Dassault's Diamonds

By Kev Baxter

Heading to France for a family birthday celebration gave me the chance to discover some aviation gems at Aérodrome Lyon-Corbas.

The conversation had gone something like this, “What would you like for your birthday, it is a significant one after all?” “Oh, I don’t know…”, came the huffed reply, predictably. Therefore, a bit of a head-scratch later I postulated that my significant other might like to visit her eldest daughter in Lyon, all expenses paid, obviously, and to drag along any other member of her brood, who cared to show up.

Since the Plan was not vetoed, it was time to book flights, accommodation and to have a sly shufti at what might be available, selfishly, to me rather than just shopping, art galleries, café culture in freezing March and endless girl-talk. So gentlemen, not just me then, eh? A quick Google Maps search showed that Lyon has 3 airfields: Lyon Saint-Exupéry, the main commercial airport and named after the French aviator and author, killed in WW2 and a famous son of the City; Lyon-Bron, a pre-war airfield with a rich, if macabre, wartime history and now the City’s main Executive and GA airfield and Lyon-Corbas, home to a gliding club, the City’s eponymous aero club, a parachuting school, the Musée De L’aviation Clément Ader, named for the inventor of the 20 HP, steam-driven flying-machine that was credited with a ground-effect, uncontrolled hop of approximately 160 feet in 1890 and finally, Ailes Anciennes De Corbas, of which more later.

Aérodrome Lyon-Corbas lies on the south-eastern outskirts of the city and took approximately 2 hours to reach from the city centre via tram, bus and shanks’s pony. Although the sky was free from precipitation, under a murky, high-pressure inversion, there were numerous brass-monkeys seen looking for the services of a welder; therefore, thankfully, the latter schlep was a welcome winter-warmer through the katabatic zephyrs descending from the nearby Alps.

Arriving at the aerodrome, memories of youth were stirred passing a graveyard of old caravans at the back of the Gliding Club, used as bunkhouses for invariably skint and worse-for-wear youngsters taking their first drunken lurches at the sky after riotous parties and the pursuit of love. The latter, if not having satisfied their yearning with a spouse, would almost certainly be besotted by the cloud-dappled azure on a summer’s day and to whom the sky would forever be their jealous mistress. However, for some, sledging around the circuit in winter, jilted by their land-locked lovers, with another pointless hangover, smothered with winch grease and with some ape in the front seat trying to kill them unceremoniously, many older, but never much wiser aviators deviated from semi-serene arc of Vol à Voile.  Instead those stably, unbalanced addicts began to embrace the simple, but vastly more expensive, expedient of strapping a noisy fire-hazard to their airborne chariots; if not sooner, definitely later and some were even lucky enough to have actually made a living from the business. The denizens of the Aero Club, unless choosing to enter its cloistered halls later in life, labouring under the misapprehension that money was now no object, would all lead the lives of monks henceforth. Any future for them held zealous study and sacrifice of all but the essentials of life to pay homage to their Saviour – Aviation; because of it, quite simply, they would lack the money to pay for drugs, alcohol, alimony or anything else anymore.  Some Bohemian rebels with IQs akin to their age and to whom using legs for undercarriage did not appear inherently unsafe, may have chosen to step over to the parachute school, while they still could.  On occasion, if they had been lucky, these adrenalin junkies would be able to hobble to an ambulance, having left a perfectly serviceable aeroplane voluntarily only in order to enjoy a total sensory overload and to revel in the appellation from other aviators of ‘parachute-retarded meat-bombs’.  Furthermore, those still alive, but dim enough not to be just, “Havin’ a laff for charity”, and who actually were queuing for a further jump, momentarily could choose to alleviate their increasing anxiety as it transitioned to burgeoning terror by playing a game. The game was to try to interpret the pained looks, repeated in askance, but increasingly directly, being shot at a comically over-exuberant, whooping, dread-locked, boy-man parachute instructor.  The sniper aiming these daggers being the hollow-eyed, clockwork-mouse destined to push the power lever on the equally barking-mad PC6 for yet another dizzyingly bend-inducing climb and max-rate, beta-prop descent.  If the players were bright enough, they’d win by deciphering the looks and choose another hobby before their habit forced them to make a YouTube video, for a predictable energy drink company, of them hanging ten before rag-dolling down a mountainside after failing spectacularly to make a wing-suit descent from Annapurna without oxygen and wearing trainers.  The forehead-slapping crescendo would be the recorded dismay and incredulity of the deceased’s mop-headed bru’hs.  Glacially, they would be seen trying to process, under knotted brows, how one once so stoked and the living embodiment the coolest of dudes could have screwed-up so bogusly; testosterone, radically misplaced bravado and poor aviation decision making, easy – to the rest of us.  Truly, those who visit the sky by plunging from it in such an undignified haste, inhabit another dimension; well, usually 2-D, when it goes Pete Tong.

