It must have been in the summer of 1966 when reports started to appear In the Daily Sketch about Donald Campbell returning to Coniston with Bluebird. He already held the world water speed record at 276.4 mph, but the Americans were beginning to get close and maybe he got caught up in the patriotism of ‘I’m backing Britain’ and the forthcoming football World Cup. Whatever his reasoning, he firmly believed that if he could put the record over the 300 mph mark it would not be beaten for at least 20 years.
He had been a regular visitor to Coniston over the previous two decades or so, at first with his father Sir Malcolm when he broke water speed records here and then in the 1950’s in his own right, powering Bluebird to success on several occasions. My first, vague memories of seeing Bluebird are from 1959. Whenever I heard the sound of it’s jet engine bursting into life I would head across the road to Mrs Woodend’s garden which overlooked the lake, to get a brief glimpse of the famous blue boat, setting off on a run down the lake. As a 4 year old and over the coming years, Bluebird and Campbell began to enter my consciousness more and more, like some kind of folk hero that may never return. Attempts on the record had become very costly and Campbell had already had difficulties with sponsors. The landspeed record attempts had been particularly expensive and the patience of sponsors was running out, many were not keen to commit without a guarantee of success.
So in 1966 many locals were sceptical about the possibility of Campbell’s return, it was to be a largely self funded operation, or as the media put it ‘on a shoestring’. As an eleven year old the prospect of a ‘world event’ like this, taking place on ‘my lake’ filled me with excitement. I had listened to the stories of previous records and wished that I could have witnessed them. So I was very disappointed when, the local policeman told me that he would believe it when he saw it.
As I came home from school one day at the beginning of November that year, an exciting rumour was spreading around the village. There was a large truck pulled up on the garage forecourt with a large blue tarpaulin wrapped around a very large, Bluebird shaped object. I could hardly contain myself, I ran up to the garage to see if it really was true. When I got there our local police constable was stood guard beside the unmistakeable shape of the world’s fastest boat! I thought back to our conversation earlier in the year and could hardly contain my excitement.
Later that evening the large load made it’s way towards the lake at Pier Cottage which would be the base for the record attempt team. After the long and uneventful trip from the Campbell’s home in Surrey up to Coniston, the short journey from the village to the lake would not go smoothly. On getting a glimpse of the lake, Bluebird faltered, as if somehow reluctant to take to the water. The driver had to coax her inch by inch through the gates and onto the rough track down to Pier Cottage. Once through the gates there were further problems. One of the modifications to Bluebird was the addition of an aircraft like tail fin, which was too hight pass under an old tree that leaned over the track preventing the truck, with it’s valuable cargo from progressing any further. The driver was left with no choice, he took to the field and came to a sudden halt as this heavy, leviathan like machine floundered in the mud of the water meadow. Local farmers tried with their tractors, but it took the arrival of some very heavy duty haulage equipment to assist Bluebird on the final 200 yards down to Lake Coniston.
Soon after, Donald Campbell arrived and the press contingent swelled with every passing day. Members of the press and television from all over the world filled the hotels and guest houses, at a time when they used to be empty at the end of the summer season. In those first few days after their arrival at Coniston, access to Bluebird and Donald Campbell was completely open. After school I would go straight down to Pier Cottage to see what was happening. A new temporary boathouse was being erected from scaffolding and blue tarpaulin, but frustratingly, Bluebird itself still remained under wraps. It was not until later in the week when the boathouse was completed, that the wraps finally came off, to reveal the magnificent shape and colour of Bluebird K7. The sleek lines, the balanced shape, all topped off by the new addition of the tail fin, taken from the Gnat fighter jet that had been the basis of the new design. Even the colour looked new, a brighter, almost electric blue, reflected in the calm lake and shining through the dusk of a calm autumn evening. The excitement in the air was palpable, all around the shores of the lake close to Pier Cottage.
