Magnificent Mew

There are many reasons to create something in an original’s image, the most obvious being the asking price for the ‘real’ thing, but there are some recreations so faithful that they are seen as continuations, as if a vehicle manufacturer had added them to the production line at the time. It’s a term mainly coined by the historic motorsport lot, so they can race a Cobra without risking the original. Or, in the case of the really well-heeled, so a ‘real’ Cobra’s identity can be used to create a Daytona, of which there were only ever six. The Cobra is apparently the most replicated car in history, but a well-built one will drive much like the original. It’s also true that a Ferrari GTO wearing a price tag of £50m drives much like any other 1960s GT, of which there are a few available for a lot less. So it’s not really about the driving experience. 

For aeroplanes, it’s more likely that the original’s flying qualities are hard to find. There’s less emphasis on the investment value – although that is a consideration – mainly because of the practicalities involved with aircraft. A businessman who might regard a GTO as an investment but doesn’t want to race it, can find someone who will (like me…). It will fit in a mews garage where it can be stroked after dinner, and there are a few people able to look after them. That’s not so easy with say, a Spitfire, although ironically, that enterprise might prove many millions cheaper. For your Spitfire you would need to find somewhere with a runway attached, and someone qualified to fly it, as well as someone to maintain it. There is also the airworthiness aspect. A Spitfire built round a data plate dug out of the Kentish sands has to conform exactly to drawings and be made of the correct materials or the authorities won’t allow it to be flown. It’s not as easy as building a car. 

LAA rules

That much applies to the lighter end of aviation too, The LAA applies the rules with similar rigour, but as an organisation it is more approachable, and more flexible. You can substitute American hardware for British, provided it does a similar job and so on. That’s not the case with the CAA, which required replacement spars for a Hurricane to be manufactured to the original specification, using 60 rolls of steel with a total weight of 27 tons just to create one set of spars, which then had to be individually heat-treated in a river of oil, dug in a pit outside the foundry. That was done in Austria and at one point, the company which had taken on the job for Hawker Restorations (more of them later), said they’d pay ‘a million quid for them to go away’… A Hurricane is actually more exclusive than a Spitfire, but… not as exclusive as the Mew Gull you see in the pictures, which is perhaps, more accessible. Well, in theory anyway. While it’s possible to buy a Hurricane, you’d have to make a Mew Gull. In the original’s image, and to the original drawings, after which – in theory – and as the taildragger-literate holder of a PPL, you could fly it. And it isn’t powered by a Merlin.

This story begins in 2008 or thereabouts. David Beale was already an LAA inspector and the owner of the only airworthy Tipsy Belfair (sporty Belgian, side-by-side two-seater, powered by an inline inverted 62hp Walter Mikron). He’s definitely a hands-on type so had inevitably become the go-to man for the Czech-made engines, and had previously rebuilt a Taylor Titch racer, (also powered by a Walter, naturally, which gave it the proper long-nosed period racer look), but which tragically was destroyed in a fatal crash. Thus far Beale had spent his proper-job time building up Innomech, a high-tech engineering group based on the Isle of Ely, specialising in robotic machinery for the medical profession. Clearly, it’s a successful enterprise, but come the early noughties one whose founder had a 60th birthday looming. “I had already tried to hand over control but I kept interfering…” It’s a familiar tale involving driven individuals… However, the loss of the Titch meant David was without a proper ‘hooligan’s machine’, a desire that belied his scholarly appearance. It’s something he had coveted since his days flying control-line models.

A new Mew

The surviving Mew Gull G-AEXF (one of five), which has now finally settled at Old Warden was not for sale, the Miles Speed Six he says was ‘too big and too ugly’, and there were no drawings anywhere for the French Caudron with the impossibly long nose, which is something of a holy grail for would-be race replica builders.

While browsing the classifieds one day, David saw an advert for a Mew Gull replica project, for sale as it turned out by Tony Ditheridge, better known then as Hawker Restorations, renowned rebuilders of Hurricanes. Like many such tales, there are many stumbles and detours along the way, but eventually a deal was struck for a fuselage, plus a crate containing an unused Gipsy Six engine intended for a Miles Mentor, but never used. The fuselage turned out to have been built by Ken Fern – renowned serial wooden aircraft builder, currently well-advanced in the recreation of a twin-engined DH Comet racer recreation, the inspiration for which flies at Old Warden alongside G-AEXF.