Anyway, after having gracefully para-pented through such an unexpected reverie on the way to the targeted Museum, it was reached nestled in a corner of the airfield and comprised two hangars and a sun-shade roof stretched between them.  The scene through the doors, left slid ajar, did not disappoint.  Other than the dark, cramped interior, plastic chains and random seating placed in front of the exhibits, the inhabitants did appear to be spectacular.  Nor too did the selection of once magnificent icons of Gallic industry in various states of disrepair under the sun-shade disappoint either; however, as they were exhibited behind a seven-foot mesh gate, photography was not going to be easy.  Entirely volunteer run, the Museum is open Wednesday to Sunday from 14:00-15:30 (winter) and closing 30 minutes later in the summer.  Morning visits are reserved for groups and all tours are escorted, which begged two questions: why do they need chairs if the tours are so short and why, if the tour is escorted, are plastic chains necessary?  Since the old habits of a hangar-rat die hard, several photographs were taken through the open doors, lest an irate owner shoo me away.  However, the hangars appeared deserted, so I went inside the reception/shop to make myself known.  I was met with some evident confusion, compounded by a rapid-fire, Geordie mangling of the stock phrase of, “Pardon, je suis Anglaise; je ne parle pas Francaise, désolé – like!”; however, composure restored the two gentlemen informed me with their eyes that clearly I was a stupid Englishmen, who should learn to read a website with opening hours on it, because it was an hour before lunch and I wasn’t a group.  Fortunately, my gentle protestations were received warmly, namely that indeed I was a stupid Englishman, who should learn to read a website, but I had arrived in what was left of the morning so I could get back to the City for a hockey match (yeah, don’t ask) that evening.  So it was that I introduced myself to Vincent Isaac, my genial host for a whistle-stop run around approximately 45 aeroplanes in only an hour, because it was France and lunch – duh!  It was established quickly that pretty decent Franglais, pidgin-aviation was spoken, helped greatly by Vincent having spent a three-year exchange tour at RAF Finningley on Jetstreams.  “Oh, do you know Leon Creese?”  “Leon, oui!” and we were off to the races. The fact that I discovered that Vincent had returned to France and eventually became the Chief Multi-engined Test Pilot for the French Marine was pretty God-like, but incidental; the mate of a mate is a mate.  It was evident that each of the exhibits had a story, as all things do, and what stories they were.  Vincent knew these stories intimately and he was keen to pass them on in detail.  However, much as I was as enamoured by the history and equally as keen to know all about it, I was conscious that photographic opportunities were passing me by.  However, as I had not been asked for any money yet, I kept my counsel and as tactfully as I could, suggested that we do walk and talk, but I would like to have an opportunity to ‘rinse out’ photographically the hangars afterwards.  Rushing about is never ideal, mistakes are made too easily, but I was conscious the man was doing me a favour and I did not want to wear out any welcome.

It is an indisputable fact that the French have had a major impact upon the aviation world.  For example, how many aircraft do we know lacking a fuselage or empennage; their engines, nacelles; rolling without little wings, or ailerons; or, the ability to declare an emergency without calling a Pan (panne – breakdown) or Mayday (m’aidez – help me!)?  Moreover, alongside their pioneering discoveries the French have, most definitely, ploughed their own furrow in terms of design.  Their Nation’s designers having spanned a spectrum of the most function-over-form ugly ducklings to drafting aeroplanes of undeniable aching beauty.  The gamut of these design strategies were on view at the Museum.  Laid out very roughly in chronological order, we started our tour at the far hangar with a mixed bag of civilian and military fixed-wing and rotary types.  Naturally, the list of machines mentioned here is not exhaustive and a link is provided to the Museum’s web-site, which lists their inventory and even the times the Museum is open and to whom; err, hmm.