I suppose it was inevitable that such easy access could not continue and Bill Jordan, the local RAC man was made sentry at the gates at the top of the lane down to Pier Cottage. In full uniform and cap, he looked every bit the part, with his handlebar moustache and military like pose, it became obvious to us kids that there would be no getting past him. As the technical team gathered and the operation became ‘serious’ it would not work having kids getting in the way, but during that first week we were given plenty of time to look over Bluebird and talk to Donald Campbell. Even after that he always had time for us in the village, but access to base from now on would be limited to permit holders only, they had a job to do. However, when the RAC man had a day off I think every kid in the village knew about it and we were always tolerated, for a little while anyway. In one of my visits to the base I was able to obtain Donald’s autograph and he proudly showed me and a couple of friends around the boat. As Bluebird sat in it’s launching cradle on the slipway he pointed out the three planning points and told us that at 200 mph only 12 square inches of the boat would be touching the water. I asked “and what about at 300 mph, how much of the boat will be in contact with the lake then?” He gave a chuckle and smiled at me saying, “We’ve yet to discover that old boy”.
England had just won the World Cup, but as a football mad youngster this was still the biggest event in my life so far. I knew that this was a special time and I was not going to miss any of it. Although access to the base at Pier Cottage was now very restricted I had a plan. The base is flanked on one side by Yewdale beck and just across the beck is free access land, so this would be my base for the next few months until the new world record had been set. I was not going to miss it. Secretly I made a vow to myself that I would be there to witness every trip that Bluebird made on the lake, thus ensuring that I would be there for the triumphant moment when Donald Campbell set a new World Water Speed Record. I had no doubt about my strategy, there was no room for error. When a historical moment is about to take place so close to home, nothing can be left to chance.
Yewdale beck is lined with trees on both sides which had the unfortunate effect of obscuring proceedings at base on the other side. However I soon found that by climbing different trees on ‘my’ side of the beck I could keep a close eye on what was happening. I started to build up an understanding of what different activities meant. I became a very youthful expert in body language, unfortunately at this stage in the project I was mainly reading frustration.
At last, on Friday the 4th of November, Donald was ready to take Bluebird onto the water and reacquaint himself with the old boat and get to know the new boat. There had been many changes made since they last took to the water, some of them very significant. Perhaps the biggest change being the engine which now had a thrust of 5,000 pounds, capable of flying Gnat fighter at 600mph. Bluebird had only been here for a few days, but my impatience was reaching desperation as I longed to see her promise fulfilled. I cycled down to the boating centre and walked around the shore to my vantage point and sure enough, it was all action on the other side of the beck. The Landrover was winching Bluebird down the rails and into the cold still waters of the lake. I could see the Landrover but not the boat at this point. The winch stopped and I waited and waited, not knowing what was happening at this stage. Then my heart nearly leaped out of my chest as the jet engine burst into life with a roaring scream quite unlike any other. I prepared to see a flash of blue shoot past me on the lake at a speed that would justify the noise I was hearing. But no, Bluebird crept around the headland at a serene 10 mph, looking quite squat and low in the water. Not the excitement I was craving, but it was a start, a taster of what was surely to come.
The next day was one of difficult choices, the fifth of November and a Saturday too. Normally the idea of having a day off school to prepare for bonfire night would be a big event. Added to that, my teacher was taking a party of children from school on a walk on the fells. I have loved fellwalking from an early age, but now there was the added complication of the possibility that Bluebird could very probably be taking to the water again and I would have to be there. After much discussion with Mr Bateson, the teacher, we decided that it would be a good idea to choose a route on the fells that would keep the lake in view at all times, just in case. He knew how me and my friend Dave loved to be on the fells, but he also understood just how important it was for us not to miss the moment.
Our small troop of about 20 school children set out through the village and up onto the fells and soon after the lake came into view the noise of a jet engine shattered the air. We all stopped and turned towards the lake watching for the blue boat to taxi out into the middle of the waters. Dave and I looked at each other with thoughts of going back, but by the time we could get down to the lake it could all be over. So we decided to stay put. We watched and watched, but nothing happened. The engine kept on roaring but no boat appeared. We couldn’t understand why it sounded like there was so much effort but no result. The noise of the jet engine seemed to go on for ages. It seemed like it was all morning, but maybe that’s just a childish perception and memory, but when it all came to an end so abruptly, we knew that something was wrong. The noise just stopped. No running down as the jet engine wheezed to a standstill, this time it was a sudden and abrupt halt.
On our return to the village all was explained. Donald had been doing static tests on the engine, with Bluebird firmly anchored to the slipway both fore and aft, he had put the engine through its paces. But the new engine with its greater power and greater thirst for air had caused the air intakes to collapse and had sucked some rivets and plastic into the engine and completely destroyed the turbine blades.
