Shropshire Magazine

Photographer Mike Hayward enjoys the evening sunshine with pilot Lindsay Muir and Gill Guest

Gill Guest and photographer Mike Hayward take to the skies to enjoy an alternative view of Shropshire’s glories

Acres of scarlet fabric billow and bulge overhead. Burner roars, banishing a last stubborn dimple with licking tongues of fire and draughts of scorching air. A perfect teardrop at last, our ruddy leviathan strains rod-taught anchor ropes. Eager. Impatient.

There is an unexpected moment of silence, a soft metallic click and suddenly, we are unhitched. Limp and exhausted, the restraining cable falls away and the balloon escapes, joyfully, skyward. Born to soar, and unwittingly dragging us along behind it.

Madeley Court Hotel with the Wrekin in the background. Picture: Mike Hayward

There is no sensation of climbing, as such. No effort, no groaning of propellers or roar of jet engines, no fierce acceleration or G-force to remind us that escaping the bounds of earth is most unnatural and therefore extremely hard work. No. This is sublimely easy. Up is simply where we are supposed to be.

It was a wonderful autumnal day at the very end of October when Mike Hayward and I were invited to enjoy a bird’s-eye view of the changing colours of Shropshire, as guests of Virgin Balloon Flights, whose bright red balloons with the familiar scrawled Virgin logo ply the skies across Shropshire every fine flying day from March to November.

Our take-off point is the smooth green lawn of the fine 16th-century Madeley Court Hotel, on the southern side of Telford, one of five launch sites the company uses across the county, along with Hawkstone, Ludlow, Shrewsbury and Whitchurch. On the day of our adventure there were a pair of balloons flying, adding extra interest to the views for each of us, not to mention airborne company.

The pilot of our balloon is Lindsay Muir, who has the distinction of being one of only three UK lady commercial balloon pilots, while that of the second craft is Max Duncan. As it happens, on this occasion Max enjoys the smoother take off.

“He’s got a better patch of air,” Lindsay says, grumpily, as she twiddles the knobs of the burner, judging intermittent blasts, and hauls on what she affectionately and rather untechnically describes as her “bits of string” – thin ropes that disappear up into the canopy to control distant openings and flaps and allow the regulated escape of quantities of hot air.

Despite Max’s apparent supremacy on take-off, Lindsay is actually (and reassuringly) a very fine pilot. “I started flying when I was at Bath University which had a balloon club, and after two flights I was hooked,” she recalls. “I got my commercial pilot’s licence when they were first introduced in 1988, and I’ve been doing it ever since!” she explains enthusiastically, betraying real joy in her chosen – if somewhat unusual – line of work.

She is a regular competitor in ballooning events, and has even made an attempt at the world altitude record, flying solo over Italy and aiming to take her trusty balloon up to a lofty, oxygen-requiring, 34,000 feet. Sadly, on that occasion, the weather had other ideas and she was beaten by unexpectedly turbulent conditions.

The familiar towers of Ironbridge power station, with the Woodside area of Telford in the foreground

Fortunately for us, our flight is untroubled by turbulence and soon the Tudor towers and chimneys of Madeley Court are dwindling to the size of a rather impressive piece of Hornby ‘00’-gauge railway scenery, the formal garden laid out prettily as a smart piece of geometry. Lindsay’s altimeter beeps rhythmically, rapidly at first, then slowing as we rise. At 1,200 feet she stills its irritating accompaniment and there is silence. No birds. No traffic. Nothing but the excited chatter of 16 people hanging in mid-air.

Although the basket is large we are wedged for safety in shoulder-high wicker compartments. Like bottles in a wine carrier, we pirouette, jiggle and spin in our allotted space, peering daringly over the side and exclaiming at the minuteness of the world we left only seconds ago.

Fields are reduced to a patchwork, their boundary hedges revealing surprisingly eccentric patterns of kinks and zigzags. Trees resemble florists’ moss in textural shades of green, brown, russet and butter yellow. A football field is pea-green baize, smooth and flat like a billiard table.

