Flight

Not at 3,200 feet over Truleigh, where I exchanged waves with a sailplane pilot. Perhaps a little back at the Dyke, where I lost all my height and headed gloomily back to take-off... only to get a little more lift. Not as I climbed out over the back with a hangie above me (circling left; forgive my rude shout suggesting we go right, but by the time we were both circling in opposite directions, I had another paraglider circling right underneath me, or I'd have been happy to change -- I prefer going left!). Not as I sank towards the A27, preparing to get my feet out, only to find the start of a climb. Not as I plotted my landing options -- that school playing field, that park, probably best not in the cemetery. Certainly not as the climb took me all the way to 2,500 feet over the town, making it certain that I could reach the beach.

But yes, I felt I was wearing too many clothes after I'd landed at Brighton's nudist beach. Sheltered from the north wind by the seafront road and hotels, it was nice and warm there; and that same shelter meant not horrible rotor to land in, but almost nil wind.

A couple of Brighton gentlemen with their wee dog took my picture -- and to delight me even further, one wore a T-shirt advertising the best rock band in the world, Big Country. Nigel Thomas very kindly responded to my abuse of the site reporting system to beg a lift. We picked up Frances on the way back to the Dyke, and she'd made me sandwiches with the eggs from her own hens! Now that's a retrieve, for which enormous thanks.

Back at the Dyke it was very strong, and I didn't fly again, although after 6 pm it became nicely soarable, with Truleigh reached by a big gaggle.