There's a roar disturbing the quiet of the early morning and a bright orange glowing dome briefly lights up against the blackened sky. Shadows run around pulling ropes, becoming more defined as the sun hints at coming into being and steaks of pink start to form on the horizon. We are carefully bundled into strong wicker baskets, awaiting our departure. We glide above rolling fields, misty hills and brown cows. Neat orchards and renegade trees. The winding roads. Our journey is only guided by the wind. No gears. No petrol. No brakes. In nature's arms. Or basket.