It’s 1942. I’m flying at about 10,000 feet over the French countryside, alert for enemy aircraft. I’m flying low – too low. Suddenly I realize the ground has been rising, and a mountain looms just ahead of me. A slight maneuver of the controls – too much at first, in my panic, then easing off, the Spitfire responds and takes me skirting over the plateau. I arc my course back over the Channel towards England.

I start to breath again and then, not very pilot-like, I giggle. “Wow, that was scary! It feels so real!”

Brian, the instructor, shouts over the blast of the Merlin engine, “Yes, it’s easy to forget it’s just a simulation!”

I never dreamed I’d be spending the last day of my two-week stay here in England at the controls of the iconic World War II British aircraft. Shirley, my long time friend who’s been living in England for decades, has presented me with an early birthday gift – an hour of simulation flying time in a Spitfire Mark IX.

Just after breakfast one misty morning, we set off for the tiny village of Wisborough Green, in West Sussex. The sign at the end of the driveway announces we’ve arrived at Wheelers Farm, The Luth. Another, smaller sign, boasts a stylized Royal Air Force (RAF) ensign emblazoned with ‘The Spitfire Experience.’

Brian, who’s retired RAF and owner of the farm, comes out to greet us. He opens the door of the cabin, and we are instantly transported back to 1942. RAF uniforms hang on the walls, and assorted paraphernalia – log notes, ration books, maps and old newspapers, create a time traveler experience. A blackboard lists the day’s flight schedule – and my name is up there!

The recreation of the Nissan hut is impressive, but the simulator is the main attraction. Three huge media screens run across the entire width of the cabin. A Spitfire cockpit, complete with controls, stick, tattered leather seat and windshield, faces the screens. “Pilots” choose their flight scenario from hundreds of airports, landing strips and topography that span the globe.

Brian apologizes for not being able to bring the infamous Merlin engines to their full sound capacity. “We’d go deaf in here,” he explains, “so I can only go as high as about 70% of what they’d be in a live scenario”.

The blank screens transform into an English airfield. Once the engines roar to life, and the cockpit starts to vibrate, I feel myself getting lost in the moment. And in my father’s story. He was 19 and already enlisted in the Royal Air Force when the Second World War broke out in 1939. He loved airplanes. Flying them, navigating their routes, repairing them, talking about them, drawing them, and painting them. He had a life long love affair with all things aeronautic and played the role of dashing airman throughout the war.

As my Spitfire lifts off from the runway and noses into the bright blue sky in the direction of France, I feel my dad’s presence. And his instructions. “Don’t be so heavy handed, look straight at where you want to go, keep your bearings…”

In the 60 fast minutes I have up here in the blue yonder, I understand how it must have felt for a young man with an insatiable taste for adventure to be part of something so new, so different, so daring.

Control panel on the Spitfire IX

But it’s not all romance and bravado. Being airborne in this tank with propellers gives me a whole new appreciation for the skill of flying. Brian compliments me on my ability to keep the aircraft level, but it’s hard to keep a deft touch on the controls. After a few more close calls on the way back to the landing strip I touch down far too early, managing a rough splash landing in the lake before Brian reaches over for the controls and saves the day.

He tells us a lot of pilots and ex-pilots come to fly the simulator. Some of his local clientele come regularly just to unwind after a busy week at the office. And then there’s people like me – who welcome the chance to reach out – and up – to touch a part of history.

And to fly over the French countryside, with the ghost of my father at the controls.