When I’ve been out for a walk on the Downs, I’ve often looked up enviously at the paragliders swarming overhead. Last week, I decided to join them.
After a 9.15am rendezvous with two other newbies and a handful of students at various stages of tuition, we left our cars in a lay-by on the A26 towards Newhaven, and were bumped and tossed to the top of a hill in a trailer pulled by a 4WD. ‘Could there be a more beautiful place to die,’ I asked myself as the sun glinted on the blue sea behind us and the morning mist caressed the fields spread out below us.
While we were given some basic safety lessons, I noticed that the spot the instructors had chosen for its gentle, chute-filling breeze also happened to be downwind of a landfill site. Not only were we enveloped by the stink, but the pastoral perfection was also punctuated by the steady ‘beep beep’ of dumpster trucks reversing.
Once we’d been told the correct way to fall over (just in case we found landing a bit tricky), we selected our gliders and strapped on our harnesses, which I soon discovered are really just big swings that hang beneath the glider. Within an hour of locking my car door, I was ready to fly.
‘I thought there might have been a bit more theory before it came to this,’ I said nervously.
‘You’ll be absolutely fine,’ Adam, my relaxed and outdoorsy instructor told me.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. I’ll be holding on to you.’
How bad could it be?