'You're going loony?" my mother asks when I announce I'm going ballooning. Probably because ballooning is such an offbeat pastime; everyone else I tell initially mishears or double-takes before responding with envy. Clearly, we are suckers for the idea of gracing the sky in a luminous vehicle redolent of a calmer, cleaner age.
To achieve that vision, you need to fly at dawn when the air is usually still. In case of rain, I must ring my flight operator at 3am for an update - to stay awake, as with a long-haul flight, I sit in a nightclub, only to learn that my trip is cancelled. The next day I rebook and undergo another extended night out, thinking I must be crazy.

But the weather perks up. Next thing, I am standing in a dress shirt and slip-ons with 15 other curiosity seekers in a field in Menangle - a suburb on the south-western fringes of Sydney noted for its namesake virus, which is carried by flying foxes.

The master of ceremonies, meticulous Englishman Richard Gillespie, briefs us. He is helped by the ground crew: Dino, a country boy with blond hair spilling from his baseball cap, and droll, craggy Victor. They then conjure up and unleash a light- emitting diode-fitted pilot ball that will show which way the wind blows.

Wending its way into the messy dawn sky, the "piball" hangs a left and continues its hypnotic trajectory as drizzle enters the picture. So, too, does inertia. If we leave
the scarred, sodden field serving as a launch pad now, the drizzle will carry us with it, meaning we spend our adventure under a cloud.

We wait. As suspicions that we are grounded mount, the weather suddenly clears. We pile in and Gillespie unsnaps the carabiner mooring us to Victor's four-wheel-drive.

"Bon voyage," Victor says. Our vessel creaking unceremoniously, we rise.

In the time it takes to say "addictive", we have cleared the treetops and are sailing. Regardless of prior palaver, I can just about see why scientist-cum-poet Diane Ackerman once wrote that ballooning beats jet travel "because it is more languorous and low- tech; it's adventure in an antique mood. What a treat to stroll through the veils of twilight, to float across the sky like a slowly forming thought."

Although we are packed into the honeycomb-like space of our wicker basket, our stroll through the sky feels therapeutic, thanks to the immense calm. Yachting is intense by comparison. Aloft, you experience absolutely no sensation of movement.

And yet, because a balloon has no steering wheel or brakes, riding one feels alluringly random. You never know where the breeze will lead; you have become at one with a complex, mercurial weather system.

Our whim-of-the-wind Camden caper takes a turn away from a field radiating the smell of manure towards suburbia with
its trampolines and gazebos. "This is great for house-hunting," Gillespie says before warning that our fire-breathing machine will wake every dog in the neighbourhood. He's not exaggerating. Dog after dog starts barking, creating an eerily disjointed racket as we plough on above a cloud of cockatoos towards the fields on the other side of the burbs.

Thankfully, no flying foxes materialise. On the horizon, like apparitions from a myth, two horses - one black, one white - race as our journey wears on.

Continuously pumping flames into the balloon's cathedral-like interior and tugging strings, Gillespie aims to land us beyond a golf course on a stretch of long grass in deep country: it's a rodeo circuit. Because, until now, our journey has flowed, I expect a landing as smooth as the champagne breakfast to follow.

Instead, a gust hits us. With a bone-jarring crash we bounce off the ground and, travelling at 30 kilometres an hour, skid for more than 80 metres, cutting a swathe. Crouched, we try not to elbow and crush each other as the basket flips. We grin at
the sky.

In the aftermath of our rodeo ride, surprise gives way to nervous laughter. One by one, trying not to get entangled with strangers, we crawl from our cubbyholes into the dew.
"It's not an exact science," Victor remarks when he rolls up to round us up. "Yee-hah!" Dino says.

Now you try it

Adults $295 each, children $180 each. Minimum four people. Preparations start an hour before sunrise with a cup of tea or coffee and a flight briefing at Camden Airport. Passengers are then transported to the launch site. You can either help inflate the balloon or watch and take snaps. Flight length is 45-60 minutes depending on wind speed and direction. Afterwards, you get a champagne barbecue breakfast that guests may join by arrangement.

Total time of the journey is between 3 1/2 and four hours.

More information: 1800 028 568 or www.balloonaloft.com.