Early in our married life, Camilla declared an interest in psychoanalysis. In middle age, it was hang-gliding. In order to divert her from what seemed an obviously unsuitable hobby, I gave her, for a 55th birthday present, a one-hour flying lesson, with the promise of a flight in Concorde if and when she gained her Private Pilots Licence. She took the lesson on 2 May 1997 and never looked back.

That was with Civilair, one of a row of seedy-looking flying schools along the south rim of Biggin Hill airport. Eighteen more lessons followed in 1997. Each lesson involved a walk-round checking bits and pieces inside and out, followed by about 60 minutes flying time from propeller on to propeller off. She was flying Cessna 152's, sitting in the left-hand seat with a joystick while an instructor sat on her right with another. She learned about the controls, taxying, straight-and-level, climbing, descending, turning, stalling, slow flight, spinning, take-off - and landing. In addition, there were written exams, on Air law, meteorology, radio-telephony, technical, navigation, and human factors/psychology, each requiring mastery of a 300-page textbook. Camilla ploughed through the textbooks and passed the exams.

As far as flying the plane is concerned, landing is the difficult bit. You join a circuit, do a downwind leg, a crosswind leg and a final upwind leg down on to the airfield. You have to get height, speed, attitude, angle of descent right. You must point down the centre line of the landing strip, while a gusting wind blows you sideways and up and down. You must hover with your wheels a metre or two above the ground, then kill the power and drop gently. If you land too hard, you may bounce uncontrollably. If you land too late, you may run out of runway. If anything is wrong, you must apply full power and shoot back up into the sky for another go. As pilot in charge, your life depends on getting it right, if not this time then next time, and before the fuel runs out.

Camilla was not a 'natural', and she took a long time to master landings. From December 1997 to March 1999, she spent 50 hours flying time doing touch-and-go's, plodding round the circuit, landing approach, putting two wheels on the ground, then full throttle and back into the air for another go.

Her instructor up to December 1997 was Dave Lawrence. Then he went on a trip to France in a four-seater with a friend and two women (not their wives). They mistook their airfield and landed on a short microlite airstrip. Their plane ran out of runway and hit a concrete barrier. The two women, who were wearing seat belts, broke their legs. The two men, who weren't, were killed.

That was traumatic for Civilair, and for Camilla. To her credit, she persisted, through 1998 with a rather dour instructor called Brian Benewith. But she never seemed to progress. The 'light at the end of the tunnel', the prospect of a solo flight when you have mastered your landings, never seemed to get any closer. So in early 1999, she determined to go to Florida. At Biggin, flying is expensive - the plane cost £100 per hour and each touch-and-go costs £5. And the weather is uncertain - rain, wind, mist, haze, or low cloud often prevent take-off. In Florida, flying cost £50 per hour, landings are free, and the weather is pretty reliable.

In April 1999, she flew to Kissimee, an hour south of Orlando. (This was about the time the 9/11 bombers were learning to fly in Florida). It took courage to set off 4000 miles to a young macho American flying school, staying at an all male hostel, but it worked. She found a sympathetic instructor, James Calvert from Yorkshire, flew twice a day for a fortnight, and finally mastered her landings. On 10 April, she did a 40-minute solo flight. It had taken 100 hours of flying time, spread over two years, to achieve that momentous step.

I arrived in Kissimee that afternoon to find her in a euphoric state. We had a further week in Florida, admired an exhibition of 40 Warbirds, Mustangs, American fighter/bombers lovingly maintained by wealthy owners, and Camilla got the t-shirt. She flew me in a seaplane, taking off and landing on the water. We visited Disneyland, Cypress gardens, Lake Okeechobee, the Everglades and did snorkelling off Florida Keys.

Every trainee pilot is buoyed by a dream. Some are obviously unrealistic, like Barrie at Kissimee who hoped to take part in an England-Australia race. Camilla's dream was to get her Private Pilot's Licence. That sustained her for 200 hours flying over four years. After she qualified, there was no longer a dream, and though she did not give up, as many do, she did not fly so regularly.

