Text 1: When the ground let go, by Nisha Calder

An original contemporary travel column.

At half past five in the morning, a hot-air balloon looks less like a flying machine than a great deal of damp washing. Ours lay in a field while three people pulled at ropes and a fan blew cold air into its open mouth. I had paid to be there, but I began to wonder whether that was a good enough reason to leave the earth.

Ben, the pilot, talked us through the flight. I tried to listen. Mostly, I counted the metal clips holding the basket together and wished there were more of them.

Then the burners fired. The balloon rose above us, huge and bright in the early light, tugging at its ropes as if impatient. We climbed into the basket. There was no door, no seat and, from where I stood, not nearly enough basket.

I expected a leap. Instead, the field simply moved away.

One moment I could see individual blades of grass; the next, the people holding the ropes had become small figures waving up at us. There was no rush of air. There was hardly any sense of movement at all. We seemed to hang still while the countryside quietly rearranged itself below.

Roads narrowed into grey threads. A reservoir caught the sunrise and shone like a dropped mirror. The houses of a village fitted together so neatly that I wanted to reach down and straighten one crooked roof. From the ground, the landscape had seemed untidy and endless. From above, hedges joined field to field in a pattern I had never noticed.

Every few minutes the burners interrupted the silence with a blast of heat. Each time, I ducked. Ben did not. He watched the balloon's shadow drift over the fields and spoke in the same voice someone might use while making tea.

Gradually, my hands loosened from the edge of the basket. I had thought courage would feel like excitement, but it felt more like remembering to breathe. For twenty minutes I forgot that there was nothing beneath us.

The landing restored my memory. Ben told us to bend our knees. The basket struck the ground, bounced and tipped sideways, carrying us through a patch of long grass. When it stopped, four adults were lying on top of one another, laughing too loudly.

Later, people asked whether the flight had been frightening. The honest answer is yes, at the beginning and at the end. In between, it was the quietest I have ever known the world to be.

Text 2: A letter from the clouds, by Eleanor Wren

An original letter written in a nineteenth-century voice; a period simulation, not an archival document.

In this letter, written in 1811, Eleanor Wren describes making a public balloon ascent with an experienced aeronaut.

My dear Clara,

You will already have heard that I went up in Mr Harland's balloon yesterday. Since half the town witnessed my departure, there can be little purpose in pretending otherwise. I know that you advised me against it, but I could not bear to spend the remainder of my life wondering what courage might have shown me.

The field was crowded long before the balloon was filled. Some called encouragement; others offered warnings with equal enthusiasm. When the ropes were released, the noise of the crowd fell away so suddenly that it seemed a door had closed beneath us.

I had prepared myself for speed, confusion and violent wind. There was none. We rose with the smoothness of thistledown. Mr Harland smiled at my astonishment and asked whether I still regretted coming. I could not answer him, for the town had opened below us like a map.

The market square, which always appears so grand when one crosses it, was no larger than a handkerchief. Carts moved without sound. The river curved through the fields like a silver chain laid upon green cloth. I searched for our house and believed I saw it, though I cannot be certain. It was strange to think that the rooms containing all our possessions could be hidden beneath the point of one finger.

As we passed into a cloud, the earth disappeared. Grey vapour closed around the basket, and drops of water gathered upon my sleeves. For several minutes there was no town below and no sky above. I confess that my courage failed me then. I imagined the balloon wandering for ever through that colourless country.

We emerged into sunlight. The cloud lay beneath us, dazzling and unbroken, while our balloon cast a round shadow upon it. I felt that we had sailed beyond the ordinary world. Even Mr Harland was silent.

Our descent was less graceful. A current carried us past the field where we intended to land, and Mr Harland called for me to hold the side of the basket. We struck a meadow, rose once more and finally came to rest against a hedge. I was shaken, but not injured. A group of labourers ran towards us, cheering as though we had returned from a distant country.

I cannot say that I was fearless, Clara. Fear travelled with me from the first field to the last. Yet wonder travelled beside it, and wonder proved the better companion.

Your affectionate sister,

Eleanor

Compare the impressions the writers give of travelling by balloon and how they create these impressions.

Support your response with evidence from both texts and identify each text clearly.