The quietest hour above the world.
One hour in a wicker basket, somewhere between three hundred and six hundred metres — with a burner above your head and the morning fog below your feet. Scroll to climb.
The envelope fills before the sun is up.
We meet in a dark meadow at five. Fans first, then the burner — and a building the size of a house rises out of the grass in twenty minutes.
The ground lets go.
No runway, no rush — the basket just stops touching the grass. The only sound is the burner, and between burns, nothing at all.
The landscape unfolds like a map.
Rivers, rooftops, deer in the wheat — you drift wherever the morning wind is going, usually five to fifteen kilometres before breakfast.
Six hundred metres of silence.
At cruise height even the dogs stop barking. Passengers go quiet here too — it happens on every single flight.
Back to the grass, glass in hand.
The landing is a slow lean into a field. The chase crew is already there — with the champagne the first balloonists made a tradition.
Three ways into the basket.
Every flight is about an hour in the air and a morning all told. Vouchers are open-dated — the weather picks the day, not the calendar.
Asked before every first flight.
Pick your morning in the sky.
Tell us how many of you there are and roughly when — we will offer the nearest calm-weather dates, or send an open voucher.