I sat on the concrete, trying to apply mascara and lipstick without a mirror, surrounded by parked planes. What the hell was I doing here?

A few weeks ago, it had all seemed sensible and, dare I say it? …fun. I was wildly optimistic about the whole idea and even invited Cliff’s mother to join us for the first trip to the Channel Islands. I bragged about my ability to get by on a wing and a prayer and even bought a jaunty little wheelie bag for the island flying. This lasted until it was actually time to pack. I sat at home on my bed, surrounded by piles of clothes — winter jumpers and summer t-shirts, walking clothes and dinner outfits and shoes for all occasions. I cut it down to half what I thought I needed and then looked at the dinky bag again. Not even close. I finally broke down and dragged a proper suitcase up from the garage and promptly filled it.

I was spending a week island-hopping in a small plane. The British Airways staff who checked me in for the flight to Heathrow marked my bag as “heavy.” This wasn’t an auspicious start.

The plan was simple: fly to Heathrow and get a lift to Elstree in North London the night before, make sure the Saratoga looked healthy and happy, then stay locally and leave for Guernsey first thing in the morning. We arrived at the airfield at dusk and I couldn’t help but feel that the big, bulky, heavy lump of a suitcase was over the top for the single night’s stay, so I shoved it into the back of the plane and left it there.

This led to me waking up in a small brick hotel with nothing but my flight bag. I am not really a morning person. At quarter to eight I lay there gripping the side of the bed tightly, willing myself to wake up and be functional. Cliff tried to tempt me with descriptions of a fried breakfast. I put the pillow over my head.

Eventually I forced myself out of bed. Bleary-eyed and out of sorts, I realised just how foolish I had been. No shampoo, no hairbrush, no toothbrush for God’s sake. Just me and some maps.

In an hour, I would be flying. Under the circumstances, it seemed a bad idea. I took a deep breath, splashed water on my face and considered flight planning, specifically the weather. The correct procedure is to check met reports and phone airfields directly. My handy-dandy copy of Pooleys Airfield information has the phone numbers. It also has two pages of instructions for flying into the Channel Islands, in addition to the standard airfield information. I felt intimidated. I decided to avoid speaking to them in case they noticed quite how incompetent I was and banned me from coming. I looked out the window instead. The sun was shining. A taxi was waiting for us outside. It was time to go.

That was how I ended up on the tarmac, brushing my hair and wondering if it was too late to cancel. It was: I watched another taxi deposit Cliff’s mother, Anne. She arrived along with her wheel chair and a tiny carry-on bag with everything she needed for the week. I blushed and hid my Samsonite out of the way and pretended to make a big show of how heavy her case was. It weighed slightly more than my make-up bag.