Two weeks of wind and no chance to fly since those landings: now perhaps I'm going to get the chance to find out if they were luck or judgement. Only the landings have prevented the appearance of Captain: Self in the logbook, and two weeks ago I thought I had cracked it. Now I'm not sure.

My instructor is supervising a student on a cross-country flight, scanning the Southern skies for his reappearance. I am full of apprehension, making up for missed tea with Lucozade and chocolate. The windsock is drooping and the tiny Half-Pint appears over the horizon; time to get the Ozee on, then half off again as I have to go discretely out of sight behind the van. Scot skims his machine in for a perfect touchdown, and I can see the grin on his face even before he taxies to a halt and raises his visor.

By the time I've got gloves and helmet together, it is time to go, and the moment of truth. As Stewart and I climb into the Hybred R, Mike takes off from the short runway in the Half Pint and flies into the lowering sun. I taxi to the end of the long runway and turn. Before I go through the final checks, Stewart points to Mike, silhouetted against the deepening blue horizon, and tells me to climb straight out towards the other machine.

Through the checks, throttle up and off. I relax into the extended straight climb-out and watch Mike coming towards us on a reciprocal heading some 200ft off our track. There is a sudden sensation of speed as we pass, then on Stewart's instructions I swing the Hybred round in a smooth 180 and overtake the slower machine. For a while we fly slowly in formation 50ft above and behind the Half Pint, then I throttle up and bank away, heading back into the circuit. As we turn onto the downwind leg I realise that once again my tension is gone. Thank you, Stewart.

We're flying the usual tight, oval-ended circuit - the engine failure circuit, always within gliding distance of a welcoming runway. Wingtip level with the threshold, cut the power to a fast idle, bar in slightly as we bank left to arc through base leg and onto finals in a smooth, continuous motion. The aircraft responds instantly, and there is a sudden surge of joy as I realise, almost before the turn is established, that we are going to fly precisely down the curved path that my imagination has created to link us with the runway.

Over the small trees at the threshold with 20ft to spare; the helmet visor is up and the rush of air on my face tells me approach speed is between 55 and 60. We're straight down the middle. Round out and we're flying down the runway at 4ft; too high; bar in slightly then out again, tiny movements, movements too small to be detectable a few clumsy flying hours ago. Six inches above the concrete and we're just about out of flying speed. Bar to the strut and left as she tries a last-minute wander - and we're down. As I firm up on the steering and pull the bar in, Stewart says, "Gun it up!" I floor the throttle, push the bar to the strut again and we're off into the Hybred's element once more after a brief but very satisfying visit to planet Earth.

We now proceed to have engine failure drills all round the circuit. Somehow the Hybred seems to glide much further than it used to when we simulated engine failures. Before, I used to fail to make my chosen field or runway; my projected 180 would end several feet below ground level. Now the sky has enlarged and the ground holds less terror. Now I am confidently putting the machine into gentle S-turns to lose height, and while I might not win any spot landing contests, nonetheless there are no go-arounds.

Fifth landing and the instruction to taxi in comes over the intercom. Suddenly exhilaration turns to apprehension as I realise this means I am about to be given the green light for my first solo. I suggest that it is perhaps a little late, that maybe we should leave my debut for another day. It is true that the sun is blushing prettily behind the Western hills, but Stewart will have none of this craven gambit. "You're going now," he says. Any argument is over.

Nerves necessitate another trip behind the van, then I strap the water ballast into the back seat. A Cessna flies over at 20ft, overshooting a missed approach. Darkness is coming, there's traffic in the circuit, I'm not really ready, this is madness, what if I bend Stewart's plane? These windy thoughts loom loud in the reddening evening.

Stewart tells me to climb out to 1,000ft, fly the two miles to my house, return, rejoin the circuit and land. He warns me about the rapid solo climb rate; I will have to get the bar in smartly after rotation. Now there's nothing I can do but go for it. "Clear prop" somehow clears away the doubt, leaving me at peace with the aircraft and the evening.

I taxi down the runway, passing Mike who is derigging the Half Pint. He points out the Cessna to me, just turning in the distance onto a very long final approach. Plenty of time to reach the end of the concrete and turn to wait nestled at the foot of the small fir trees at the threshold. The Cessna pilot makes a textbook approach this time and floats in 20ft over the Hybred. I turn and taxi through the slight wake turbulence to the point where I will start my take-off run. Responsibility for my instructor's beautiful aeroplane weighs heavy, and my pre-take-off checks seem to take for ever.

Now! A roaring, rushing acceleration, feet rigid on the steering bars, teeth clenched, bar against the compression strut. The past four months of wind and waiting, of joy alternating with self-doubt, somehow liquefy and rush forward in time to pour over the lip of now and into this hurtling moment. Rotation, bar back, and we're going up like a rocket without Stewart's 13 stone in the back seat. It all feels strange and different so I don't do anything, I just climb into the sunset. A couple of small lumps in the air at 500ft are like a fright from behind, then it's like velvet again and we're at 1,000ft over the caravan site. I throttle back but she still wants to go up, so we climb to 1500.

Now I'm 200ft higher than the Hill of Finella, and the sunset is breathtaking. The whole of the Western sky is burning, though its light has deserted the grey billows of the Grampians as they roll off towards Dark Lochnagar. The urge to just fly on and on into this incredible sky is almost overpowering, but I'm over the house now and looking down on my other life; it's the mental and physical turning point, time to take Stewart's plane back to him.

It is with regret that I turn away from the West; with regret and great care, probably not exceeding 5 degrees of bank. I am suddenly aware of the solitude again, and I fly as if the plane is made of glass. The turn over, I float downwind in an extraordinary calmness, sinking gently towards 1,000ft with the engine just purring away softly in the background. I lean back, relax a little and look around. It is so comfortable with no knees beside you, so quiet with no intercom crackling in your ears. I lean over and look straight down - so much space. I am alone and at peace. I was meant to be here.

I know it's almost over now, but I also know it will be waiting for me next time. I come into the inactive side of the circuit and check the windsock for continuing droop; the wind is all above 1,000ft tonight, and I am glad.

I look carefully for other traffic in the circuit, but all I can see is Mike driving away and Stewart waiting. The Cessna is safely hangared and I am alone in the sky. Now I need to get down there and rejoin everybody else.

I turn downwind at 500ft and fly a slow, lazy circuit; the gentlest of turns onto base leg and a long final approach using power, a luxury rarely permitted by Stewart. The power makes it easy and I cross the threshold at 20ft. Then I round out too high, pull the bar in a bit and don't quite get it all the way out in time; we kiss the ground and float up again, surprisingly high; time enough to get the bar to the strut and we're down gently enough. Inelegant, as the bounce took us into the weedy part of the runway, but it's a landing rather than an arrival and I'll make sure the next one is an improvement.

Not tonight, though. There's no time for more; even the sunset is gone now as I taxi triumphantly down the runway, one hand on the bar and the other held aloft in a clenched fist racing-driver's salute. Stewart grins as I taxi in. I apologise for the bounce. We come to an unspoken agreement to leave the debriefing until after the first pint. In the pub, Stewart writes up my log book: Depart Fordoun | Arrive Fordoun | Total time: 10 min.| Captain:Self.

"A pint for Captain Self", says Stewart, and buys me a glass of foaming ale.