Fern had built David’s fuselage to airworthy standard using drawings created by Tom Storey, sometime restorer of AEXF, plus Ken had done some drawings and sketches of his own, all of which would go with the project. David asked Ditheridge for a price to complete the job, and was told £100,000. ‘I should have bitten his hand off…’. Instead, David made enquiries about wings, and the early advice was clear. Go to someone who has done them before… More research revealed why that might be the case, the spars were immensely complex with a mixture of Ash centre and Spruce outer, incorporating the sweepback and the dihedral. Some of it also aligned with the airfoil section of the wing, but none offered a parallel surface anywhere along its length. All of it necessary to provide the strength within a slim high-speed aerofoil section required for a racing aeroplane which will turn tight with a full fuel load. It would later prove a bonus for Alex Henshaw who was likely to encounter some pretty shabby weather between England and Africa, and would clearly not want to compromise his navigation. Thunderstorms were to be flown through, if necessary… Roger Burrows of Wattisham came recommended as the go-to wing man and was entrusted with the construction, a decision with which Beale became increasingly appreciative as the project progressed.

Each 11 gallon wing tank had to be made before the wing was completed, and David discovered several different drawings for these. Tankage was an essential part of the Mew Gull’s development and establishment of the aircraft’s 1,000 mile-plus capability. There is an additional 33 gallon tank in front of the pilot and Percival’s original design showed another tank in the rear fuselage, which Henshaw apparently used, but for which David can’t find any drawings. There’s no doubt the aircraft could accommodate one. David says the Mew Gull is, “Very light on the tail without the pilot’s weight, and if you started the engine without anyone sitting in the cockpit, it would likely go straight over on its nose. I can load the shelf behind the seats with anything I might need for a long trip.” He adds, “And we still can’t get the CofG anywhere near the aft limit…” That’s something I encountered with my Miles Messenger, but it was the point in our discussion when, what might have seemed like an extravagant obsession to build a massively impractical single-seater that’s short on cockpit space and tricky to land, suddenly made perfect sense…

“I have a friend in the South of France,” David adds, “and I can get all the way there, and back, without refuelling…” I thought about that in a quiet moment afterwards. At 6,000ft, the six-cylinder Gipsy is rated for full throttle (with mixture leaned to suit – Henshaw apparently had two mixture controls which rather underlines the need), so that’s around two and a bit hours of flying at 200mph-plus with an iPhone suckered to the canopy to keep you out of airspace, and enough room for a couple of cases of finest Burgundy on the way back, wedged in behind by your overnight bag and briefcase. Possibly something rorty like an RV-8 might be able to get close, but it’s certainly not as fast, and it definitely wouldn’t have the same ambiance… Nothing whatsoever could affect that. You’d be sitting behind an inverted British engine, making the trip in a style, which nobody has done probably since the 1930s.

Meanwhile, the Ken Fern fuselage had apparently been modified to accommodate the American who had paid for it. David asked if it could be returned to original dimensions, which Ken said it could. David now had the major parts underway, but as anybody who has ever built anything that drives or flies, there’s at least as much work still to go, probably more. All the metal fittings had to be machined, cut, folded and welded, and for the cowls and fairings, rolled from aluminium. There are no fibreglass parts anywhere on the aeroplane. David chose to do all of that himself using his engineering skills, plus a few he had to acquire, like use of an English Wheel to roll the curved bits, which included the massive spats. He was sensible though, concerning things that were better left to someone with the experience, such as aluminium welding… By then, and on a practical note, he had reached an agreement with the most recent management of his company, beginning with one day a week completely away from the business of which he was (and still is) chairman, increasing to two, then three until he retired completely from executive duty, a date which would coincide with his 60th birthday.

Parts and systems

The wheels came from a Piper Pacer which uses the required 600X6 tyre size, albeit with a much larger sidewall profile and are fitted with small drums similar to the Dunlop originals. Despite an extensive search the real things had proved elusive, the fork which mounts them came from a Piper Aztec and perfectly replicates the genuine item. There is more, so much more. Someone had turned the crankshaft of the Gipsy engine so the inhibiting had been disturbed, the bores had gone rusty and it needed a top overhaul. Another load of work, which is easy to say, but took me months on my Blackburn which has four rather than six cylinders. The bigger Gipsy is effectively a Major like the one in the Chipmunk but with two extra cylinders – an inverted engine typical of the period. Oil is held in a separate tank – obviously – because the sump is effectively on top of the engine, and because the crankshaft (which drives the hydraulic constant-speed de Havilland propeller directly) is at the top and the cylinders inline, the engine continues that long sleek look of an already narrow fuselage.

All of it had to be plumbed in, the engine connected to the three fuel tanks and the cockpit had to be fitted out. There were drawings for details like the power and mixture levers, but all had to be made, welded, painted and plated. Everything except the spade grip for the stick which came from a Vega Gull, just like it did in period. And the wiring, the cockpit glazing with its polished aluminium joiners… The original Mew Gull was one of the first to use acrylic for the canopy, but David opted for polycarbonate for the front section. As he says, the consequences of a pheasant strike at 220mph were worth avoiding.