https://museeaviationlyon.fr/

Hanging from the roof was a 1/2 scale model of the Zipfel Avion.  This aircraft was Henri Farman design built by Lyon local Henri Zipfel, the 6th man in France to fly and a boyhood friend of the Voisin brothers. Also Zipfel founded Ateliers d’Aviation de Sud Est, the forerunner to SNCASE (Société Nationale de Constructions Aéronautiques du Sud Est) with types including the Caravelle airliner and Alouette helicopter; eventually this company became Aerospatiale, which has since been subsumed by Airbus.  Suspended alongside this university-built, test-flight rigged pioneer was a hand-built Mignet design, an HM 1100 Cordouan; built by a commercial pilot who was partially blinded in a car accident, the aircraft was donated to the Museum, never having flown, when his wife decided that enough was enough and she needed to park the car in the garage again.  Across the roof a replica Santos Dumont Demoiselle, believed to be the example from ‘Those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines’, hung from the rafters together with one each of a Wassmer Bijave and Javelot glider.  Under the suspended goodies sat a couple of distinctly French ‘ugly duckling’ designs from Morane Saulnier and Nord respectively; the Alcyon (Kingfisher, so now we know where Halcyon Blue comes from) and the Ramier (the disparigingly-named wood pigeon), the latter cobbled together originally from Bf 108 parts left in the factory after the Germans were routed and spare Potez engines.  Opposite sat a Cri-cri, the world’s smallest twin-engined, propeller-driven aeroplane and also an example of the SNCASO SO.1221 Djinn.  One of Europe’s first practical helicopters and the first to utilise tip-jet propulsion, the Djinn (Genie) was powered by a Turboméca Palouste, the same engine the Royal Navy used to air-start their Gannets.  Tucked in by the Djinn was the second of only two Deschaux Helicopjets ever produced, from 1984.  This aircraft used the same tip-jet rotor-head of the Djinn; however, instead of using hot bleed-air from the engine, the Deschaux had a cold-air compressor attached to the turbine, thus providing a safer source of propulsion.  The Deschaux was half the all-up weight of the similarly engined Alouette II for the same number of seats.  Perhaps the project was cancelled because the supply of Panhard car doors, robbed for the prototype, may have been an issue on a production type; or perhaps, it was that the type failed to achieve its design promise?  Amongst the dusty, nugget-littered detritus around the walls of the hangar was the fin from the SNCAN 2200, Frances first jet-powered, naval fighter from the late 1940s.  The only prototype crashed and it was subsequently used as a gunnery target, the French having selected British-manufactured types to equip its carriers.  The fin from this jet-age pioneer is all that remains.  Sweeping around an Alouette II, III and a quite dandy Mudry Cap Dix (not ‘ten’, as I was reminded perfunctorily, which I lusted over despite the rebuke), a CM.170 Magister rounded off the inner circuit.  Along the near wall and crammed amongst the random seats, plastic chains, engines and old radar heads were the greatest objects of my desire.  Three Dassualt types sat in pristine condition, but shown to poor effect, namely: an Ouragan, Mystère IVa and a Super Mystère B2, marking the Company’s entry and early evolution into the Jet-age.  The Ouragan had just returned from a much-publicised sojourn alongside the River Seine in Paris at their Veterans’ Hospital.  As a sad, lonely plastic-modeller, as well as a an avid ‘tog, I had communed with these types and to see them in the metal and in such fine fettle was a joy to behold.  Whilst some French types are fairly common in Britain, such as the Mystère IVa, Cap 10 and Fouga Magister, many are not and it had been wonderful to get up close to a couple of types that I had only ever seen in books like the 1955, Observers’ Book of Aircraft.

Moving past the storage area between the hangars, Vincent apologised for the seemingly haphazard manner in which the aeroplanes were displayed and stored, space being the overriding limitation, leading to my assertion in the Title.  Sitting forlornly under the outside sunshade was a recently acquired Super Étendard, an Étendard IVM and a Breguet Alizé.  Furthermore, an H-19 and fairly rare MS Paris had been dismantled to create more space.  However, to give an idea of the historical significance that lay hidden behind stacks of ground equipment and these neglected strays were the No1 prototypes of both the Mirage IIIB and IIIE.  Truly diamonds camouflaged as coal.