Exciting news! There is to be a total eclipse of the sun, visible in France, and Civilair has arranged a fly-out with an overnight stop at Amiens to watch it. With two friends from Biggin, Camilla and I set out in a Cessna C172 the previous afternoon, but are driven back by thundery cumulous towers. Early the next morning, we climb over a high fence into Biggin Hill, rev up our plane, and take off the moment the airport opens. Passports are checked at Le Touquet, then on down the coast and up the Somme to Amiens. There is a sea of planes on the ground, and the man in Air Control is in a bad mood. He refuses to talk to us in English (as he is required to do), and refuses us permission to land.

What the hell! Following another small plane, we descend and land on the airstrip. We expect trouble, but there is none. There is already a small bite out of the suns disk, and in 40 minutes the eclipse is total. Sheep bleat (what are they doing on the runway?). Crimson flashes round the moon's rim. Curious light, dark here, but brighter to north and south where the eclipse is not complete. Then, after a few minutes, the sun starts to reappear and the show is over.

After lunch, we push our plane out of a puddle and queue up to leave. As Air Control has given up, the technique is to taxi down the runway, keeping a weather eye open for planes about to land on us, then turn round and roar off to the west. So home through the cumulus to Civilair to join about 15 others celebrating a successful outing.

Back in England, Camilla launched herself with enthusiasm into the task of completing her training. 39 lessons in the remainder of 1999, including eight short solo flights, learning mainly navigation and radio telephony. She would check the weather and wind speed and plot a course on her detailed chart. Biggin Hill is high (600 ft) and surrounded by no-go areas, London town and the air spaces of Heathrow, Gatwick and Stansted. But all too often, the lesson was cancelled due to low cloud, or high wind, or even haze. In winter, she only achieved flying one lesson for every four booked. She felt she was spending money without making progress. And there was another problem; the theory papers have to have been taken within two years before your final flight test. With considerable reluctance, Camilla re-learned the theory and took most of the papers again. Then in April 2001, she went over the pond for a second stint in Florida.

This time it was Winterhaven, a more friendly club at a small airfield surrounded by lakes. With Cas Weemhoff, an encouraging instructor, she flew several times a day for a fortnight. He sent her off on a long cross-country circuit, but she got lost. After flying around for nearly two hours, she spotted an airfield which she thought was Winterhaven, but could not make radio contact with the control tower. So she simply went down and landed, causing other planes to take evasive action. It turned out that she was at the wrong airfield, but this was a common students mistake. So the authorities were not as cross as she feared, and put her on course for the return journey which took her 25 minutes.

Generally though, things had gone well, and on her last day, Camilla was to take her Flight Test. But the examiner was delayed, so that they did not take off till 17.35. The Cessna C152 had just come out of the workshop and was said to be in good condition. But in fact, the direction indicator (which complements the gyroscopic compass) was not working. It took Camilla some time to realise this, and as a result her navigation was badly off. When they landed at 19.50 in complete darkness, she was resigned to being failed. But no, the examiner certified that she had passed satisfactorily. She just had time to complete the paperwork before making a mad dash for the airport and the flight home.

In the intervening four years, Concorde had been temporarily withdrawn following a crash in Paris, had resumed service, and was about to be permanently scrapped. So we took our chance quickly, bought discounted return tickets to New York (which Camilla had never seen), and had a memorable weekend.

In private flying, as in horseracing, there is a stark mixture of wealth and poverty. Flying clubs, both at Biggin Hill and in Florida, are shoestring operations run from tatty prefab buildings. Poorly paid instructors are filling in time until they have enough flying hours to get jobs as commercial pilots. And the planes they use are in the same mould. You would be hard put to find a car on the road as old and grotty as the typical club Cessna C152. Cellophane windows, patched seats, primitive door catches; the pilot's door of one Civilair plane had a tendency to fly open during flight. There is always some instrument that is not working; the radio telephone, the stall warning, the direction indicator. The technology is similar; a confusing mix of gallons and litres, feet and metres, imperial and metric, with no attempt to standardise on SI Units. It is as though the whole business is stuck in the 1950's.

In the early days of our marriage, it would have been impossible for Camilla to have learned to fly without my also learning and striving to be slightly ahead of her. But our relationship has changed. Now, I did fifteen hours of lessons, learning to fly straight and level and starting landings, to the extent that I could be of some use in the plane beside her, and left it at that.

