This summer my aunt called my bluff and came paragliding. Read what she wrote for her staff magazine:

Up up and away …..

I had a chance to meet up with my nephew last Christmas after a gap of some years. He is now in business on his own – and to some extent pursuing his dream. Instead of being a wage slave he now runs a paragliding school flying off the Sussex downs.

His parting gift was a flight invitation for a trip on his 2-seater paraglider. Dream-on thought I.

But the summer came, and the ideas of really doing it grew with the (admittedly occasional) sunshine. ‘Why would I want to?’ increasingly became ‘why not?’. Then ‘why not’ became ‘when?’. We fixed a date in July, but then the wind and rain blew yet again and we had to call it off. But I was now fully committed to flying with the birds.

By the end of September we had another weekend – wind speed under 15 mph, said the Met office, with wind from the North East, which meant suitable downland to launch from. Saturday morning I strolled nonchalantly onto the hill to meet David only to be greeted by a 50 foot wing coming towards me over the hill, with him and his earlier customer hanging below. Then they swooped away, tried some aerobatics, before coming in for a fairly controlled landing along the ridge. Gulp!

Thirty minutes later I was adjusting the harness and going through my drill for take off and landing. Going tandem clearly required the key skill of obedience. Orders would be shouted in my ear from my pilot right behind me in this mesh of webbing and clips. Having recently tried my hand at abseiling (maximum adrenalin despite the safety ropes) this all seemed safer somehow - but what has logic got to do with it? Next moment, there was a full arc of ripstop wing behind me beginning to fill with the wind and tug through the myriad fine strings. Then a sudden gust, an almighty yank on the harness and we were 20 feet up and rising away from the hill out over open fields. The most challenging manoeuvre for me was wriggling back to adjust the harness into a seat – and remembering to breathe!

From there it was pure exhilarating joy. David had an altimeter that bleeped going up and hummed coming down; it became a companionable sound. He kept talking and I began to see how he could read this invisible environment of air uplifts and thermals. We watched the landscape for ripples building across a line of trees towards the hill, and as they broke away we swooped towards them to catch the edge of the thermal, swirling up 4 or 500 feet. We spotted a group of jackdaws cruising on the uplift, and traversed the ridge edge to join them. Looking down you could see detail in the landscape that told of its archaeology. Looking up we could fly towards a break in the clouds just big enough for a pair of sailor’s trousers.

David regaled me with tales of flying in Spain, and the Himalayas, of high altitude ascents, and long distance attempts. No engines, no pollution, no noise, just working in tune with the elements.

Eventually the wind began to drop and it was time for that landing. We had a last try for maximum altitude, showed off with some aerobatics and came to rest at a measured trot along the chalk down. David tamed the wing with an expert flick and twist, and it folded itself onto the grass with a sigh as the air was released. I still felt as high as a kite!

I am sure there is a world of difference between being taken up by an expert and learning to fly solo. No doubt that is hard work, and at times truly scary. But I now understand why people are prepared to buy the kit, repeatedly hike to the top of suitable hills with a huge backpack, wait around for just that wind speed, direction and thermal, and then, just maybe, get airborne and join the birds. Tempted? - actually yes.