I am writing this in Madeira. I flew here from London, in about three-and-half-hours, with much the same intention as everyone else on the plane: to escape from the tail end of the long grey cold winter that is (or I hope by the time you read this, was) still gripping Northern Europe.
Like most of the others, I worried about the petty strictures of airport security: will my trousers stay up without my belt?, not losing my passport, the tedium of the flight itself. I gave little thought to the incredible distance we were travelling, the high speed at which we were moving, or the death-defying altitude at which we were suspended.
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