Take a leap of faith, Andrea said. She was speaking metaphorically, but here I am.

Over the edge, in front, is a sheer drop which falls to the miniature town and lake. Above, vapour trails scratch the perfect sky. Beyond, distant clouds frown onto jagged peaks. A bad omen, perhaps?  I should really be on the train to Florence to meet Tim and his family. Beneath my feet, a warm grassy bank, scented with thyme.

What was I thinking?

This morning I signed away my life. The basic, no-frills package, no fancy videos or photographs. They offered me a free flight in return for fixing their computer. I would rather have taken the money of course, but with Andrea standing beside me, I knew I couldn’t do that.

She is next to me now, dark eyes and darker hair. Stunning. She walked up to me outside a cafe the day before yesterday and started the longest conversation I have ever had with a girl. Now she is my friend, and I can barely believe my luck.

Behind me, Hans, the paragliding instructor, fiddles with harnesses and straps. I want him to check them again, and again, but force myself to say nothing. The chaotic state of his office when I worked on his computer did nothing to reassure me of his competence. But Andrea clearly believes that his paragliding is of a much higher standard than his organisational skills. He looks the part: rugged, bearded and tanned. And he’s done this before – which I haven’t. I hope he’s not complacent.

‘I don’t know … I think perhaps I’ve changed my mind…’ I begin, sandpaper in my throat.

Andrea squeezes my clammy hand. ‘Go Fee-lix. You’ll love it!’ She drops the lightest kiss on my cheek, a butterfly’s wing.

Another wing-beat, and now it’s too late to stop Hans. He tugs on the straps, the harness tightens around my crotch and lifts me like an errant toddler. I dangle, an ungainly puppet, toes tapping the ground.

‘We run forward, then fly,’ says the puppet-master, his breath hot in my ear. ‘Sit back and relax. But listen, and do what I say.’

Andrea drops back in slow-motion while I am danced forwards. When we plunge over the edge, a jolt forces me back into my ‘seat’.  The wing is supposed to take the strain of our combined weights, but we’re falling. Aren’t we? A wail escapes me and I quickly button my mouth. I hope Hans told the truth about his being deaf once airborne.

Once in the air, we are suspended by a mere canopy of silk. I clutch the straps beside me, as if that will stop us from falling. Gagging on the rush of cold air, I try to count my breathing, in through my nose and out through my mouth in: in, 2, 3, pause; out, 2, 3, pause, just as my therapist taught me. My concentration will prevent us from plummeting to certain death. Hans tilts the wing on one side, and we spin to face the other direction. What if there’s no uplift? We’ll fall. I lean away to counter-balance.

‘Relax,’ Hans says. ‘Let your body flop. Dangle.’

We fly higher than the cable car, higher than the top viewing platform, and higher than the surrounding summits. The air forces my tears back into my face, into my ears, and we swing up, higher than the take-off area. As we glide above, I search for Andrea through watery vision.

‘Wave to your girlfriend,’ shouts Hans.

‘She’s not…’ But why argue? I’m secretly delighted he thinks we’re a couple. I wave and grimace in the direction of the take-off area. Is she watching? Wind howls in my tear-filled ears.

Now we speed towards the blinding sun. Paragliding looked sedate from solid earth, but we’re going scarily fast. I squint at a rock face racing towards us. A pair of white butterflies (all the way up here!) dance before my eyes. I’m about to die and take them with me. I scream, and pray to a God I no longer believe in.

‘A little close,’ laughs Hans. My toes nearly graze the rocks as we turn. The butterflies are buffeted in the up-draught. ‘Fun, yes?’ My instructor is clearly insane. ‘We’ll fly along the valley, then the length of the lake. Enjoy the view!’

My head throbs and I flap my arms, until Hans stops me. I can‘t swim, and it occurs to me that if we fall out of the sky over the lake, I’ll drown. I picture my funeral:  (my corpse in a body bag having been returned to England on a flight I would, for once, not have been frightened of taking) Mum, in elegant tailoring handing round canapés; dad doing his stiff upper lip routine; and Ben, consoled in his grief by crowds of swooning girls.  I add Andrea to the scene, black lace mantilla, but then I see the way she and Ben look at each other and decide not to include her – not that I’d be in any position to decide on the funeral attendees.

If Ben were doing this, he wouldn’t scream.  He would exchange banter with daredevil-Hans. Hell, Ben would paraglide solo. Ben’s an all-round action hero. I should hate him, but I don’t, because he stands up for me. He’s a hard act to follow.

‘So, Felix,’ Dad had said. ‘Plans for your summer travel?’ He scrutinised me over the top of The Telegraph while mum pushed cereal around in her bowl.

‘Tim’s invited me to their villa near Florence for a fortnight.’

‘Bit tame, isn’t it? Compared to Ben’s Africa trip. Still, better than sitting on your backside all summer. I’ll fund your train fares. Do you good to be independent.’

Maybe I’m getting used to paragliding. I look past my feet at the earth. A mistake. The safety of solid ground is nowhere near, we’re still so high, still way above the church spire. How much longer? We lurch, and waves of nausea roll through me. I lose control and retch. I imagine my vomit splashing onto some unfortunate bystander. I dry-retch at the thought, and pain grips my empty stomach.

‘Don’t look down,’ shouts Hans. ‘Look ahead. Breathe through your nose. Enjoy the view.’

I shiver, and look ahead at the mountains. They’re beautiful. And somewhere on that mountain is Andrea, also beautiful. She told me she likes spending time with me. And thinking of her, some of the tension dissolves and I loosen my grip on the straps. Remarkable. We haven’t fallen out of the sky.

‘Soon we descend to the landing zone,’ says Hans.

Already? We circle slowly and without incident, back to face the village and the lake.

‘I’m only doing this to impress Andrea,’ I say.

There is a long silence, and I think he is considering this. Then I realise he hasn’t heard a word. I laugh.

Swooping towards the village, which no longer resembles a model, I shout ‘NO!’ because the church spire is very real and straight ahead, but of course, Hans steers us round with no difficulty.

We swoop so low to the lake, I could dip in my toes. Our shadow is beside us, chasing the skimming swallows, no doubt alarmed at this oversized, double-headed bird.

‘Ready to land,’ says Hans. ‘Lift your legs forward, when I say. Roll with me when we hit the ground the way we practised.’

Hit? Hit the ground?

I don’t have time to remember what I was taught as in a high-speed nightmare sequence where the ground flies up at us, Hans pushes my legs forward and we roll, a tangle of limbs and silk and scratchy grass. I lie on my back and clutch at the dry stalks, and delight in hearing the clicking of grasshoppers.

‘That was amazing!’ I gasp.

‘You’re a natural,’ says Hans, patting my back.

Grinning, dazed, and shaking, I clamber into the recovery jeep, pulling my phone from my waiting rucksack. Andrea is as good as her word: She has texted me four photos and one is perfect. Me, almost smiling, the sky and mountain peaks a crystal backdrop. I send it straight to Ben, then email it to Mum and Dad, telling them I’m extending my travelling-alone time. Finally, I phone Andrea and arrange to meet at the cafe in the square.

‘I’m paragliding again tomorrow,’ I say.

---