The great outdoors

UP, UP AND AWAY

An enthralling account of a hot air balloon flight my son, Richard, and I took in 1998. Backlit against the rapidly burnishing purple hue of dawn, the black silhouette of heavy oaks stood like overweight dancers, swaying politely, prompted by the gentle north westerly breeze.

There was a brief lull in the activity previously acted out against the receding night. Richard my youngest son and I were, like the other ten, knees bent, hunched upon our backs, waiting for the adventure to begin.

Through the dim light, we could see a couple of curious cows peering over a nearby fence, like anxious parents watching their fearless children at some perilous game.

Above us a slack rope cracked in a stray gust, it could almost have been a pre-arranged signal, like a starter's pistol. But now at last the waiting was over. With a primitive roar the burner sent a tongue of incandescent flame high into the air, illuminating the inflated reds and greens of the flimsy material.

The basket creaked in protest, then unable to resist the inevitable any longer, it tilted, slowly at first, until with a bump we were upright, crouched in readiness for the impending launch. There were shouts and orders from the ground crew, strained securing tethers frantically unhitched. A momentary maelstrom of what seemed like chaos. Then the basket swung boisterously, free at last from its shackles.

Whatever fears we may have had, it was too late now. The faces of onlookers were filled with a mixture of awe, envy, and in some, like Sue (Richard's Mum), concern only for our safe return.

And then we were away, cheered on by a chorus of early chirping birds disturbed by the hustle, their worms not yet caught. Lifted up as if by an invisible hand, the trees could only stare begrudgingly as we rose above them, soaring upward on a tide of heated air.

Richard's knuckles flushed white, so tight was his grip on the plaited rope handles. As we gained momentum, my first precarious thought, and Richard's too as he told me later, was that fundamental question, what is keeping us up? Looking up into the silken envelope wrapped around a sphere of hot air, our suspension in the atmosphere seemed tenuous to say the least. Just a slender thread preventing us from dropping to a swift spectacular death. What would happen if the balloon tore or some vital rope snapped? For a fleeting moment, panic threatened to smother rational thought, then I caught Richard glancing up to me for support, his eyes somehow hiding those same anxieties behind a mask of love and total trust. That trust firmly closed the shutters on my own irrational fear. I returned his glance with a confident wink.

We climbed steadily now, the remnants of darkness draining away below us as if the plug had been pulled on the night. Bravely Richard ventured an apprehensive glance over the padded rim of the basket, and as the earth rapidly diminished below us, so our initial nerves evaporated in the burning gas swelling the giant belly of the balloon.

The ascent through the crisp morning air continued at an alarming rate, so much so that a startled orange sun glared suddenly above the eastern horizon, surprised that we had beaten it into the brand new day.

At length we topped out at about two thousand feet, where our fragile craft settled, content to drift in whichever direction the wind dictated. Richard looked at me and grinned. If I'm honest I suppose our first reaction was relief. Relief that we were safety airborne, floating serenely in the sharp clear dawn. Looking down to 'our' field, we could see the ant like figures of the spectators waving pointlessly at what for them was now just a brightly shrinking ball.

So we sailed on the wind, all the time in the world now to wonder at the crisp patchwork landscape spread over earth's bounteous table. Far below us, flat trees became tall again through the long early shadows cast by the lazy sun. An intricate jigsaw of green, brown and golden fields was stitched together with rambling hedgerows. A solitary sycamore stood guard in the centre of an odd white field, chalk recently ploughed to accommodate some hardy winter crop.

So captivated were we by the new world we had found that we became oblivious to the other passengers on this fanciful flight. Only the intermittent roar from the burner reminded us that we were in a manned craft. Otherwise we soaked in the deep engulfing silence and stared in fascination. I was surprised at the number of small lakes and ponds, sparkling sapphires scattered on a dew dusted baize.

In contrast to our serenity, Sue was chasing the hare, driving wildly through the country lanes after the ground crew, pursuing our as yet unknown destination.

For us, time, like our vessel, drifted by unchecked. We spoke occasionally to point out some feature of the landscape unseen and unimagined from the ground. Then as we moved gracefully above a small town, we became unashamed voyeurs, peering down into the privacy of the inhabitant's naked gardens. A random pedestrian, a paper-boy or perhaps a milkman, would sometimes wave or call hello.

Somewhere in one of these suburban dwellings a dog barked in disapproval at our prying eyes, this yelping followed us like some contagious disease swelling through the town as fellow canines joined in, only ceasing when they had chased us firmly back into open country.

But the further our flight travelled, the nearer was its end. The pilot, from the beginning so studiously tracking our course, was already searching for a suitable site to set us down, gradually losing height at we went.

Just ahead of us, a flock of fretful sheep retreated single file into an adjoining field, reminding me of a ramshackle army desperate to escape our inexorable advance.

By now of course we had lost our fear and as we traversed a silent river, a lone fisherman reflected the peace and tranquillity we ourselves had discovered on our journey. Crossing a shallow wood, tall spruce trees reached up from the shade in welcome as the distance between us gradually dwindled, Passing over a field of cows contentedly munching their breakfast, the pilot pointed out an area free, apart from a few isolated bales of hay, of any impediments to a safe landing.

Hastily we took up the now familiar backward crouch, squatting in the cramped confines of the basket to facilitate a safer touchdown. Measures taken for our protection were to deny us all a last glimpse of the flight. If take off had been an exciting, frightening trip into the unknown, then the landing must be considered an anti-climax.

With practised ease the pilot softly grazed the stubble, bumping once before skillfully setting our gentle giant down once more to earth. And so our short adventure was over. All that was left was the champagne celebration, a fitting conclusion to a truly exhilarating experience.

But the real pleasure for me was seeing the glow on Richard's face as he ran across the field to where Sue had just arrived, throwing his arms around her and thanking her for a really brilliant flight!

by Bryan Palmer

© Copyright 2001 Newsquest Media Group - A Gannett Company