Sky’s the limit

ON the way to my flying lesson I see a pigeon coming in to land at Darlington railway station. It slips on the freshly polished floor and skids into the ticket barriers, beak first. On most days, this would be a comical sight. But not today, the day of my maiden flight, only hours before I will be attempting my own landing.

Hopefully, my touch-down, as a complete novice behind the controls of an actual, reallife, full-size aeroplane, proves to be more successful than that of the hapless pigeon.

I travel out to Cleveland Flight Training at Durham Tees Valley Airport, near Darlington, for my lesson with instructor Rich Green. The school has its office in the old Cleveland Police CID office, having taken over the premises after a previous flying school collapsed.

Mr Green walks me out to the apron to show me the Cessna 152. I wasn’t expecting a jumbo jet or anything, but the Cessna is tiny, and Mr Green, by no means of a man of superhuman strength, or at least not to the naked eye, pulls it into place as if it were made of balsa wood.

My typical pre-flight experience is waiting in the Ryanair departure lounge, cheek-to-jowl with irritable passengers, so to have gone from the seat of my car to the cockpit of a plane in under 30 minutes makes a welcome change.

Taxiing a plane (that’s what us pilots call driving it about the airport) is done by controlling two pedals with your feet. I can do this, I think, before Mr Green points out that the plane is slaloming wildly from the yellow guidance lines.

With the Cessna eventually in place at the end of the runway, and the necessary checks done, Mr Green takes over the controls.

Apparently I’m not ready to take-off by myself.

He radios control, and then sets off down the runway. The plane skips into the air and pulls away from the ground. With the Tees Valley below, Mr Green passes the controls to me, and tells me to keep it straight.

The ground is far below. A whole 2,000ft. Far farther away than I would like the ground to be. Mr Green reminds me to keep an eye on the height gauge.

The wind blows the plane about a little bit and it feels light and insignificant in the air.

The controls are sensitive. I am really concentrating and just about managing to keep it straight. My eyes are fixed on the horizon, hands locked firmly to the controls.

After a spell of intense concentration, during which the blood drains from my hands and my eyes ache to be blinked, I start to forget about the ridiculous height we have climbed to, stop looking for lakes to crash-land in, and start to enjoy the experience.

“It’s just like driving a car”, I say, confidence soaring. “Well, it’s not”, says Mr Green.

“Remember you are 2,000ft high.” The spinning recollection of altitude floods back and the Cessna bobbles around a bit. Mr Green chuckles.

MY instructor is obviously beginning to trust me because he is busy toying with an electronic device. Probably something to gauge air pressure, or light levels, I think, until I look over and see he is on his iPhone. “Signal’s not too bad up here”, he says. The Cessna bobbles around again. “I can pick up somebody’s wireless network”, he adds. “I have trouble enough picking mine up when I’m in the kitchen.” More bobbling.

He’s got his eye on me at all times, of course.

It’s just when you are battling your fears at 2,000ft, your internal worry dial is touching the red side.

Mr Green has done this thousands of times before. He’s a steady hand and takes over the controls as we pass over Newcastle, tipping the wing to give a good view of St James’ Park. As we turn back for home at South Shields, he hands back to me, and tells me to follow the coastline.

Once you’ve got to grips with the controls, there is actually not a lot to concern yourself with in the cockpit. You have to keep the nose up and keep an eye on your height, but there’s no knob-twiddling or radio communications to be done, or if there is, Mr Green takes care of it.

You do actually have time to take a good look around the region, spread out beneath like a child’s play carpet. From the air, all those familiar landmarks look like toys left out in the weather. The Angel of the North rusted and glowing in the afternoon sun; the slug-like Sage, glittering and slinky by the banks of the Tyne; the Transporter Bridge, from a distance, an angular mechanical behemoth bestriding the Tees.

It is spectacular, and even as just a one-off experience, even if you don’t harbour aspirations to be piloting trans-Atlantic liners, it is an exhilarating ride.

If you do have dreams of walking through the flight gate with the stewardesses in tow, epaulettes glinting under the glow of VIP lounge lights, first you have to fly 45 hours, and pass seven written exams.

The flying time alone will cost £5,000, although discounts are available with bulk booking.

That sounds a lot of money, but for that you get a lot of fun as well.

Mr Green tells me of a time, after gaining his licence, when he flew his mates to Spain, stopping off in France along the way. That sort of behaviour pretty much guarantees you hero status among friends.

You don’t have to take it up as a hobby or career, of course., I don’t think I will. But I will always remember that I flew to Newcastle and back, albeit with a little help. You can’t take it away from me, it’s written in my log book – I am 1/45th qualified pilot.

● An hour’s trial flight in the Cessna costs £135. Other packages are available. Call Cleveland Flight Training on 01325-333916 for more information.