Nonimmigrant: For we can fly

It was time to celebrate Hannah's birthday properly, and luckily we had the best invention in the world - grandparents - on hand to look after Pete. With a quick kiss goodbye to them all we jumped in the car and sped away towards the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Shenandoah Valley.

Since she was five-years-old, Hannah's wanted to fly in a balloon. And good things are worth waiting for, even if the two-year-old we left behind doesn't tend to agree. So, thirty-five years after the initial dream, it was time to make it reality!

It was a beautiful clear and still day as we followed a pick-up truck into a field near Boyce, Virginia. Unfortunately the pilot, Bob (an old pilot rather than a bold pilot, so that was reassuring) felt that it was too windy to take off. We were flying with one other couple in the basket; they had already been rescheduled four times due to weather so clearly it was all their fault.

There was a nervous half-hour while calls were made to automated weather stations but we tentatively unloaded the truck and started laying out the brightly-coloured silk. Our pilot declared that he was optimistic (under considerable pressure from Hannah, I might add) and so big fans were deployed and the balloon started to fill. Then fierce gas flames began burning and the thing moved upright, followed by a fevered shout of "all aboard!" We jumped into the basket and floated away.

It was all pretty magical. We soared silently 1000ft above the Virginia countryside, over autumnal forests, farms, and houses, the Blue Ridge Mountains behind and the Appalachians ahead. The idyll was only broken - constantly - by the deafening roar of the gas flames and the accompanying feeling you were about to be set alight. It was incredible to lean over the side of a basket suspended by a bit of hot air and ropes, clear space above, below, and all around.

The snag in this spiritual experience was the fact we were flying along at 14.5 miles-per-hour, when we'd been told that 5 mph was the maximum for safe take-off and landing. Our pilot was slightly jittery, shall we say, and decided it was best to brief us on how to handle a crash landing. "Don't hold on to your neighbour - it's every man for himself," he concluded, which is the way that every safety briefing should end. Needing something to calm me, I looked around to see if the No Smoking sign had been extinguished.

Due to the speedy winds our ride was a little shorter than hoped, as we'd eaten up all our territory and were about to scare the residents of a nearby town by touching down on a rooftop (which would have been awesome). Instead we ruffled the leaves of some trees and descended slowly towards a green field, where the grass looked surprisingly soft and welcoming.

When it came to it, the landing was lovely and gentle, and while the basket threatened to tip over it was nothing more than a lusty wobble or two. I jumped out at the pilot's request and ran to grab some type of mooring rope, wondering if they'd take off again, laughing, without me. I have eaten a lot of cake recently - perhaps they needed to shed ballast.

But no. Soon the balloon was deflated, and it took longer for the truck to find us again than it did for us to fly there. When the "chase team" (the pilot's wife, Carey) finally appeared she produced two bottles of Champagne which we merrily quaffed while folding everything up. We all toasted Hannah's 40th and were driven back to our cars at the launch site. It took a while for the feeling of floating to fade, although whether that was the flight or just the booze I'm not sure.

The balloon truck, with added balloons.

Almost as big as our tent.

Starting to inflate.

Getting there.

Keep hold, Hannah - you're the only thing stopping it flying off.

Add flame.

That lifting feeling.

We're up!

Goodbye ground.

The very picturesque Shenandoah Valley.

So I'm being held 1000ft in the air by the power of something I can't see being a bit hotter than other stuff I can't see? Thanks science, but I'm going to stick to prayer.