I don’t want to rant about the good old days, but I was as keen a glider pilot as anyone when I joined a small club in the 1960s. We didn’t have great equipment, the gliders were mostly old, the winch cable always seemed to be breaking and the tow plane coughed and spluttered as it yanked us into the air.

Flights were usually short with a few of our pundits setting off on downwind dashes, while we marvelled at their expertise and jockeyed for a place in the retrieve crew. We hung on their every word as they recounted their brilliance. It was a great sport and when I reluctantly decided it didn’t fit in with the demands of family life, I gave it up knowing I’d come back. For the next twenty-five years I regularly daydreamed about my airfield days , though knew it would be torture to go back and just watch. I’d wait.

Eventually when the family had grown up and money was less tight, I bounced back to my old club. I had the welcome I’d expected from the few who remembered me while the younger contingent politely to my tales of how it used to be.

A few flights with an instructor and I was solo again, though it took rather longer to get checked out on the club glass sailplane.

It took a few weekends to work out what was wrong. Then it became clear. It is no longer a team activity. Pilots arrived, pull their gliders out, need the minimum of help rigging, the paid staff run the launch point and on landing the glider is packed away with speed and that’s the end of it. A handful linger in the clubhouse but most are anxious to get back to their families. There are few retrieves. Those who land out usually pay for a tug to go and get them.

The hours of recounting various flights, exchanging views, getting help with glider and trailer problems and generally standing around absorbing the entire ethos of the sport have long gone. I’m going to give it a few more months but quite think I’ll look for another activity. At the moment it doesn’t seem fun any more.