It’s amazing how everyone in the village suddenly became self styled jet engine technologists and the words Bristol Siddley Orpheus engine entered the local vocabulary as if it was as common place as char fishing or quarrying. The whole population were behind the attempt, as if the pride of Coniston itself was dependant on its success. But as Donald left the village in his blue E type Jag there were many who though that this was the end of the project. The wrecked engine was only on loan from the Air Ministry and where would he get another one from? Certainly none of us knew where to find one.
A large crane appeared at the base further fuelling the idea that Bluebird was to be taken ‘off the water’. But lights were burning day and night down at the base as the engine was lifted from the boat and Leo Villa (chief engineer) set about repairing the engine ready for when Donald returned six days later with the newly modified and strengthened air intakes. The repaired engine would only be used to test that the new intakes were up to the job, a new engine was on it’s way for the main event. Donald had to buy a complete Gnat fighter to get the engine, paying £10 above it’s scrap value for the privilege. The new Orpheus engine was stripped, cleaned and installed by a team from Bristol Siddley and as Bluebird once again glistened with anticipation, but the weather turned and as is often the case, Coniston was lashed with autumn gales and heavy rain. The blue tarpaulin was ripped by the strength of the winds and the weight of water collecting on it’s roof, as the make shift boathouse was battered, close to submission. Frustration was growing as technical difficulties and climatic conditions competed to undermine what had been expected to be a three week project.
On the 16th of November Donald returned again, this time with the new intakes ready to be fitted and that evening the static tests took place again, this time without incident. The noise of the jet engines roared out of the darkness of the late afternoon and through the village, but this time we understood what it meant. He wouldn’t be taking Bluebird out in the dark, it was the static tests. So when the engines quietly settled down the village breathed a sigh of relief and knew that the record attempt was back on track. A couple of days later on the Friday and with the ‘new’ engine now installed, the weather improved and the lake was like glass. My fears were mounting. I believed the boat was ready and I could see the conditions were right, but I had to go to school! Imagine my torment when later that morning, from the confines of the classroom, I heard the roar of a Bristol Siddley Orpheus jet. It was very distracting and at lunch time I tried every part of the perimeter of the school grounds to get a view of the lake. I went to the highest point of the school, but no luck, I couldn’t see the part of the lake that I needed to. I need not have worried, further problems were still to be overcome. This time the excess spray caused by the extra power of the new engine was flooding in through the air intakes and ‘putting out the fire’ as Donald described it. More modifications were needed.
I spent all weekend perched in my tree, watching the comings and goings across the beck at ‘base’. I was hoping to see some activity that indicated a launch was imminent. The lake shores were thronged with day visitors hoping for the same, but Saturday and then Sunday, came and went without a sign of serious activity. The following Tuesday the school day torment happened again, but by now my ear was becoming tuned in to what was happening and whatever it was, it wasn’t going to plan. With school over I raced home to hear that he was hoping to go out again before night time, which at that time of year isn’t too long after four o’clock. I sped down to the lake on my bike just in time to see Bluebird emerge from around The Point. The intensity of the engine noise rose higher and higher and spay plumed from behind her and as Donald applied the power she ploughed, slowly on, shipping huge amounts of water over the top of the boat. And then, at about 60mph she rose onto her planning points and shot across the water with a grace and speed like I had never seen before. After a short run he turned the boat around and returned with the same amazing speed, gliding across the lake like an ice skater. In the fading light as he slowly manoeuvred Bluebird back towards the boathouse we could see what looked like two sacks tied around the tail fin and resting on the rear transom. We later learned that the problems during the day had been an inability to get Bluebird up into it’s planning position, each time the power was applied the boat just dug into the water. Leo Villa had the idea of adding more weight to the rear of the boat, lifting the nose end slightly. This experiment had been effected by fixing two sandbags around the tail fin and had successfully allowed Bluebird to plane and achieve 100 mph for the first time on this trip.
The night lights were burning once again as a permanent modification was made, but the mood in the camp was upbeat, with Donald promising ‘250 mph by the weekend’ everyone was optimistic.
