On auto(gyro) pilot
THERE is a certain ecstasy in flight. Travel with no constraints of speed, boundary or traffic, surmounting geography without effort, looking down like a god or a hawk. Some readers will have seen Greenland’s icy mountains from the transatlantic sky or deserts on the way to Asia. Those glimpses, however, cannot compare with the joy of sitting, bracingly windswept, in a tiny open plane—an autogyro —humming low over rivers and pastures, vaulting over lofty crags and swooping along high valleys empty of all but sheep and deer.
The best place to do this is the Lake District, where I went in