We become obsessed with working out where we are, and after some discussion, realise that we are going over the Sutton Maddock garage at 2,000 feet, a strange clash of down-to-earth reality with ballooning glamour. Visibility is outstanding and we can see more than 50 miles in any direction.

In the south, beyond the thickly wooded valley of the Ironbridge Gorge, the whaleback humps of the Malvern Hills are easy to spot. So is the Birmingham cityscape and the GPO tower to the east, while closer to home, it is our Shropshire hills that stand out – the Wrekin an instantly recognisable Salopian landmark and the twin peaks of Brown Clee and Titterstone Clee scarcely any less distinctive.

It’s a unique viewpoint, and ballooning such a different, unusual and peaceful experience that it’s no wonder flights are a popular way to celebrate a special occasion, a notable anniversary or a milestone birthday. However, it is as well to remember when booking that ballooning is affected by the weather even more than most outdoor activities – hence flights are constantly cancelled and rearranged.

A plane lands at the RAF Museum, Cosford. Picture: Mike Hayward

Owing to foot-and-mouth disease, followed by the atrocious flooding which made balloon recovery from sodden fields impossible, many of our fellow passengers had been waiting for some time to fly. Lindsay even recounted the tale of one passenger who had been rearranging flights since before the previous foot-and-mouth outbreak, and another couple who had two children while they waited! However, these are exceptions, and fabulous October weather allowed Virgin Balloon Flights to catch up with all the flights delayed owing to the difficulties over the summer.

We turn east, floating over Beckbury at a steady but imperceptible 12 miles per hour. A flock of sheep resemble scattered grains of rice. Hidden ponds, tree-fringed and bronze-burnished, gleam like mirrors. Desirable residences earn a voyeuristic ogling from above and dogs bark, the sound of their warning carrying surprisingly well aloft.

Tweaking her bits of string, Lindsay obligingly spins the balloon for us all to admire first the 18th-century Patshull Hall and Capability Brown’s landscaping on one side, then the striking 21st-century silver tent-like building of the permanent exhibition hall at the RAF museum at Cosford, on the other.

Boningale nurseries beckon, a parterre of surprisingly bright coloured foliage, but as The Summer House pub on the Holyhead Road hoves into view we begin to descend. Deftly, Lindsay dodges the pylons and power cables (lethal), seeking a grassy field devoid of livestock lying close to a road.

She spots one, and heads for it, low enough now to startle a couple of guys working on a cottage roof. The grassy field turns out to be unsuitable so Lindsay heads over the hedge into headland surrounding a field of turnips.

The balloon drops and she battles to keep us aloft, skimming so tightly over the turnips that she brushes up a strong cabbagey aroma with the woven base of the basket, finally setting us down gently in the soft earth of the stubble headland.

Stiffly, we straighten up from our landing positions (knees bent, shoulders below the well padded basket edge, gripping the rope hand holds) but remain obediently in the basket, mindful of Lindsay’s instructions.

“Don’t get out until I tell you because the basket may become lighter and take off again – leaving you behind. It’s a long walk home!” she had threatened, darkly but effectively, before take off.

Concerned locals arrive, racing over the stubble to check that we are OK, the Virgin Balloon Flights support team hot on their heels. They track down the farmer to make the slightly embarrassing childish, guilt ridden request.

“Please may we have our balloon back, sir?” Lindsay reports that Shropshire farmers are usually very kind and helpful, and this case is no exception. Permission granted, we clamber out and begin the long-winded task of squeezing all the air out of a 90-foot balloon, the height of a four-storey building, before squashing it (with some understandable difficulty) into what can only be described as a glorified motorised hotel laundry hamper.

By the time we finish the job, the sun is setting over the distant Wrekin, streaking the sky with fiery orange and yellow. A coolbox appears and champagne is served properly chilled and in glass flutes, despite the rustic setting. It’s been a spectacular trip, so what more memorable way to end it than sipping champagne at sunset in a Shropshire turnip field?

Dogs round up sheep in a field far below. Picture: Mike Hayward