Since I was a child we have had an annual family ritual; visiting the graves of Dad's parents in Bushey Cemetery. We would go each year during the high holidays - the week between the jewish new year and the day of atonement.

Although a rather solemn chore, the walk amongst the departed would be punctuated by the light aircraft landing and taking off from Elstree Aerodrome. It was located one field away - its flight path crossing directly over the graveyard.

There was something playful and reassuring in those propellered flying machines. The pilots above our heads, framing that which lay below our feet in a new way.

My dad, once upon a time, had been one of those pilots. He had himself flown from Elstree Aerodrome, and would recount his adventures as a pilot. The humble daredevil hero of me.

So it was to be on our 2014 annual visit to Bushey Cemetery that Dad took me and mum, wllempje and our four month old twins to Elstree Aerodrome to play airplanes over coffee. The only time we would ever go there together.

We stood up on our chairs and wooshed and swooped in the sunshine, grinning like the carefree kids we were at that moment.

Now dad lies in Bushey, and because of the virus I can not visit him. And I think of him playing planes, taking off, reassuring us down below.