ERNIE BROOKS really was a magnificent man in a flying machine, an aviation pioneer killed when his prototype gyrocopter crashed to the ground at Teesside Airport in 1969.

Now plans are afoot to rebuild one of his aircraft in his memory, with the hope of displaying it at the airport to mark the 50th anniversary of his death.

The project’s led by Trevor Brooks, his nephew, just 12 at the time of the accident on March 9,1969, and the first on the scene.

“It was absolutely horrific, he was my hero,” recalls Trevor, from Middlestone Moor, near Spennymoor. “He was an adventurer, a true pioneer.

The Northern Echo: Ernie Brooks

Adventurer: Ernie Brooks testing a wig's staying ability. Picture: George Teasdale

“If he hadn’t been killed, the gyrocopter business was set to take off massively. For Ernie, the sky really could have been the limit.”

The Brooklands Mosquito was discovered in Cornwall by gyrocopter pilot and instructor Shirley Jennings who, as we revealed in 2011, is writing Ernie’s life story.

It’s hoped that it will return to County Durham this weekend, in the back of a minibus – minus seats – owned by Stuart McLacklan, Trevor’s brother-in-law, who runs a taxi business at Bildershaw, above West Auckland.

“I’ve become absolutely hooked by the story,” says Stuart. “It sounds like he was a truly remarkable man.”

ERNIE BROOKS, just 39 when he died, designed the one-seat gyrocopter in his garden shed in Tudhoe Colliery and built it at a commercial garage in Low Spennymoor. The first flew in 1962.

Hailed as the motor car of the air, the craft cruised at 80mph, could take off in 65 yards, ran on around two-and-a-half gallons an hour, used a converted Volkswagen car engine and cost £1,150 – £300 cheaper than its nearest competitor, Ernie claimed.

His flights of fancy over south Durham became familiar, usually on Sundays. His reputation also took wing. There was an appearance on Blue Peter (“I got a badge” says Trevor), another on the affectionately remembered radio show Down Your Way, presented by Franklin Engelman, a couple of slots on BBC Look North which, recovered from the archives, will again be screened on May 8.

even a characteristically breathless piece on Movietone News.

It’s now on Trevor’s phone. “You can understand why they were getting so excited,” he says. “My uncle was just an ordinary chap from Spennymoor who was catching the imagination of the world.”

Ernie, long bald, had also been persuaded to do a test flight for Crown Topper wigs over Weston-super-Mare, famously captured by Spennymoor photographer George Teasdale.

The deal was that his uncle kept the wig if it stayed in place. Amazingly, it did. It must have been astonishing glue they were using,” says Trevor, affection for his Uncle Ernie undimmed by time’s winged messenger.

“To put it very mildly, it was an interesting childhood. They were great days. Ernie would sometimes buzz me when I was watching at the airport, it was a game of chicken, really. He was a very witty feller, very dry, but the kind of man who’d do anything for anyone. He said he’d buy me one when I was 18.”

Trevor also insists that his uncle hadn’t been trying to loop-the-loop, as was reported at the time. “He knew the machine couldn’t do it and he wouldn’t gave attempted it, he was just trying a turn when it crashed to earth.”

For design reasons, and for more modern demands of health and safety, it’s unlikely that the Mosquito will fly again. Trevor and Stuart also hope to interest the producers of Kynren in it – “if anything helps tell the story of County Durham, it’s that.”

A gyrocopter these days might set the pilot back around £80,000 – “probably out of most people’s reach,” concedes Stuart, “though there are those who’d pay that much for a car.”

They hope on March 9, 2019, to parade the restored craft around the Spennymoor area before commemorating the pioneer pilot’s death near the place at the airport where it happened. “We’ve nearly two years so should be able to do it,” says Trevor. “I just want to return it to pristine condition, as Ernie deserves. It’s going to be a very special day.”

ALMOST coincidentally, the column was in Spennymoor last Thursday for breakfast at the Cottage Café. Older hands still pictured Ernie. “Folk round here would spend all weekend looking out for him,” someone said. “Nee wonder there were so many bad necks on Monday morning.” The Cottage has recently been taken over by our old friend Chris Hill, formerly of the Black Horse in Tudhoe and several other pubs in the area. “Large” breakfast, three of everything and then some, is just £4.95. “Pubs are dying,” says Chris. “This is going really well and the bonus is there are no night shifts.” Fire to frying pan, as it were.

REPORTING yet another appearance before the Coundon and District Society for the Prevention and Prosecution of Felons, the column a couple of weeks back confessed to once again telling the story of how local bobby Arthur Stephenson had been instructed to take to juvenile court ten youngsters found playing hum-dum-dum in the street.

It was around 1960. Much commended at Coundon, Stivvie rose to inspector at Stockton, retired 40 years ago, happily still lives to tell that and other tales.

Like the time, also at Coundon, when he was ordered by Supt Thomas Oliver Pringle (“he of the Bay Rum aftershave”) to do something about sheep worrying at nearby Grange Hill.

Stivvie worried in turn: there were three chief canine suspects. That’s why he “coached” the shepherd to call on all three dog owners, point to their mutt and claim “THAT’S the one that did it.”

All three dogs were voluntarily put down; the problem ended. Stivvie – “dastardly,” he admits – might have got away with it had all three owners not been comparing notes in the pub.

His superiors, doubtless including he of the Bay Rum aftershave, were at once informed. As Arthur himself puts it, the Ways and Means Act (Coundon) 1962 were promptly and summarily repealed.

Hum-dum-dum (finger or thumb?) is also recalled by John Todd – now in Barton, near Darlington – from his days at Easington Colliery Juniors. Over there, and certainly in Hartlepool, it was called montakitty and periodically banned.

“I guess the collapsed heap of bodies could have resulted in an element of pain for some,” John concedes.

Space precludes a hum-dum-dummy run. Suffice that the guy with his back against the wall might (as usual) have had quite a hard time.

During its spells of banishment, the Colliery kids would revert to tiggy on high, chain tiggy and cowboys and (what formerly were known as) Indians. “Sadly,” says John, “my attempts to bring in Roundheads and Cavaliers never worked.”