Paragliding

TURKEY (1)

...So there I was near the summit of Babbadog, the father mountain. I had my harness on, fashionably tattered flying suit and kingsize helmet for the extra large Pudding bonce. Behind me on the rocky mountain slope, our chute was flapping in the breeze. There was no turning back. My tandem pilot, Alp - he of eleven years paragliding experience - told me to walk so I walked and then I ran perhaps three steps and we were up - lifted off the mountain like thistledown.

Shirley at the lauch area on Babbadog.

Like a condor, we swooped over mountain crags and the ancient pine forest below with a gentle wind whooshing past us, cradling us, guiding us down the mountain like a trusted friend. Alp kept talking to me but the extra large helmet was so tight on my ears I could hardly hear a word he said but I was shaking my head, repeatedly gushing "Fantastic!", "Amazing!" It all reminded me of a recurrent dream I had as a boy of perhaps eight or nine - flying high above the earth like a bird.

Olo Deniz - the resort's hotel area.

And then we were over the harsh Turkish mountain landscape with the famous blue lagoon of Olu Deniz far beneath us. Alp was literally pulling the strings. I just sat back and marvelled as we circled the little tourist town and a secret Greek valley beyond. Gradually we spiralled down and down till the world took on more familiar proportions and all too soon we were down at the promenade. Alp yelled at me to stand so I stood and there we were unharnessing, unbuckling. The end. Wow!

Shirley was up for it from day one so I guess I have her to thank for stirring the Pudding from his shady sunbed by the pool. How was it for you darling? Quite incredible.

Yorkshire Pudding's size elevens above the blue lagoon.