Diary of an urban Grandad
THE balloons are back in town. Don’t know about you, but I love seeing those great big globes of brightly coloured happiness floating their way slowly across the evening or morning sky.
Sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in herds of hardto-recognise shapes. Like the sound of swifts in summer, screeching overhead, they fill the heart with joy and refresh the soul just by being there.
Highlight of this year’s balloon fiesta so far, for me, is that in this particular part of town, it arrived a little bit early. A whole week early, to be precise. Very unexpected it was too. Let me explain.
Last Saturday morning, early doors, there I was, lying innocently in bed. Windows open, curtains closed, snoring softly, as the radio played gentle music to try to guide my soul back to the land of the living. When, all of a sudden, my dreams were broken by a sound any Bristol resident would recognise. The low, foghorn style blast of a balloon’s gas burner.
Not just any old blast either. This one sounded close enough to singe the eyebrows of anyone foolish enough to stare at it.
Bounding out of bed, throwing open the curtains, revealed an enormous red balloon drifting slowly just over the roof of our neighbours’ house. Strangest thing of all was that no one on board seemed even a tiny bit concerned by the thought of imminent contact with a row of sharp chimney pots.
The pilot occasionally peppered the proceedings with another short burner blast, but was smiling happily throughout, whilst his passengers were enthusiastically waving to those of us below.
Including little old me. Not going to lie, it’s a bit odd to be standing bleary-eyed in your own bedroom, first thing in the morning, wearing nothing but boxers and a big grin, waving to complete strangers as they pass by your window. By the time I had rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, they were so close that I could have thrown a few croissants into their open arms, if they were feeling peckish. Never one to miss a bit of excitement, I ran downstairs to see where they were heading next. From the road, I watched the balloon continue on its merry way, skirting chimneys, aerials and treetops until it drifted gently out of sight. At which point, I jumped on my Vespa and gave chase.
Scooting along empty roads, I got to thinking about the one and only time I went up in a hot air balloon. It was in Burma, also known as Myanmar. I was there in my official capacity as a freeloader, also known as being a travel writer.
One morning, bright and early, just as the sun was rising, we were driven to an empty field in the middle of the jungle. Once there, we clambered aboard an enormous great balloon basket and set off, flying low and slow over acre after acre of ancient temples. Very nice it was too.
Just like those passengers who passed over my neighbours’ roof this morning, we passed people low overhead. Only difference was that in Myanmar, it was temples we saw and we were waving at monks and acolytes in dusty robes.
After a delightful couple of hours, the big balloon came in to land next to a picture-perfect ruin and we toasted our success with a glass or two of champagne. Sigh. Happy days.
By the time I had finished reliving this glorious memory of adventures gone by, my faithful little scooter had taken me to White Tree roundabout up on the Downs. Where the balloon had eased itself down to land sweetly on a grassy knoll. Busy balloon people were bustling round making everything secure and ship shape.
Chatting to a passerby who seemed to know about these things, she reckoned we were looking at a Cameron balloon, beautifully made right here in town. Which was a happy coincidence. The balloon that had brought me so much pleasure in Burma had been made in Bristol too. Just shows, no matter how far you might wander, there is always something there, to remind you of home.
At which point, my tummy gently reminded me the time was just about right to head for my own home. Get a nice hot cup of tea on the go and maybe have a look at those croissants. The ones I had been tempted to lob at those passing balloon passengers earlier on.
All of which goes to explain why I’ve got my fingers crossed, hoping we get lots of lovely weather this weekend. Hoping that plenty of lucky folk get the chance to have their very own brilliant balloon adventures.
Up, up and away!