The mood was to be short lived, Donald was out again the next morning but only achieved 120 mph and struck a log in the process sustaining some damage to the boat. The weather changed again and with the passing of November, the flat calm conditions that were now essential for any high speed to be achieved were gone. Meanwhile my collection of press cuttings grew as I avidly collected every newspaper I could from family and friends, determined not to miss any reports or photographs.
It was Saturday the 10th of December before perfect conditions returned with the lake once again, flat calm. This raised another dilemma for me. With a family Christmas shopping trip to Barrow having been planned, how was I going to balance that with my real need to witness a world record attempt? We were up early that Saturday morning and could see from the upstairs windows that things were happening down at the lake. We delayed our departure more and more but eventually had to leave. My Dad agreed to go via the east side of the lake, where we would have a better view of things should Bluebird appear. As we drove around the head of the lake and up towards Lane Head we could see across to Pier Cottage and Bluebird was indeed being lowered into the water. We pulled into a gateway near Brantwood, the snow covered Old Man reflecting in the mirrored surface of the lake. All was still and quiet. Then with an unmistakeable explosion the sound of a jet engine surged across the valley and before long the blue streak of Bluebird skated across the surface of the lake infront of us. Still not a record, but he had broken the 200mph barrier for the first time, surely it wouldn’t be long now. Apparently the run was one of many to come that day to test the braking systems. Donald once made a joking reference to me about the brakes. He said “First I put my foot on the gas, then turn slightly to the right, hope I’ve missed Peel Island and then I slam on the brakes And if they don’t work at least I’ll have the record for the fastest man down the river Crake!” He laughed heartily at all his own jokes.
News of the 200 mph run was widely reported and the following day the crowds flocked to Coniston in expectation. But there was a slight ripple on the lake all day, so Bluebird stayed on dry land. What did happen however was that the two markers for the measured kilometre were moved into place. These were two huge slatted seven foot cubes, painted bright orange. Each one was lashed to two rowing boats and towed out to their positions and anchored. The stage was now set and it felt as though we were another step closer to an attempt on the record. On the Monday morning with conditions perfect Donald achieved 261mph on the downward run and 239 on the return, an average of 250. His existing record stood at 276.4, the moment was getting closer and closer.
There was much speculation about whether the superstitious Donald Campbell would be so cavalier as to risk a high speed run on Tuesday the 13th of December. Conditions were perfect that morning and as the Two Fairline 19 boats set off down the lake it became apparent that the answer was yes. These two boats did a sweep of the lake, looking for any debris that may cause problems, they also carried Dr Stephen Derbyshire, the team doctor along with other official observers. The run in both directions appeared faultless and achieved an average speed of 265 mph, but on return to the boathouse Donald reported hitting a seagull which had damaged the front part of the boat. He also wanted an inspection of the engine to see if the dismembered bird had been sucked in through the air intakes. There was also some doubt about the power of the engine, he didn’t feel he was getting enough from it to power him through the 300 mph barrier.
The men from Bristol Siddley returned and fitted a new fuel pump and two days later Bluebird was back in peak condition and ready to break records. But the weather had changed yet again, the wind and rain returned and lasted for days. Then on the 19th, the forecast looked promising for the following morning and the crew were back on standby for an early inspection, the best chance of a calm lake always being early in the morning. The conditions were perfect, people gathered around the lake ready to watch, but nothing happened. Speculation was rife around the shoreline, the calm waters stayed all day, but still no sign of Bluebird. The story eventually broke that Bluebird was trapped in the boathouse. The heavy rain overnight had collected on the tarpaulin and collected to such a weight that it had bent several of the scaffolding poles, leaving them hanging down below the height of the tail fin, leaving Bluebird stranded on dry land. The project was now over six weeks old and there was much talk around the village of despondency setting in. Donald himself was looking tired and weary and must have hoped to have this whole thing sewn up before Christmas. But winter bit once again and the Swiss time keepers eventually lost patience. There were rumours of arguments which Donald must have lost because on the 21st the men from Longines set off home for Christmas and Donald announced that there would be no more runs until the 28th. The village was once again returned to it’s local inhabitants as the pressmen, TV crews, engineers, timekeepers and onlookers all returned home for Christmas. Any thoughts of world records were suspended, probably until the New Year.