Anyway, it is May 2001. Camilla returns proudly waving her Private Pilot's Licence. She has done 202 hours flying, 21 of them solo. What now? Should she buy a share in a plane? No, she is content with the club set-up, the ability to borrow a plane for a day, no responsibility for maintenance, an instructor available to fly with her if required. She teams up with Roy Newstead and Maedi Hedley, fellow mature students at Civilair. Roy Newstead is interesting; a defeated candidate at a European parliament election, he visits his wife in the North of England at weekends, and does not tell her that he has been flying for years.

Various trips. Sophia Wrangham invited us to lunch in Barley. So Camilla flew me to Duxford, by a long route avoiding Stansted airspace. We had some trouble routefinding over the featureless Cambridgeshire landscape, but found Duxford, and Sophia waiting with a car, and a 'delicious' lunch (kidney stew!) in the conservatory. What with the Thames and the M25, there is never any difficulty finding the way home.

Shortly after we moved to North Ham, and before the building work started, Camilla took me on a photographic trip. She flew up and down the Cuckmere valley at 1500 ft while I operated the camera; I got a decent shot of North Ham, but it would have been better if she had flown at the minimum permitted height of 500 ft!

On another occasion, we were sitting reading in the garden, when Billy phoned to say he was just passing and would Camilla like to join him for lunch in Le Touquet. So Camilla hurried off to Shoreham, where Billy picked her up and duly returned her later in the day.

Jessica and I were passengers together on two occasions. A spectacular round trip from Bodmin took in most of the North Cornish coast. Around Bloemfontein in South Africa, we saw plenty of big game, and our dashing co-pilot did some exciting low flying.

Camilla did several trips with Roy, and often Maedi, sometimes in a Cessna C172 with a Civilair instructor, sometimes in the PA28 which Roy partly owned. They flew to Beccles in Norfolk, to Compton Abbas in Dorset, to Sandown and Bembridge (twice) on the Isle of Wight, to Le Touquet; and twice to Guernsey. The second of these trips was in Roy's PA28, and involved, of course, flying for a considerable length of time out of sight of land. He had a GPS device, but was not wholly confident in its use; and even slight haze or cloud can be quite disorientating. At one stage, they flew over a landmass which Roy identified as Jersey, but which proved to be mainland France!

Trips like those made for a very pleasant day out. There is the excitement of meeting and getting off from a busy British airport. Then, after an hour or two's flight, you land on a tiny airstrip in the middle of nowhere and park the plane next to the only building in sight. A taxi is summoned and whisks you off to a seaside restaurant for a leisurely (though non-alcoholic) lunch. Finally (providing the weather has not broken in the meantime) a relaxing flight in the setting sun brings you back to the real world.

Actually, flights are never relaxing; there is so much to do! Even flying straight and level requires frequent adjustment to correct horizontal or vertical drift. Carb heat needs to be applied every few minutes to prevent engine icing. Navigation is ongoing - even if you fly at 3230 for 13 minutes, you cannot be sure of spotting the railway line at the end. Radiotelephony is ongoing too. You are always in the air space of some airfield or other. On entering that airspace, you must make contact with their air control and keep them informed of your movements. On leaving that airspace, you must change your rt wavelength to the next one, so the pad on your knee needs to contain a list of the different wavelengths. Just occasionally, there is a moment's peace, and you can enjoy the sensation of floating over the landscape. But the amount of work is such that Camilla generally preferred to fly in company.

With Gary Davies (an agreeable red-headed trombonist) from Civilair, the trio had one more ambitious trip. In June 2003 Camilla flew a Cessna C172 from Biggin Hill to Charleville in 2 ½ hours, her longest flight. Then it was Maedi in charge to Colmar in the Rhine valley, and Roy on to St Gallen on the Bodensee in Switzerland. They had planned to spend the night in St Gallen, but found all accommodation taken. So they took a taxi into Austria (they might equally well have driven to Germany) and spent the night there.

