) road to the isles. The grace of their vessels is of a different kind. No delicate metal; no tinted glass. Aboard, green decks, white hull walls and red funnels make for a quiet platform from which to watch a sunset, binoculars in one hand and pint in the other, looking for porpoises and other things never actually seen, but always promised. The gently grumbling warmth of the engine flues, the prerecorded Gaelic announcements (the crew hail from Glasgow or Liverpool) and the departing smell of seagulls and seaweed are a strangely comforting olfactory cocktail. And when it all gets too much (or you realise the jumper you brought is a bit thin for June) you can retreat to the hygge of the bar and watch the landscape sway through the salt-licked glass.
I wonder whether much thought is put into the æsthetics of the travel experience as a whole. Sure, airlines consider the colour of seat fabric and the glassware in the lounge, all of which lends to the perception, positive or negative, of the service they provide. But what about the views, moods and the opportunities for escape? Flying low over the Thames to watch the fireworks; taking a local branch line to see a harvest in full swing; edging a bit closer to the porpoises. Imagine what it’d be like if we could fly like the way we walk, if getting there was not just about watching the world go by, but about seeking out the interesting bits.
- This piece is unashamedly prompted by Alain de Botton, who’s written extensively on the subject of travel. His latest work, the diary of a week spent in and around Terminal 5, looks at the static infrastructure, and while it’s a commendable read in its own right, it focuses on the stuff which doesn’t move. When travelling, I prefer the stuff that does.
- Lufthansa is the only commercial airline to have ordered the passenger version of the latest incarnation, the 747-8, and Boeing is said to be reconsidering the programme.