A quick manoeuvre filled the glider with air and I was pulled backwards. But there wasn’t time to marvel at the feat of engineering that enabled my twenty foot wingspan to inflate so purposefully in such a gentle breeze, because after just a few frantic steps forward I was lifted clear of the ground. Once I’d got over the surprise of how safe it felt, Adam told me to pull the brake cords, and I clattered ungainly to the grass. After one more of these dummy runs, Adam let go and Johnny, another lovely, smiley type (these guys LOVE their job) instructed me from the field below with semaphore paddles. In light winds and with proper supervision, it’s not hard to feel you’ve got a talent for paragliding. However, walking back up the steep hillside carrying the gathered glider over my shoulder was a painful reality check.
The wind changed, and we left the stink for a hill nearer the sea, and after a couple more flights my fellow novices were clearly getting the bug. They would have signed up there and then for the 10 lesson course that earns you what’s called a ‘pilot’s licence’. But even an Alton Towers-style tandem flight with Adam didn’t persuade me to become a regular on Mount Caburn. I’m not quite sure why, because it certainly wasn’t that I didn’t have fun, nor was it because I feared for my limbs. I think it’s just that for me, as Mark Twain said of golf, paragliding turned out to be a good walk spoiled.
Bloody glad I’ve tried it though. JM