With storms forecast over northern France, they returned early to their plane. Camilla flew the leg from Colmar, and recalls with pleasure spiralling up and up out of the Rhine valley and over the Vosges mountains to Verdun. All went well to Charleville, but then a massive thunderstorm blocked their way to Le Touquet. In the gathering gloom, they diverted to Lille, where they landed just as the storm struck. As it was late, they looked for accommodation in Lille - but none was to be had. 'Then we will sleep in the terminal building', they said. 'Oh no, you will not', came the reply. 'I am shutting the building now, and you are out.'

So they abandoned the plane, caught Eurostar, and got home very late. (Meanwhile, I had been expecting an excited Camilla, or at least a message. When darkness fell and neither had arrived, I became worried. Their excuse, when they finally got back, was that they had had no continental phone card and no working mobile.) Civilair recovered the plane later. But Graham (the boss) overcharged for the plane hire and the recovery, to the extent that Roy and Camilla never flew with them again. Civilair has since folded.

Finally, the big one. In February 2005, Camilla and I flew to Brunei, where we had a memorable three-day stopover with Omar's parents, and then on to New Zealand where we had booked a week's flying round South Island. Matt McCaughan picks us up at Queenstown and flies us to be welcomed by his wife Jo at their sheep farm at Geordie Hills, 5500 acres of valley and mountain grassland, turning green again after yesterdays much needed rain. There are six of us; Don and Greg, loud-mouthed pro-Bush republicans from Ohio; Tom and Carol, lawyer and businesswoman from Toronto; and ourselves. I am the only non-pilot. We are to fly three C172's, each with a professional co-pilot.

Our co-pilot is Jaxon, young, pleasant, self-contained. Camilla does a trial circuit with him, but is nervous and performs poorly. She will not get a NZ pilot's licence, so her log-book will not show her as pilot-in-charge. No matter. We are off on our first, fabulous, day's flight. Camilla bounces along the grass landing-strip, pulls back the joystick, banks steeply to avoid the hillside, and in a moment we are up above the brown hills. No flight plan, no 'clearance to take off' from Ground Control, virtually no rt, it is 1930's-style fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants. Just our three little single-engine Cessnas in a great empty space.

Camilla and Jaxon are in the front, I am occupying both back seats, able to look out and take photographs on both sides. There is Wanaka, and Lake Pukaki, then Mt Cook (12316 ft) appears in a tumble of cliffs and hanging glaciers. Slowly Mt Cook passes below our left wing, and we find ourselves above a great bank of cloud. Flying west towards the sea, we come to the edge of the cloudbank and see our Franz Joseph airfield two miles below. We swoop over and down, skiers on a celestial piste. Our flight has taken one hour twenty minutes. The other two planes, which are more powerful than ours, are there waiting for us.

A second leg takes us down the west coast to the tiny Haast airstrip. The Haast pass is the only way through the mountains down this islands' central spine, and we are going back through it. As we approach, flying just below the cloud base, the pass seems completely full of cloud. Camilla is made to fly on the downwind side of the valley (where there are updrafts rather than downdrafts) with her wingtip practically touching the fir trees. We are looking up at cliffs and waterfalls wreathed in cloud. But the cloud base lifts slightly, and there is just room for us to squeeze under. Back on the east side of the range, we find ourselves again in sunshine. Jaxon takes over for a difficult landing in a tricky crosswind at Geordie Hills. Then it is beer, and Jo's roast lamb, and a vigorous exchange of anecdotes. What a day!

Next day, we set off for Dunedin in rain but no wind. Camilla flies through Thompsons gorge and then over wide fertile valleys; an uneventful hours run concluded by a successful landing. Dunedin is modelled on Edinburgh. The museum has interesting exhibits on early settlers from UK and gold prospectors from China. Lunch on the harbour at Port Chalmers. The journey home is into an increasing headwind. I fly the first half, and Jaxon completes a bumpy flight with a turbulent cross-wind landing.

Stewart Island, 470 South, off the south end of New Zealand's South Island, is 50 miles long with one village and no roads. We do a two-day trip. Camilla flies to Mandeville, where we have lunch at a museum for old planes, and a re-fuelling stop after another ten minutes at Gore. She is beginning to get the hang of finding these small grass strips and planning circuits to land on them. Then it is over the sound to perhaps the most exciting landing strip ever, a small windy plateau protected by trees, cliffs, sea, at Ryans Creek on Halfmoon Bay. We leave the planes on the grass, tying them down securely.

