You hear all about the magic of a hot-air balloon ride. Nobody ever mentions the awkward business of getting into the basket.
I found out the hard way.
The morning air was crisp and unexpectedly cold, despite it being the height of summer in southern France. We had driven for hours in the dark to get to the launch site, so by the time we arrived I was still only half awake, trying to work out where exactly we were. Around us, the pilots were already at work, laying out the enormous balloons and firing up the burners. Slowly, the colourful fabric began to fill with hot air, rising from the ground as the baskets were prepared.
Everyone else seemed captivated by the spectacle. I was too, at least initially, but somewhere between watching the balloons take shape and hearing the pilots explain what we were about to do, I became quietly aware of a more immediate problem.
I was wearing a dress.
I have a particular dress that I reserve for travel days involving long drives. It is comfortable, easy to wear and, in my mind, entirely appropriate for sitting in a car for several hours when I’m the driver. The journey to the launch site certainly qualified, so naturally, that was what I had chosen that morning since I was going to drive the leg back. It was only when we were getting ready to board that I discovered a small but rather important detail about hot-air balloon baskets: they don’t have doors. The only way in was to climb over the side.
Which is perfectly sensible when you’re wearing trousers. Less so when you’re wearing a dress.
I stood there for a moment, trying to work out whether there was some alternative entrance I had somehow missed. There wasn’t. The other passengers were already climbing in, while I contemplated the rather undignified manoeuvre that lay ahead of me. Eventually, with no other options available, I gathered up my dress and attempted to get myself over the side of the basket with as much dignity as the situation allowed.
Suffice it to say, it wasn’t my finest moment. My friends, sensing the seriousness of the situation, quietly gathered around me to provide what little privacy and dignity they could. I have no idea whether anyone else noticed. I prefer not to know.
Once I was finally inside, however, the whole thing became a non-issue. The burners roared, the basket lifted gently from the ground, and within minutes we were floating above the French countryside. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a soft golden hue across the bucolic landscape. Below us, fields stretched out in every direction, including long bands of lavender glowing purple in the early morning light, with little villages and winding roads scattered between them.
Up there, there was no thought of dresses or awkward climbs. Everything was quiet and unhurried. We drifted above the countryside as the sun climbed higher, the lavender fields gradually brightening below us. From that height, the landscape seemed almost unreal — neat rows of fields, tiny houses and roads disappearing into the distance, all softened by the warm morning light. It was one of those experiences that made me wish I could slow time down.
Eventually, of course, the balloon had to come down. And that meant getting out. I had rather conveniently forgotten about this minor detail but unfortunately, there was no way out of it. Naturally getting out was every bit as graceful as getting in.
I would like to say it was easier the second time. It wasn’t. But after a morning like this, a little embarrassment seemed a small price to pay. I even managed to drop my Gucci sunnies while helping to pack up the balloon. Somehow, it still felt worth it.
