Paula McGuire: Time has come to glide gracefully off into the sunset

THE End. Sometimes it’s the best place to start. Particularly with Sellotape. I must admit, I’m not good with endings. That stark finality, the next page blank, unsettles me more than a shoogly seesaw.

I’m much more comfortable around the middle somewhere, although that might just be down to the spare tyre that normally pads the area.

These days though, I’ve found a way to see endings from a different perspective; as an opportunity to look over what’s gone before, and then to horizons fresh. And, if you’re lucky, you even get to go out on a high, as I am doing with my final column for The National.

The Highland Gliding Club, based just south of Elgin, shows what fields can be if they really put the work in. Founded in 1971 by military types with loftier ambitions than a skylight salesman, the club, in its various iterations, has welcomed glider pilots to join its ranks ever since.

Now, each weekend, aviators flock like the birds they must share the skies with to its permanent home of Easterton Airfield, And, trust me, ambling across a countryside covered with aircraft as slick as a 1960s sideburn is a sight worthy of the seeing. Actually, don’t trust me: go see it. Gliding, as a sport, was born in the 1920s of German parentage but quickly spread its wings to international shores.

It’s no surprise really that the activity took off, even without the particular mechanical parts to actually do so. Engineless flight, with the heavens in your sights and a head full of whimsy, is the pinnacle of Peter Pan fantasy. Not dropping like a beat, when all that is sane says you should be, serves only to heighten the wonderment. Those of you who are shaking your heads in logical scepticism, I’m pretty sure you’re the reason our species still exists. Not knowing which specific weather conditions keep a glider from remembering Newton’s Laws, the cloud-spotted sky neither scared nor soothed me as I arrived to meet my instructor, club chairman Robert Tait, in the hangar. He is a pilot with the depth of flying experience of which jeely pieces would be envious, and his gentle manner reassured me almost as quickly as the parachute that was soon strapped to my back. Fortunate really, since within the hour I’d be handing him the deeds to my future and asking him not to set fire to them.

With the safety procedures completed, I clambered into the front seat of the club’s two-person glider as gracefully as a fail compilation. Minimum weight constraints meant 10kg of added ballast was necessary to ensure the aircraft’s stability, giving me an excuse to eat carbs all weekend.

Around us, the glider was towed into position and hitched to the EuroFOX tug plane by the ground crew of volunteers and milling pilots. The all-hands-on-flight-deck approach leaves no room for stragglers.

Feeling a little like the head of a bullet, I stared down the barrel of a spanking new 800-metre runway, watching as tug turned to taxi, taking the slack of our tow – and our very souls – with it. Barely seconds of forced forward momentum and we were all of a sudden skyward, dragged without the kick or scream by the chariot of fiery red in front. Only a liar or a fool would say that the pitches and jolts as we rose ever further were completely comfortable – but I’ve never been particularly honest and I’m at my best covered in cream.

Giddy though I already was, hearing Robert’s instruction to release the tow sent my nervous system into party mode. It was only calmed as I pulled the yellow lever to let go of our only power source, and felt the Twin Astir settle into its place on the sympathetic wind.

Quiet has never been so vocal; stillness never so moving. Sailing on the air, at the mercy of thermals –which I would pretend I understood if it was pertinent to my point – the sensation of absolute nothingness was utterly overwhelming.

Robert guided us first towards a cloud that looked like every other to this cumulo-nimrod, but which to him was a signpost to soaring. Nearby, and ever present on the collision avoidance system, other pilots rode the same streams, so close as to feel like winged kin.

Even birds not of feather, it seems … Over by Rothes Glen, we sought out the ridge lift and perched around 1700 feet, where Robert handed over the reins with less fanfare than his mortal safety deserved. Soon, I was steering the ship, in almost distinguishable directions, while my teacher talked me through the manoeuvres. Although the controls were more sensitive than a psychic with hives, the machine felt so close, so instinctive, as to be just an extra skin, protecting me from the world.

A panel of rain moved ever closer as we rode the breeze, searching out extra lift and using it to postpone the inevitable for more than an hour of blissful escape, but, all too quickly, reality recalled us from below.

Of course, in the final throes of all good adventure tales, there’s always an unexpected twist. So it was that Robert suddenly upped our speed on the way in, throwing the glider into a full, exhilarating loop, before landing inch-perfect on the grass. And that, my friends, is how you style your way to The End.