The past few days have been wonderful in weather and accomplishments. I
have been seeing southern France at the rate of a hundred miles an
hour—five hours a day. Yesterday morning I flew to Notre Dame de
Lourdes. It is a place to which thousands pilgrimage each year to be
healed by the flow of waters there. It is a beautiful little village at
the base of the mountains, and is hidden in the shadow of steep cliffs.
From there I wandered among the foothills and circled over the little
mountain hamlets. In the afternoon I headed straight for Pic du Midi. It
is the second highest mountain in this vicinity. In three-quarters of an
hour I was a thousand meters above it. I swooped down around it and took
pictures, with it in the foreground. Then I came back by way of another
canyon, and arrived at the school at dusk. After a lot of foolish monkey
business, I spent the last hour running at a height of two hundred feet
with my motor throttled ’way down. Sitting low in my seat, hardly
touching the controls, skimming the tree tops in the quiet hazy evening
air, it made me think of how father used to love to see the old White
throttle down to two miles an hour, the difference being that I had
throttled down to ninety.
This morning four of us went down to Biarritz and out over the ocean. I
went down and circled around the lighthouse. All these things are
forbidden by the school, but as men are daily risking their lives in
gaining proficiency in flight, it is difficult to waive a punishment, so
they all do it.