“Roots Among the Runways”
Let me tell you about one of the biggest adventures of all the time our family found a new home for our growing dream, tucked away in a place steeped in history.
We had just taken on new premises at Brookenby Business Park, once the proud RAF Binbrook. You see, long before there were plants and polytunnels, this land echoed with the thunder of engines and the brave spirits of airmen who served there during the Second World War.
RAF Binbrook first opened in June 1940, during those dark but determined wartime days. It was home to No. 12 Squadron RAF, flying their Vickers Wellingtons, and later No. 142 Squadron, which flew Fairey Battles before switching to Wellingtons too. Imagine it, sweetheart the sound of planes roaring across the Lincolnshire skies, the lights on the airfield glowing through the night.
In 1942, the station closed briefly to have its runways rebuilt in concrete strong and steady and when it reopened, it became home to No. 460 Squadron of the Royal Australian Air Force. After the war, it continued to serve, housing distinguished RAF bomber squadrons IX, 12, 101, and the famous 617 “Dambusters” Squadron. And later still, it saw the dawn of the jet age with the arrival of the English Electric Canberras.
Yes, our new home had a story one written in courage, grit, and the echoes of history.
But when we arrived, well, it wasn’t exactly ready for us! The place had seen better days. The nissen huts those curved, tin-roofed shelters that had once stood strong through storms and war were rusting and weary. The concrete was cracked, the windows rattled, and the wind seemed to find its way through every gap and seam.
Still, where others might have seen ruins, we saw potential.
We began in July 2017 and oh, what a sight it was! The whole family rolled up their sleeves and got to work. David’s brother took on the high jobs partly because he wasn’t afraid of heights, and partly because the rest of us most certainly were!
Shaz, Tina, and I and others spent long, cold winter days raking stone and clearing ground, our fingers red from the chill, but our spirits high. Bit by bit, we transformed those tired old huts into bright, warm greenhouses, full of life once more. The plants, bless them, didn’t seem to mind the history beneath their roots. They grew tall and strong, as if they, too, knew they were part of something special.
The snow and cold and plants were still being taken to Willingham Hall Market Rasen.
And then there was Andrew’s tunnel. He cleverly used the frames from smaller tunnels to build one long, sturdy tunnel that we fondly named The Andrew Tunnel. It was built on the hard standing where a previous Nissen hut had been, but had been destroyed by fire years before. It became something of a legend withstanding every storm and gale that swept across the old airfield.
And oh, those winds! On an old RAF base like that, with miles of open land all around, the weather has a will of its own. There were times the storms came howling through, tearing at the tunnels and even bending frames that were set solid in concrete. Still, each time, we rebuilt. We patched, fixed, and started again because that’s what our family has always done.
Even the building we turned into our packing area needed its fair share of love. The roof leaked, the walls groaned in the wind, and it took more than a few weekends to get it watertight. But slowly, surely, it began to shine again.
At first, we were only renting the premises. But as time went on and as we mended, repaired, and restored nearly every inch of it, it only made sense to take it on fully. Ownership meant responsibility, of course, but we were already caring for it as if it were ours.
So there we were standing on the same ground where brave men once flew into history, now nurturing life instead of facing war. From courage to cultivation our little business had found its forever home or so we thought....
Something once built for battle can become a place of peace, growth, and family.
The next part of the story is where the hard work begins to blossom.
