The early evening sun casts a glow over the landscape, a gentle breeze lazily stirs the emerald green corn. A kestrel, with frantic precision, hovers, searching for prey. The rasp of a grasshopper is the only sound to disturb the silence, a flotilla of small clouds navigate their leisurely way across the sky. A summer's evening in England.

"Clear prop!" Discordant in its incongruity, a human cry slices through the tranquility. The whine of an electric motor, and the fragile silence is shattered by the rattle of a Rotax bursting into life. From the shadow of a small glade of trees, an ungainly creature hesitantly emerges, nervously peering out to make sure no predator is lurking above. More confidently now, it struts down the field, bouncing over each imperfection in the grass. It turns, and stares intently at a point far in the distance, howls with joy at once more stirring with the power of life. The exuberant cry fades, stills, rises to an exultant roar and the creature bolts, startled by its own temerity. Racing now, sprinting away from an unknown danger, towards an uncertain goal. Suddenly, joyously, the fledgling shakes off the shackles binding it to the earth and leaps rapturously heavenwards. With a shake of its head it is free, soaring towards the comradeship of the clouds. No longer the ungainly, ugly waddling thing it once was, it takes the form of a hawk clutching its prey. The roar of exhilaration fades to a satisfied drone as it disappears into the distance.

I have found it at last - Ince Blundell Microlight Club, home of the West Lancs Microlight School. In a matter of weeks I will be up there where the eagles soar, my destiny my own. There is merely the small matter of obtaining a Private Pilot's Licence (A) Group D. Having spent a number of hours in the back seat of my brother's Hybred Raven, very few of them in a state of terror, I already know how a flexwing flies, bar forward to go up, left to go right. A couple of hours with an instructor to demonstrate my prowess, solo, licence. What to do next week?

The first couple of hours in the front seat do nothing to dispel this early confidence. Straight and level flight, ascending and descending turns, it all comes naturally. An hours practice at recovering from stalls, level flight at high and low speeds and we have it sussed. OK, if I want to fly at 65 mph for any distance I am going to have to develop arms like Popeye's, but I can fly.

All too soon the smug satisfaction is shattered. "I think we'll do an hour in the circuit today, Tim", says John. At last! I've learned how to fly, now show me how to start and park the thing. The first take off is smooth as silk - foot to the boards, bar out, up, bar back, away. The first approach is not much different, engine to tickover, bar in slightly to maintain 55 mph, and we sink gently to the threshold. At this point the bar comes alive in my hands and we level out far too high, sinking gently. Once again, the bar is pushed forwards and we flare again too early. With the merest kiss we caress the grass of the runway, and coast halfway along the strip. "You forgot the roundout", says John, but I know he is just covering his own error in rounding out too soon. The fact that we made a soft touchdown with plenty of runway to spare was nothing but luck. It takes three hours of circuits to bring John round to my way of thinking, although he stubbornly maintains that I am now rounding out as he did that first time. I keep my own counsel, not wanting to disturb the pride of a man who knows he is wrong.

The next time out, I had forgotten how to fly. As we left the ground, slightly crosswind, the left wing dropped slightly. I compensated, but this only made the left wing drop further. "Right wing down, Tim, right wing, RIGHT WING DOWN!" I hear in my headset. The political ravings of a man demented by fear, I think, as the bar is snatched from my hands and miraculously, the wings become level again. As we climb, John does not say anything further. He does not need to. It takes minutes for my heartbeat to subside, longer for the flush of embarrassment. A few minutes later, John appears in my ear again. "Nasty hole there, dumped the wing pretty hard." He is not going to criticise, he knows that I know that I nearly put us down sideways.

Lessons like that are not easily forgotten, and the following weeks are an endless procession of circuits, interspersed with the occasional trip away, a few unusual attitudes - apartheid was a good thing, tortilla chips don't taste like flakes of eczema, that sort of thing. Finally, after a particularly good series of circuits, I hear the magic words in my ear. "You're about there now, Tim, next time the weather is good we'll send you up on your own for a bit. At last, this is what I have been working towards. Solo!

