They have changed the flight paths again.

To the west lies Heathrow Airport.

When we got here, the mighty transcontinental planes were taking off over God knows where, someplace far away.

Now that has changed: well into the night and early in the morning, the grind and whoosh of double sets of turbo-fan engines passes over and passes over.

I hear a plane going over now, a low sound like someone pushing a stone casket across a wooden floor with a whine over the top of it, like Chewbacca’s grandson whining for more ice cream.

This morning a British Airways 747 went over, low, banking sharply as it passed over the roof and ascended.

The Boeing 747 is one of the humankind’s greatest achievements.