Western Junction: A Winter Approach
When I was seven years old my father started flying radio-controlled aircraft. Every weekend, if the wind was just right, I would go with him. The ‘Flying Field’ was full of the vibration of engines, the smell of the fuel, and the sounds as the aircraft flew by like angry bees. Driving towards Launceston airport on our way home, Dad sometimes timed it perfectly to coincide with the aircraft approaching from the south. We would stop to watch, or more to the point, feel the airliners pass overhead.
Acrylic on canvas