Three weeks later, four more hours in the circuit in dodgy winds. Good enough to go up with John, never good enough to go up alone. The bank balance is beginning to look a bit sick. But tonight, Tuesday, 3 September 1996, is the night. Flat calm, slightly overcast, perfect. I race to the airfield, already on an adrenaline high.

As I round the corner of the track and the airfield comes in sight, my eye flicks automatically towards the windsock, and the feeling of elation immediately deflates. The sock is standing out at right angles, pointing defiantly west. Easterlies. Renowned for putting the fear of God into the stoutest of hearts at Ince, they are notorious for stirring the air up into an evil soup, full of lumps and voids. It does not look good.

Another hour with John in the back. Occasionally, the approach is easy, if it's like this on the next one, I'm off. Next circuit, as we approach the threshold at right angles, one wing skimming the ground, and bounce our way along the strip, I know I'm not. Finally, we call it a night. Another hour gone. As I rip my suit off in disgust, John takes off with his next student. I sit and watch, dejected, demoralised. To add a final piquancy to my misery, as I sit in the gathering gloom, the wind stops. The sock falls against the pole with an audible snap and hangs apologetically, swaying gently.

As the aircraft comes in to make a perfect landing, I trudge towards my bicycle. As I throw my leg over, John calls to me. I turn around, and he is beckoning me over. Oh yes, I've forgotten to pay him for the lesson. A bit much to interrupt the other guy's lesson to collect the cash, I think, as I reach for my cheque book.

"The wind's completely gone, and Tom here has agreed to cancel his lesson to let you go up. Get your suit on, there's not much light left anyway".

My heart is pounding so much, I can't find the zips on the suit. Come on, Tim, it's getting dark. Headset on, Christ, where's the mike gone? Who put it on the back of the headset? Hours later, it seems, I am in the trike, John strangely transformed into a 50kg bag of sand. Clear Prop! Taxi to the end of the strip, checklist out. Check everything twice.

The whole world stops. We sit, me and the trike, poised, alone in the world. The engine sounds strangely quiet without the intercom switched on. Everything is crystal clear to me, I can make out every blade of grass on the runway, individual barbs on the fence at the other end of the strip. A feeling of intense calm washes over me.

"Right, Tim, this is it". I floor the throttle, and we start to roll, gently, then with gathering pace. Suddenly we are airborne, and the craft, suddenly free of the not inconsiderable ballast that is John, soars skywards. The sudden realisation - it is up to me now. I am up, I have to get it back down. Later.

At 1500 feet, I level out. The sun is slowly heading for the horizon, casting a golden glow over the landscape. A few clumps of cloud drift languidly westward. Below, another trike scuttles homeward. As we pass, I waggle my wings, fellow pilots sharing the lonely camaraderie of the skies. As I soar over the coast, I put in a few lazy turns. John has told me to just do a few 360's, but the moment is too precious to waste on practice. The world is mine tonight, and I intend to enjoy it. This is my domain. This is my sky.

Too soon, I must go back. The light is fading fast. Reluctantly, I turn and head homeward. As I pass over the field at 1500 feet, I can barely distinguish the windsock, but take that to mean that it is vertical. As I pass overhead, I cut the throttle, and suddenly there is no noise but the gentle whistling of the wind through the wires. Gently, as I turn slowly to the right, the altimeter winds its way down. I reach 500 feet at exactly the point I expected in the circuit. Now the adrenaline is starting to flow again. Landing checks - wheels, hand throttle, strip, approach, fuel. One more turn, line up, throttle back. I glide towards the strip as if on a wire, arrow straight. As I swoop over the threshold, bar forward, that's it, wait, wait, flare. The rear wheels caress the grass, and gently the nosewheel sinks to join them. A gentle dab of the breaks, and we ease to a stop.

As I climb out, I am grinning so widely I can barely remove my helmet. I swagger back towards the waiting onlookers. John stands in the middle, grinning almost as hugely as I am. He is applauding.

Well he might. I am a pilot.