There are little whitewashed houses and small boats in a delightful cove, flowers reminiscent of Cornwall, fuchsia, montbretia etc. vegetation like Ireland or the west coast of Scotland only lusher. Dinner in a restaurant overlooking the bay, and a stop in the pub on the way home - Guinness and a girl playing Irish melodies under the moon. Next morning, it is a boat trip fishing for blue cod which are gutted and cooked on board for lunch. Camilla catches a small shark, and it is thrown back. We explore the uninhabited Ulva island where rats have been exterminated and rare birds are returning. Then it is time to bid farewell to our welcoming hosts and return home.

Camilla lifts off the end of the landing strip into space and flies us round this large remote island. Back over the mainland, she follows the coast north-east to Balclutha where she does a splendid landing to pick up fuel. Then it is into a headwind up the Clutha river, shining below us, through valleys and across mountains to Geordie Hills. She makes two attempts to land, go arounds battling with crosswinds, tight turns, line-ups - and Jaxon completes the trip!

Next day, Camilla flies us over the hills to lake Wakapitu, with Queenstown below our right wing, turbulence round Rat point, and a good landing at Glenorchy. We transfer to jet boats, and speed off up the river Dart with mountains all round, right into 'Lord of the Rings' country. By the time of the return journey, the wind has dropped and lake Wakapitu is emerald green. Back at Geordie Hills, Camilla makes four attempts to land, three go-arounds, until finally she gets it right. She really has no need to worry about landing on the other two planes parked on the threshold!

The weather has conspired to put off our best trip to our last day. We half refuel at Wanaka, then land on a farmer's lakeside field to pick up a passenger, then to Queenstown (me flying the plane) for a full refuel. Camilla heads south west over Lake Wakapitu via Te Anau to Lake Manapouri. This side of the lake is sunny with villages and cultivated fields; the other side is dark, forested mountainous, sinister. We cross the lake into Fjordland. Fjordland is a World Heritage Site, an uninhabited 12500 sq. km. of stupendous landscapes. It rains most of the time, but we have picked a perfect day.

Almost at once, we are flying along narrow winding gorges, with shining ribbons of water (some lakes, some sea inlets) a mile below, snow-capped peaks a little above us, and just precipitous forests, cliffs and waterfalls in between. Jaxon takes control and flies us into a narrow fjord, steep turns only, keeping close to the downwind side. There is a small round lake spilling over in a magnificent high waterfall. Then, unexpectedly, there is Mitre Peak and the concrete airstrip at Milford Sound.

Tourist traffic at Milford Sound is heavy, and landing there is special. Camilla joins a queue of planes in the circuit, and flies down the sound towards the sea. Then a steep turn towards Mitre Peak (do we have room? - yes, we do) takes her into the final leg. She touches down at the beginning of the runway and manages to stop and turn off at the half-way point. (If she had not managed this, she would have had to taxi back along the runway, to the fury of planes in the queue behind her). A 130 minute flight merits a good lunch.

Back to the coast, and then north to Big Bay and a beach landing - plenty of space, unlike some grass strips. Jaxon does a dummy run and then Camilla touches down on the damp sand beside the breakers and taxies along to join the other two planes. We walk up a riverbank to Mike's hut, just about the only building in the national park. (Mike, our co-pilot for the day, flies in at certain times of the year to catch whitebait in the river mouth.) Then it is a beach take-off and up, up to Mount Aspiring, a snow-capped spire at 9951 ft, which we keep 'on the nose' and fly round - and round again above glaciers and snowfields - then home to Geordie Hills and a good landing to complete a fabulous day.

Next day we pack up and say our goodbyes. Camilla does the short flight back to Queenstown, where she is asked to orbit while a 747 takes off. We have three more weeks, visiting Nigel and Penny Bowen in Whangarei and exploring North Island, but on land and sea only.

Back in England, Camilla flies once more from Shoreham - an anti-climax? Now, her licence has run out and she will not fly again. Her log book shows 292 hours flying, 53 of them solo or in command, from May 1997 to March 2005. Happy days.

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