There is only one problem with ballooning. The hours. In order to catch the perfect weather conditions, the ideal time of day is somewhere between dawn and 11 o'clock. Which means you have to be up well before sunrise to lick a finger, stick it in the air and decide if today is going to be a goer or not.
Consequently, on this mad, week-long dash the length of Portugal by balloon, I spend a lot of time when I should be sleeping, worrying about being left behind. On the first morning, I have overcompensated and am up while it is still dark, shivering in the pre-dawn chill. And to think I had expected warm, blue skies.
Nineteen teams from all over Europe and one from the US have gathered in Bragança for the fourth annual race. As the pilots test their gas burners, everyone gathers round and holds up their hands gratefully to the heat.
The sun comes up, and the crews (usually three or four people including the pilot) begin a well-rehearsed process for inflating the balloons. Ropes and wires are checked, fixed and double-checked, baskets are equipped with gas bottles, maps and satellite-navigation equipment and big portable fans blow air into the envelopes which start to take on more recognisable shapes. One of them, in pink, yellow and blue, which is starting to strain for the sky, belongs to Willy Wuetrich and is to be my ride for the day.
Willy has a brand-new envelope, and today will be its first flight. As four of us struggle to hold down the lurching monster, he gives a final blast on the burner and tells us to jump in quick. Then we are shooting skywards at a surprisingly fast rate.
Looking down into the stadium, I see we are among the first off. Does this mean we are looking good for the race? Willy smiles: "It is not so much a race as a social event. Yes, we get points for how far we go, but not many of us are worrying about positions. We just want to fly."
So, unconcerned about competition, we drift a few thousand feet above red-tiled roofs and rolling hills. Already, one or two balloons that have found the right winds have become vague, ghostly shapes in the distance.
As the sun warms up the land, it creates pockets of rising air. The more of these you get, the more unsteady the ride becomes. "You don't want fast winds in a balloon," says Willy.
The landing is softer than anything I've ever experienced in a passenger jet. The recovery team are with us pretty quickly and Willy breaks out the wine to celebrate the safe inaugural flight of the new balloon.
He doesn't tell me until now that he destroyed his old one at this same race last year, crashing into trees in high winds.
The next stage for the race is Vila Nova de Foz Ca. By now, I have a practised eye and can tell as soon as we get to the take-off point - another football stadium - that today is a good day. Bright and fresh with hardly any wind.
At first, all the balloons hover in the stadium, clustered together like fruit in a bowl. But, gradually, different breezes pull them apart. Suspicious farmers give us sharp looks at the prospect of an impromptu landing on their cabbages.
At each stage, we are welcomed by the host town and treated to a huge meal. The crowds of spectators are also becoming larger the further south we travel. Each day brings a little more sleep deprivation - which makes it harder and harder to get out of bed while it's still dark.
Tuesday morning is very windy and, as we hang around the local airfield, someone puts up a kite. A pessimist points out: "It's always bad news when they fly a kite." Another voice adds: "Kites will be the only things flying today."
By the time we arrive in the walled Roman town of Évora, the wind is calm enough for an evening flight. I join Pedro Cotovia, a Portuguese pilot flying on his home turf. This evening's mission is to take off outside town, fly in low and attempt to drop a marker on a target.
We are up fast and high into the gathering dusk. By now it is hard to spot which area we are heading for, and after 20 minutes it's clear we are slightly off course, and we eventually pass about 300 yards off target.
Over clearer country on the other side of Évora, we begin our descent, but the wind has picked up and we are travelling at quite a lick by now. Heading for a field which looks clear, Pedro dumps the remaining gas in the balloon by pulling on a rope which opens a hole in the top. We plummet fast and hit the ground hard.
For a couple of seconds, we bounce along and the three of us in the basket roll around and get better acquainted, but eventually we are down. We look up and see that we have landed neatly between two barbed-wire fences that were hardly visible from the air. "Skill," says Pedro confidently.
On Thursday, I am grounded again, so I join the recovery team for Rob Bayley's balloon. Rob crossed the Atlantic by balloon in 1992, so as he takes off into a misty morning I anticipate a long drive to find him.
Despite modern communications technology, you still have to rely on the naked eye and good old map reading to follow a balloon - and satel lite navigation doesn't help if there's no gate in a field or no road over a hill.
When we eventually catch up with Rob, there's a slightly tense moment when the farmer arrives, but he could not be happier that Rob has chosen his field to land in.
Rob says this is often the best part about ballooning: "It's the ultimate way to travel off the beaten track - and dropping in on someone with a balloon is a great calling card - I've even had people throwing parties for me."
Our next stage begins at Serpa, a picturesque town of white houses built around a castle. On Friday morning, the whole town turns out to see the balloons off on the penultimate leg of the journey. But too many late nights enjoying the hospitality followed by early starts have taken their toll, and I finally oversleep and miss my flight. I arrive just in time to see the last one lift off over the roofs and a group of children chasing after a fluttering mini-Stars and Stripes, which American pilot Brian Bolland has dropped for them.
For the final flight on Saturday from a small village near Tavira, the object is to see who can cover the minimum distance in half an hour. I fly with Michel Benoit from France, who eventually wins this leg after deftly holding us no more than 10ft above back gardens and TV aerials while we drift less than half a mile from the take-off point.
Once our win is verified, Michel hits the gas and we head for the hills at 1,000ft - eventually landing with three other balloons. Among the crowd, I see Willy, my pilot on the first day. He breaks out a huge picnic and I begin to wonder whether I should have stuck with him for the whole week.
The practicals
Steve Chamberlain flew to Porto and back from Faro with TAP Air Portugal (0845 601 0932) for £150. He stayed at Residencia Tulipa, Braganca (00 351 2273 331 748), £11.25 a night; Centro de Formacao Agricola, Villa Nova de Foz Coa (00 351 275 774 145) £13.70; Albergaria Vitoria, Evora (00 351 266 707 174) £16.50; Casa da Muralha, Serpa (00 351 284 543 150) £16; Pedras D'El Rei, Tavira (00 351 281 325 532) £34 for a four-person apartment. For detila of the balloon race, see http://www.realizar.com.