Entering the final hangar, my dribbling salivation became almost embarrassing.  The Dassault theme continued into the modern age beginning with a Mirage IIIC and continuing through all of their operational types to a pair of Mirage 2000s including a B and C model, which Vincent insisted I explore fully by clambering into the cockpits along with the accompanying Anglo-French, Sepecat Jaguars too.  It must be remembered that gentlemen of a certain age, with a proclivity for aeronautical pursuits, grew up with the comically badly-dubbed French television series, the Aeronauts.  Dubbed (pun intended) Chevaliers Du Ciel in the original French, the programme ran for three series and it mattered not one jot to a seven year-old that Lieutenants Tanguy and Laverdure’s adventures were far-fetched.  Plot gaps mattered not and the embarrassment of seeing bikini-clad beauties, when Austin Powers wasn’t an ironic pastiche, with your Mam in the room was forgotten, when there was stunning aerial footage of various Mystères, T-33s, Vautours and the seemingly endless flight-line of Dijon’s sparklingly beautiful Mirage IIIs on show once a week.  To say the Series made an impression on me is an unmitigated understatement. However, again these jewels were jammed together like a vulgar display of bling on a wise-guy’s fingers.  The special-scheme Mirage F1B, from EC 1/30, celebrating the Squadrons lineage from 341 (Free French) Squadron RAF, had only centimetres to spare over the top of the Mirage 2000B.  The ties this jet shared with the author of the seminal ‘The Big Show’, Pierre Clostermann, who had flown his combat mission in the Squadron on the wing of René Mouchotte, was not lost.  Equally, the other jets competed for space likewise and to photograph them adequately was, again, almost impossible.  Had time been kinder, more esoteric shots to capture the essence of the exhibits would have been in order; however, as it stood, Vincent’s vultures (or Vautours) were gathering and their saliva was dripping for softer fare and sweeter wine than Burgundian Dijon, with hints of aluminium, tortured rubber and burnt jet fuel.  Nevertheless, the wonder had yet to cease and hustled into a side room, I was shown a Heath-Robinson device briefly.  Looking like a Meccano set on steroids, with a wooden tractor seat bolted to it, I was witnessing the first ever auto-pilot, pre-dating Sperry’s invention, allegedly, and as accredited by the Guinness Book of Records; although, it was entirely possible that something might have been lost in translation.  The device had a vacuum-driven gyroscope mounted under the seat on a 3-axis gimbal with paddle-sensors attached to booms, much like a Mig-21’s pitot probe.  Pitch, roll and yaw axes all had ‘vacuum potentiometers’ (as near as I can describe them) for trimming the aeroplane on wheeled stalks to the left of the seat.  The other ephemera scattered about the room was dismissed with a Gallic shrug as ‘some other old junk’; I suppose bits of ground equipment and radar consoles are a bit old hat, but a greying air trafficker might have wanted a slightly longer look; perhaps that is the reason for the chairs, quiet reverie for gently-affected, old blokes, when they don’t have to dash off for a sumptuous lunch and a carafe of plonk.  Notable in the hangar was a Mirage F1C-200, displayed in a scheme with paint supplied by EC2/30, Normandie-Nieman; the jet was bought and paid for by Iraq, who would still like it delivered – thank you – but, it was embargoed after the Gulf War began.  Moreover, hidden amongst its Mirage bed-fellows and stepped staging was IIIR No2, a development jet that had taken French test-pilot Jacqueline Auriol, the first female pilot to break the sound barrier and to Mach2, to another one of her World Speed Records over a closed 100Km course at Istres.  It was all a bit bloody marvellous, with that and a huge Mirage IV looming over everything from the far corner!  A final flourish before the lights were extinguished, literally, was a demonstration of a Mirage F1 right, main-undercarriage retraction sequence on a hydraulic rig in the far corner.  To prove that nothing is new under the sun in engineering, the whole issue had been lifted from the variable-geometry Mirage G8 and plonked into the F1 design to save a wad of French Francs in the 1970s and to allow more time for…  You get the theme!