After six years and more than 10,000 hours, the aircraft was finally painted – 36 coats of dope, each hand-rubbed in between, plus one major gremlin when the dope soaked through the plywood, sagged it, then set… Had to be removed and replaced with one grade thicker, covered with fabric, then the 36 coat process repeated from the beginning. Then yet more than is easy to say or write, but takes an age to do, until finally it was done. The major fuselage parts and engine installation had been completed and painted in David’s garage next to the house. David had helped Roger Burrows to finish the wings at Wattisham, which David then painted in a gazebo erected in his hangar at Witchford Farm where they were to be mated with the fuselage. Which he says, was a nightmare… Like drilling the 56 1/4in holes for the wing attachment, which required the manufacture of a four-foot long drill. Four feet… Which needs a guide, otherwise the slightest deviation in angle ensures the other end of the hole will be inches away from the matching plate. There were three alternative drawings for the undercarriage fitting plates, so guess which one proved to be correct? More, that is again, easy to say. Engine installation, fuel system, oil system, wiring, test runs, systems checked again and again. And when that’s all done, it might finally be time to prepare for the test flight. This would be the culmination of all David’s work, the fulfillment of a desire fired by those model flying days, the replacement for his Titch and a fitting epitaph to the two men who provided encouragement throughout. One of them would have probably test flown the Mew Gull. This was what it was all for.

Finally, flight…

David says he now knows the Titch flying experience is much like the Mew Gull’s – amazing that the 105hp Walter provides a similar power-to-weight ratio – but sensibly, he decided to ask a professional test pilot to conduct the initial phase, and Charlie Huke was the lucky man. David says he wasn’t worried about Charlie taking the controls – which I guess is why you ask a professional – and other than that the undercarriage oleos proved lacking in pressure so they were too soft, there were no fundamental design problems surfacing years later having been masked by a brilliant pilot. Stick to the drawings and there shouldn’t be, like Captain Edgar said, but I’m guessing it was good to find out. The official test flying was done at Henlow in Bedfordshire, which once offered the largest grass flying area in the country and Huke worked methodically through the programme as expected, until one day, he taxied in, switched off and climbed out, asserting, ‘that’s all OK, now it’s your turn. Just remember that at 300ft, the airfield completely disappears…’ It was, David says, already an intimidating prospect without that little nugget.

He survived it, and has clearly gone on to master the beast. There are 230 Mew Gull hours in his log book now, or ‘only 10 less than Alex Henshaw’s’, which sounds much more impressive. A record, which Henshaw would have been very happy to concede, just as he so graciously surrendered his Cape record in 2009.

So, David, tell us what it was like. “It’s really nice…” he says, implying there’s nothing particular about the flying experience that’s frightening or remarkable, other than it is as lively as you’d expect. “It’s very light in pitch, and feather light on the rudder… and it wants to turn right all the time. If you took your feet off the pedals, it would smack your head against the canopy,” he says. “I couldn’t find any drawings for a rudder trim, or any evidence they ever fitted one, and it does get tiring flying any distance with one pedal pressed, even though it’s very light. There are stirrups on the pedals, and sometimes I give my leg a rest by pulling on the opposite one…” Predictably, it was putting it back on the ground, which David says requires most concentration, especially when you can’t see where that might be. He says the most important thing is to approach at exactly 90mph, mindful of the fact it stalls at 85. Approach at 95 and it simply won’t land, any less and it will hit hard. “There’s a really, really vicious tip stall,” he says, “I have touched a wingtip…” The best technique is to wheel it on, so he can put the wheels on the numbers “…and then you’ve got drag to slow you down. And remember to pull the prop back to coarse…” Looking at the angle of the feathered blades, I can see how that might be. “If you don’t, it will float. Took me a while to learn that. I do it just when I think the wheels are ready to touch…”

Our interview over, the Gipsy fired on the second blade, cracking and popping, spitting flame from the six stubs as David carefully weaved down the taxiway. There’s a tailskid lock which he says is essential for a heavy aeroplane like the Mew, or the Pacer drums which are the only means of steering would simply overheat. The Gull disappeared from view, hidden by the slight bow in the runway, and then after a brief pause, it burst into view, already airborne, soaring skywards, I reckon at 2,000ft a minute plus. The bark of the engine slid down an octave as he pulled back the prop, and the elegantly tapered planform disappeared behind the hangars. A minute or so later it reappeared 500ft above the runway then the mandatory zoom as he left the circuit. It’s the fastest thing I’ve ever seen leaving North Coates, and that includes the many RVs which regularly have to go round. I watched the tail flick left as David apparently made himself more comfortable for the trip, skidding the Mew out of sight. And then he was gone. A red speck heading into a clear blue sky. I looked back at the vintage North Coates hangar, unchanged since it was built. It could all have been the 1930s… If I ever needed another reason to want a Mew Gull, that was it.