Shropshire

Shropshire is the sixth least populous county in England.  But as we set out on a glorious autumn day to walk Long Mynd, the plethora of Gerry's acquaintances we met challenged the statistic. Most were superannuated hippy fugitives from the 1970s who'd never made it back to civilisation. They were genteelly shabby, accompanied by drooping dogs, and bore the slightly crazed countenance of someone who lives out of range of a Pret.  Our conversations were brief.

'Haven't seen you for a while,' Gerry said.

'Nah, dog's been at the vet's,' was the gnomic response, and we'd move on to the next baffling encounter.

Gerry and I were accompanied by his friend Bob, a dour artist who would pause periodically to exclaim at an especially painterly view.  Our plan was a two day walk including an overnight stay at a pub.  This simple itinerary was spiced by our various incapacities: I had a painful corn, Gerry a troublesome knee and Bob chronic back problems. 

As we emerged from the wooded summit of Long Mynd, the ridge broadened into a smooth saddle, devoid of trees.  A white glider with disproportionately long wings rested on the ground, looking like a paper cutout against the dark carpet of heather.  We approached the knot of onlookers near a machine the size of a tractor from which a slender cable protruded.

‘Nice day for it,’ I ventured to a bearded man muttering into an intercom.  We’d been enjoying clear skies and warm sunshine all morning.

‘There’s not much lift, we need thermals,’ he countered.  Clearly our ideas of a nice day didn’t match.  

He explained that gliders use warm rising air, which produce fluffy cumulus clouds, to gain altitude.  I studied the strange machine.  The business end was a large wheel wrapped with cable, safely encased in a metal cage.

‘So this is the winch?’

‘It’s the retrieve winch, it rewinds the cable once the glider’s airborne.’ He patted it affectionately. ‘Over there’s the launch winch.’  I could just make out a similar object in the distance.

‘They won’t be up for long,’ he predicted, ‘it’s just a trial lesson. It was his birthday present,’ he added, pointing to one of the figures getting into the glider.  As someone who needs valium to get past duty-free, it didn’t appeal to me as a gift.  The cockpit was being closed and I shivered, imagining being sealed inside that cramped space with the prospect of relying on the vicissitudes of the atmosphere for survival.  

There was crackle on the intercom and the cable tautened.

‘Better stand behind this,’ he said, indicating a metal screen,’ if the tow breaks it’ll snap back.’ 

Almost immediately the plane was yanked into the air, reminding me of the balsa wood models I'd flicked across the garden as a boy.  It climbed so steeply that only the still tethered cable appeared to prevent it flipping over.  Then the cable was released, buoyed by a diminutive parachute, and the retrieve winch snarled into action.  

There was a wisp of cloud and the glider ascended, making the most of its temporary defeat of gravity.  Soon it was high above the deep valley.  Suddenly the glider twisted in the air: it was performing a loop the loop!   But coming out of the manoeuvre it had lost height and was now almost level with the ridge. 

‘He might have to land in the valley,’ a bystander murmured nervously.  I considered this; the only place in the valley that wasn’t full of sheep was the river.  I held my breath.  Just as the glider seemed about to crash into the side of the hill, the nose lifted and it circled round to land gracefully, slithering through the tufts of heather and coming to rest precisely where we'd first seen it.

‘That looked hazardous,’ I remarked to the beard as he reset the winch.

‘Not really, he knew the wind was blowing on the side of the hill which generates updrafts near the ridge.’

I turned to my companions.

‘I think I’m ready for that pub.'

© David Thompson 2015