Thankful for the chance for at least getting to see the Museum rather than missing out altogether, I offered the chaps €20 for the pot, not realising that as a stupid Englishman, who had not read the web-site correctly, that the going rate was only €9 for entry.  However, “Drinks for the boys on me!” was not lost in the International language of aviation and my crisp note was pocketed toute-suite! However, we were not finished, it transpired.  Energised at the prospect of a swift half on a stranger, Vincent had kept his pièce de résistance until last.  Around the corner sat two twins, an ex-presidential (he’s now dead and it sounded like the chaps hadn’t voted for him anyway) Falcon 20, so that didn’t get a look-in, since it was now past 12:00.   Having over 2000 hours on type, Vincent had a real soft-spot for the Nord 262 Frégate, clearly and he was proud to show me around it – briefly.  With a flourish, he offered me the left-hand seat, to which I demurred and said the seat was rightly his.  Hangar-flying his old mistress sounds a bit rude, but we chatted about the aeroplane and its navigation trainer rôle – had he been as bored fartless getting himself lost with baby navigators as I had been, when watching our baby navigators do the same in their turgid streams of RAF Dominies and RN Jetstreams parading around the country on my radar screen; yes, mostly, apparently.  We continued to laugh about his further career flying Jetstreams and testing Atlantiques as only two old duffers in love with aeroplanes can.  I had eaten a whole 10 minutes into their lunch-break when we bid adieu finally and I was left to set to trying to get some angles on the dismantled types between the sheds; none to my satisfaction, it must be said.