So it was a great surprise to all when on Christmas morning word spread around the village that help was needed to get Bluebird onto the perfectly calm lake. A makeshift crew of locals got Donald afloat and he managed to make two runs thought to be well in excess of 250 mph. With the weather set calm and the time keepers frustratingly absent, another run was set up for the 27th with better, though still unofficial timing. By lunchtime the word in the village was that he had broken the 300 mph barrier and though he may have touched that speed, the figure was later revised to an average of 280 mph. This was still above his existing world record, but also, still ‘unofficial’. The downside of this trip was that he hit a duck which badly dented the front spar which attached one of the sponsons to the main body of the boat. At the time no one seemed to take it seriously, but did it affect the airflow and therefore the aerodynamics of that crucial part of the boat on future runs? Concern was growing over the number of wildfowl increasing on the lake as the winter progressed and locals were conscripted to bring various firearms down to the lake to see if they would scare them off. This wasn’t successful so huge fireworks were purchased that did the trick and just prior to a run huge rockets were fired into the sky over the southern end of the lake from the Fairline launches, clearing the lake of any living obstacle.
After the Christmas break the various crews reassembled in Coniston. The members of the press increased their pre Christmas numbers as word went out about the success of the two unofficial runs. But the weather wasn’t settled and it was the late afternoon of Monday the 2nd of January before the lake settled down. Bluebird was fuelled up and lowered into the lake and Donald waited for the signal from the far end of the lake that would tell him that everyone was in position. Half an hour passed and with the light fading two of the observers unexpectedly drove back into the yard. The 2nd of January was a Bank Holiday because New Year’s Day had fallen on a Sunday, as a result, the road down the east side of the lake was totally blocked with the cars of hopeful spectators and the time keepers had not been able to get through to take up their positions. The opportunity was lost.
The following day, the weather was virtually identical and in the late afternoon the lake settled down, but it was just a little later than the day before and the light was fading, just enough for the attempt to be called off. This was the week, all that was needed now was a calm lake, everything else was in place. Everything was ready.
I was woken at quarter to seven the next morning by my Dad. He told me that there were a lot of vehicles heading down to the lake already, the bright lights at ‘base’ were shining through the dark morning sky. The air was very still and the lake calm, we knew that at first light Donald Campbell would set a new World Water Speed Record in Bluebird, just down the road from here. My parents had to slow me down otherwise I would have been down the road on my bike by seven o’clock. They assured me that there was time to eat my breakfast, “nothing will happen until it gets daylight”. My cousin Roy called for me and by half seven we were standing on the lake shore across the beck from base. The darkness was just lifting and the lake was flat calm, but there was much activity nearby. I trembled with excitement or cold, maybe a bit of both, it had taken nine weeks to get to this point. The preparation seemed to go on for hours, then at last the flotilla of boats set off for the far end of the lake. This usually happened half an hour before Bluebird would appear. The usual routine was that we would hear the Bristol Siddley Orpheus jet fire up and Bluebird would slowly appear around the point and take up a position in the middle of the lake. We would often get a thumbs up from Donald in his cockpit wearing his blue, racing boiler suite, helmet and full face mask. Something was different this morning. We heard the engine and we heard different engine noises as Donald seemed to be doing some different manouvres. We soon realised that he had gone up to the head of the lake to start his run, giving him longer to get up to speed before the measured kilometre. At ten minutes to nine the engine roared up to full power and Bluebird shot past us at about 100 mph, speed increasing all the time. Like a blue comet shooting across the lake with it’s trail of spray out behind, it faded into the distance as just a plume of spray. We knew that the downward run had been very fast. Over the last few months we had become incredibly accurate at assessing speed and we knew that this was in the region of 300 mph. As the spray died down we could see Bluebird once again as it turned around, five miles away at the far end of the lake. We were both surprised to see him set off again almost straight away. There were two scenarios here, the usual one was to refuel at the far end giving time for the wash to die down. The other possibility was to turn around immediately and let the wash flow to the shore, but set off before the return wave comes back to the middle. Whatever was happening on this run was different and the return seemed far too quick. But the plume of spry came up again with it’s small dark shape at it’s leading edge powering across the lake at an enormous speed. We both agreed that this was it, he was definitely travelling at a new world record speed. From our vantage point it was hard to tell when he had got through the measured kilometre and just as I said “there, he’s done it!”, the front end of the boat began to lift. The nose went up and over, high in the air and down with what looked like an explosion as it hit the surface of the lake. Silence. Absolute silence. All went quiet as momentarily a crumpled Bluebird sat on the surface of the lake. And as I said “well at least it hasn’t sunk”, it disappeared beneath the surface, at the deepest point of the lake.
