landmark—one which I need not refer to here, for I have no desire to instruct enemy airmen.
Nothing extraordinary had met my eye. I was used to the patchwork landscape.
Then began a search for a convenient field in which to land.
I came down from ten thousand to a thousand feet in long sweeping circles, examining each grass meadow as I went.
The lower I came, the more easily could I distinguish the pastures and ploughed land and woods.
A train was passing and I noted the direction of the smoke—most important in making a landing. Teddy at my side, as practised as I was myself in flying, had never moved. Through his big goggles he was gazing down, trying to decide upon a landing-place, just as I was.
I banked for a moment. Then put her nose down and then, finding no spot attractive, climbed again.
I did not want to land too near the town, for I had no desire to attract undue attention.
I was trying to find a certain main road, for, truth to tell, I had been up very early that morning consulting my maps.
On that main road were two or three farms in which I hoped I could shelter my machine, just as I had done at Holly Farm.
I suppose we spent perhaps nearly half an hour in the air before, after critical examination, I decided to descend into a large park before a good-sized old Georgian house belonging, no doubt, to some county family.
Parks, provided they have few trees, are always desired by the aviator as landing-places.
