Run it all the way into the air. Run, run, run, run — big strides. Lean forward. That’s it.” Tim was on the radio and I was, quite suddenly, in the air. Like a cartoon coyote, I was still kicking my legs even though my feet were no longer on the ground. The coyote would have turned to camera, a look of shocked realisation passing over his face before he plummeted — splat! — into the ravine below. But I wasn’t falling, I was flying. With exhilaration surging through every sinew of my body, I was, in every sense of the phrase, walking (or rather, running) on air.

It was the second day of my paragliding course and I had just run off the side of the Dune du Pyla, a mountain of sand on the Atlantic coast of southwest France. Ever since I’d first seen paragliders in the Alps 15 years ago, I’d been obsessed with trying out the sport for myself. A paraglider is, after all, the ultimate aircraft: one you can pack into a rucksack and carry onto a bus; a “plane” that will fly for a hundred miles without emitting any noxious gas, and is so quiet that animals on the ground look up because of its shadow, not its roar.

I tried it first in Britain. Five years ago, for three summer weekends in a row, I shrugged off hangovers to take an early- morning drive from London to the South Downs in Sussex. Three times I tried to start my “elementary pilot” course and three times I was denied. It rained the first weekend (you can’t paraglide if it’s wet), it was too windy the second, and the breeze was coming from the wrong direction on the third. I’d shelled out £350 for my para-taster, and although I got a credit slip to come back again and again, after three wasted trips, I lost the impetus. What I needed was somewhere I could be almost sure of quality fly-time. What I needed was in France.

Just south of Arcachon, the Dune du Pyla is one of the best places in the world to learn to paraglide. The dune is quite something in itself: at about 385ft high and close to two miles long, it is the biggest sand dune in Europe and easily the tallest object for many miles around. Like a Saharan mountain, it looms between the endless ocean on one side and a carpet of forest on the other.

For paragliders, though, the dune has attractions that go way beyond the aesthetic. First off, it’s in southern France and, from April to October, that means virtually guaranteed sun. Second, winds on the dune are rarely too strong or from the “wrong” direction: the prevailing wind is gentle and onshore, giving lift as sea air rolls in and up the dune. For beginners, though, there is a third and final factor that makes the dune so perfect: nothing offers a softer crash-landing than sand.

My course began with theory and an introduction to the glider. I learnt that wind can be like white-water, disturbed by obstructions and thrown about by changing temperatures. I learnt how a thermal works — a tumble dryer spinning into the sky — and that white fluffy clouds mean warm rising air. I learnt about the glider, its wing, cells and lines, and began a new language — “big ears”, “mushrooming”, “risers” and “flares ”. I was told about site safety and that, contrary to expectation, the very worst place to land is in the sea — “The cells will fill with water, the wing will drag you down, you’ll drown.”

Within a few hours, though, it was time to get practical and I began my first struggle up the dune. The day was as still as a stalking alligator and, with the sun beating down and a heavy glider on my back, I was like a dishevelled commando, trudging through sand as soft as drifted snow.

Though I reached the top panting and sweating, the view made every sunken step worthwhile. Ahead, the bright turquoise of the sky contrasted with the multi-waved yellows of the roof of the dune: add a camel and it could have been Africa. Way down to one side was the forest; to the other, the sea. Between them were the dune’s slopes — vast, barren and bare.

The coming of the breeze transformed the scene completely. When the day had been calm, potential pilots had sunk themselves into shaded folds in the sand — hidden from view and waiting, like caterpillars in cocoons. As the breeze began, they emerged as bright as butterflies — up and down, back and forth, wings all over and all above the dune.

They, of course, were those I aspired to join, but before I could fly, I had to inflate: unless I could get it up, I wouldn’t be having any fun. A paraglider works with an inflatable wing: air fills the cells to give it the shape it needs to fly. Simple enough in theory, but, as I discovered, trussed up in a harness like an oversized nappy, not so straightforward in practice. If I inflated one side before the other, the whole wing would flip over, taking me with it; if I inflated the wing too fast, it would overshoot my head and crash down beyond me. The action required, I learnt gradually, was a gentle lifting of the lines to guide the wing up and away gracefully.

Once that was cracked, there were just those few, comedy coyote steps between me and the air.

And then I was flying. Alone but for a walkie-talkie strapped to my chest. This was the first of my so-called “short hops”. But let’s not be too literal here. Not many people can hop to a height of 10ft, and you’d need a big hopscotch grid to clear a horizontal distance of 100ft.

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