The observer boats were soon motoring to the middle of the lake and circling round, picking up bits of wreckage and debris, but no sign of Donald. The crew back at base couldn’t see the run from the boathouse where they busily prepared for the triumphant return. Clive came running round from the boathouse to where we stood on the opposite side of the beck urgently asking us what had happened. We told him what we had seen and more of the crew appeared, looking down the lake with expressions of anguish and disbelief. Then the radio message came through from the boats on the scene. As the radio sputtered into life all we heard was “total disaster I’m afraid, total disaster, over”.
And it was ‘over’, not in the way we had expected, but in the worst possible way. Looking over towards the Bluebird Cafe at the end of Lake Road, some of our family and friends were just arriving, wanting to know what had happened and we recounted the story again, as we would do many times that day and for many years to come. The village descended into a state of shock as the word spread and minutes turned to hours with still no sign of Donald. All morning we lived in the hope that he had survived, but knew inside how that was most unlikely. That afternoon, Roy and I cycled to where his Dad and mine were working in the Brathay area to tell them the news. As we travelled back home that night, in silence and in darkness, it was pitch black over the lake, apart from the search lights in the area where the search continued. I saw the lake differently, for the first time it was not just the benign stretch of water where we swam and fished in the summer months, but also somewhere that could claim a life in an instant.
The search for Donald went on for weeks. A Police diving team were soon on the scene and within a few days the main fuselage of Bluebird was located on the bed of the lake and the cockpit was also discovered some distance away, but no sign of a body. Conditions for the search were far from ideal, with the lake temperature being very low in January. It was also the deepest part of the lake at 140 feet, the divers were strictly limited to how long they could stay down there. A further difficulty was the lack of visibility. The divers said that there was about four feet of silt on the lake bed which was easily disturbed and even at the best of times the visibility was only about four feet. A buoy was attached to Bluebird and a systematic sweep of the area took place.
One Friday lunchtime I was in the playground at school when my Mum arrived. I was puzzled but she assured me all was well, she just needed to see Mr Bateson, the Head teacher. When she came out of the school with my coat she said that she had permission to take me out of school because I was wanted for a television interview. Since the accident Roy and I had talked about an object that we saw thrown from the boat as it somersaulted in the air. The theory that Donald Campbell had been thrown from the boat was gaining some credence and the TV news wanted to film our version of events for the news. Roy and I were taken down to the lake shore by the Bluebird Cafe and Brian Barron interviewed us on camera. There were a few cuts while we helped him decipher both our accents and dialect before the interview was in the can. We were then taken down the lake in one of the Fairline 19 launches to meet the diving team, to tell them what we had seen and where we thought the object had landed. They moved the search to focus on that area but again, nothing was found.
In the many years that have passed since then, the Campbell story has not diminished. Whenever people ask where I am from they immediately relate the story to me. The interesting thing to me is that most of them tell me that they were there on the day the accident happened and I fully believe that they think they were. But it was a quiet Wednesday morning in January, I know virtually all of those who were there that morning and it wasn’t a huge amount of people, not even many locals were there although many appeared at the lake soon after. I think many of these people had visited the lake in the nine weeks that Donald was there, some probably even lucky enough to see Bluebird grace the waters of Coniston. And I believe that when they saw the news footage on that evening of January the 4th, it touched and moved them. And over the years the strong feelings that were evoked by that short piece of film have lead them to believe in all sincerity, that they were there to witness the crash. If all the thousands of people that have told me they were there, actually were there, it would have been mayhem! But I love to hear their stories. It doesn’t offend me that they aren’t telling me the truth. It reminds me of the extent that this story, this man Donald Campbell and his beautiful boat Bluebird, captured people’s hearts and imaginations.
Footnote:-
Coniston May 2021
A recent enquiry about some of the details of the day got me wondering why they had asked me and it dawned on me that there maybe aren't too many eye witnesses left to tell the tale. Having a count up and asking around a few people that might know, I have come to the conclusion that there are possibly only ten of us left. There may be more, but as yet I haven't found them.
