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I remember quite precisely the moment I knew I was hooked on paragliding. It wasn’t the first day in Pokhara Nepal, repeatedly running down the grassy slope at Male Patan trying to master the forward launch, when a small bump in the ground proved enough to lift me 6 inches off the ground, my legs still pumping in the air like a demented beetle. It wasn’t the tandem from Sarankot the next day, when I contrived to almost kill myself and my Russian instructor Elya by stalling the glider while over-zealously exploring the speed range. And it wasn’t my first true solo flight off the 100m hill at Khaun Danda the following day - this was way too terrifying. It wasn’t even the first flight from Thori Pani, with just the valley and lake before me, the Annapurna range behind me and 800m of air between me and the ground.  No, it was the morning of our last of nine days introduction to paragliding, and my first encounter with a thermal.

    I have subsequently flown in Courcheval, the Provence Alps, England, Wales and Peru: each time I go out searching for that first thermal again; often I encounter him and his friends, sometimes I don’t, but I always have fun.

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