I'm airborne again.
But not for me any tales of jaunts to Europe for high-powered business meetings where I have to pretend to be a grown up this time, nor gin-blurred days in the sun. No. This time my trajectory is distinctly north.
I'm on my way to Glasgow to meet the beautiful IMA. She drove up yesterday and I am flying. On a plane. With propellers. And it's ace.
The last time I flew on a turboprop was several years ago on an internal flight over Sweden and to be honest the ghosts of my memory have faded enough that I'd forgotten just how good these flights are.
Everything feels so much more exciting than the usual jet flight; the 'lively' takeoff, the noise of the props, the low cruising altitude and the narrowness of the fuselage all conspire to make it feel much more immediate, much more connected to being airborne. It feels fun for all of its shortcomings rather than its slickness.
It's early morning and the low winter sun is casting long raking shadows across the contours of my green and pleasant land, throwing every hill and valley into stark relief. It is all truly beautiful, but the Lake District is particularly stunning. Every ripple, crease, fault and imperfection in the land drawn exquisitely in light and shade. Ansel Adams would be beside himself.
Sometimes our technology is so advanced, so perfect, so anodyne that the essence of experience is lost. The occasional low-tech flight over imperfect landscapes is A Good Thing.
Here's to quirks.