“Well, that was that; short and sweet!” I mused to myself, still buzzing, as I checked the time and started to wander back towards the bus. However, on the way in I had noticed a hangar on the far side that stood out from the scattering of buildings; it was camouflaged, ironically, and now the doors were open.  Attaching the zoom lens helped a little, the cranked leading edge of a T-6 was unmistakable, but he crates stacked in the door obscured the rest of its contents.  A large badge stating AAC was mounted above the doors; “Christ, I bloody hope not” I chuckled.  Fifteen years at Wattisham for an ex-crab, watching our pongo brethren using hammers and crayons to commit aviation was enough purgatory for one life!   “Ah well, I might as well wander over, I have an hour to the next bus…”  I might have biffed reading the Museum’s website, but I wasn’t entirely stupid – sort of.  Traipsing across the scrub following the airfield’s perimeter fence I was struck that I had been doing this sort of thing for more than half a century.  I was in France to celebrate my Partner’s 60th and here I was, just a few months behind her, still Hell-bent on peering through a crack in the hangar door.  This damn hobby is a disease; it won’t kill you, but invariably it will make you poorer than you were at the start of the month.  Richer for the experience though, which is a fair trade I believe fervently.  Access to the hangar was no problem, I simply walked through the gate to the Aeroclub; a pleasant change to the increasing security paranoia displayed at some airfields; for entirely understandable, historical and financial reasons, but unwelcoming for a GA population in decline and wondering what to do about it.  Perhaps we could vet people mooching about airside by saying, “Hello!” to start with rather than, “Who are you? You shouldn’t be here; how did you get in?” Bearing this latter attitude in mind, once more I took a few snap-shots through the door.  The T-6 was there, covered, but resplendent in natural metal and marked as a US Air Force machine.  The shark-mouthed L-19 tucked inside was an interesting nod to the aerodrome’s past, the Type having served here, when it had been a French Army (ALAT) Airfield post-war.  This airframe, again covered for the winter, was marked as a US Army FAC in the Vietnam era, which seemed a shame, but that might have been its pedigree, I never did find out.  The reason being: again, I was confronted with a type I had only ever seen in images, another Dassault gem, an MD-315 Flamant and she was airworthy and clearly déshabillée; the coquettish, French sauce!  I felt moved to introduce myself.  Her, being an aeroplane, didn’t respond; but, a chap rooting around at the back of the hangar did.  “Bon jour monsieur!” I smiled widely. “J’avais votre Flamant voired, et je voudrais un photograph…” the thought sputtered and I waved my Oly’  E-5 instead.  My 46 year-old French U for GCE had kicked in with a vengeance as I struggled for words.  “Unh, Engleesh? Spottair?” came the instant rejoinder.  “Oh, ffs, here we go!” I sighed internally.  However, there was a difference between the 16 year-old kid failing French through an inability to see its point, because why would we need it when we lived about 1/2 an hour’s drive in England from where it was as far as possible to be separated from France?  Or, more honestly, rather than acknowledging to myself back then that I was guilty of a complete lack of effort and wished not to endure the ridicule from an equally bereft set of mates, while attempting to be languidly fluent with vowels and syntax so alien to our native dialect.  That difference, getting to the point, was now the confidence born of a life immersed in a common love and it showed.  The lesson is in this situation, if I may be so bold, is to be yourself; acknowledge the fact that – yes, we are avgeeks!  With that enthusiasm, however, if you act politely and confidently, that enthusiasm will shine through to a kindred spirit, who, doubtless, started out in very much the same way.  Contradicting all of this sanctimonious preamble, to my dishonour, my riposte to the gentleman’s barb was worthy of any Harrier mate’s, milk-drinking wit.  (How do you know a Harrier-mate is in the bar? He’ll tell you!)  “Non monsieur! Je suis pilot privé (Harrier tick), mais j’ai travail en secours d’aviation.  Je suis retirée.” I had no idea whether the last word actually meant ‘retired’, but my banter seemed to work.  Instantly, the ice was broken.  I was invited into a small bar area, where half a dozen chaps had convened.  Moreover, it was apparent that the merits of a pair of aeroplanes was being discussed, hands in the bar and scoffing at each other’s assertions etc.  It turned out to be a Norécrin versus a Norvigie; “How very French!” I pondered to myself; but, no different to any setting in the world, where a Cessna vs Piper, Boeing vs Airbus or Sukhoi vs MiG chat might be had. Eyes turned to me, so I smiled and introduced myself; my ‘credentials’ were supported by my initial host.  Immediately, a very healthy slug of pastis was thrust towards me, with an encouraging cheer.  This fraternity may not be that egalitarian and it is most definitely not ‘free’, but in a French hangar in the back of beyond, the language spoken was universal and if your jacket had a Spitfire and Duxford on it, so much the better!  Obviously, as it was lunchtime, all work had ceased.  An offer to share the delicious fare being prepared was declined respectfully; hockey match, remember?  Nevertheless, refusing another large pastis would have been rude and, as it does, my fluency in Franglais d’avion was increasing commensurately with its 45% abv, aniseedy goodness.  Suffice it to say, before a very kind chap dragged himself away from the conviviality to show me around the Flamant, I had been offered ownership of an Auster III.  Sadly, the 45 ‘blats’ in my wallet was insufficient to clinch a deal for the old girl, but I had offered.  Although, another tongue-in-cheek offer to sit in the back-seat of the Texan and work the radios into Duxford, provided the front seat paid the petrol was accepted gladly, but equally tongue-in-cheek.  The camaraderie was wonderful and by far the best café culture to partake in.  Having filled my boots in ‘Grumpy’, the Flamant, named after the Disney character and having the eponymous dwarf represented as fabulous nose-art, I began to say my thank-yous and goodbye.  At this point, my pastis enabler and radio-shy Texan-owner appeared and asked, “Have you seen our A-26?”  Well, the are crude ways to act surprised and I said them.  A polythene sheet was draped from the roof behind the bar and behind that, in pristine primer, was the fuselage of A-26B, 44-34172. Acquired for restoration in 2016, this US Pacific Theatre survivor will be airworthy by the turn of the decade, hopefully.  The first question was would it be restored in French Indo-China markings?  The answer was no, it was proposed that it would be painted to represent a D-Day machine, which personally feels like a missed opportunity.  Then again, when the owner of a DC-3 was asked why he had painted his pink, his reply was, “Well, what colour did you paint your’s?”  It then became clear that what appeared, at first glance, to be spares for the Flamant stacked around the hangar were actually all the A-26 parts and what those massive crates blocking the door were; I had just squeezed around a pair of R-2800s.  Magic!  Again, hearty farewells and gracious thanks were offered to my new best-mates in the Vintage Wings of Corbas or Ailes Anciennes de Corbas (a better class of AAC, I surmised cheekily), but my friend really did want to sell me his Auster.  Therefore, before I left I did him the honour of popping into the neighbouring hangar and giving it the once over.  The aeroplane was a J1 disguised as an AOPIII, it transpired, beautiful to look at and in seemingly good nick; but, really, I did only have the €45 in my pocket.  However, if anyone knows somebody in the market for a classic, British tail-dragger, I said I’d put out the word!

Obviously, I’d missed the bus back to Lyon; so another brisk walk through Corbas and a rapid re-plan on the dwindling battery of my iPhone found me at the Hockey ground with time to spare to bully-off.  Reunited with my better half and her middle daughter, who were far more worse for wear than I, having been to a wine-tasting festival all day, we settled in to watch another new experience.  Her eldest daughter, playing in goal for Lyon, was far more compos mentis than her spectators, which was heartening.  The result?  A no-score draw against Geneva, in the freezing wind, but under a clearing, halcyon sky in the golden hour of an utterly memorable day digging for diamonds and some other spectacular, aviation gems.