Before dawn on a cold February morning, the lights from Cardiff Airport beckoned, but the roar of the plane’s engine told me there was no chance of escape. Too soon, we were speeding down the runway, beginning to rise. Suddenly, I heard a loud bang followed by an overpowering stench of burning. That stench reminded me of burning feathers. Then, in horror, I saw through the window, large fiery sparks fleeing into a dark sky.

Now the plane juddered like an old crock. Voices rose and fell in panic or verbal imaginings. An air hostess strapped like her passengers in her seat, got up and headed towards the cockpit and I wanted to run after her yelling, ‘We're going to die!’

Beside me, my father’s hand covered mine. He smiled. Said, ‘Hard one today. Like to help?’ and he frowned down at the Telegraph crossword. I could have shook him. Wanted to grab that newspaper from his lap and stick that biro up his nose.

‘Apologies, everyone,’ a calm male voice announced. All went silent apart from that strange juddering. ‘I’m afraid, we’ve sucked in a gull or two so must head for Luton.’ The voice paused before adding, ‘We’re unable to fly above 20,000 thousand feet so you’ll have a splendid bird’s eye view of our lovely countryside.’

‘Sucked in a gull or two!’ I hissed at my father. ‘It's a plane not a bloody straw!’

‘We’ll be fine,’ my father replied. ‘Think of it as an adventure.’ I won’t repeat my response.

As the sky lightened, it appeared we were hedge hopping over fields, roads, railway lines and motorways. Below us, traffic glinted in early sunlight and I yearned to be down there, stuck in a jam like normal people during rush hour. Then the announcement came that we’d soon be landing. Passengers were reminded of the safety procedures demonstrated before take-off but, I suspected, had gone unheeded.

Approaching Luton Airport, I noticed, below, a fleet of fire engines and ambulances. As we descended those vehicles, like in a scene from some terror movie, sped at a distance away but parallel to our crippled plane. ‘God!’ I exclaimed unconsciously bending my father’s thumb back to his wrist.

‘I experienced far worse during the war,’ he tried to assure, extracting his thumb from my grip. ‘Much worse.’ Tears and prayers tumbled from my mouth and eyes. Buildings, greenery skimmed past the window in a terrible blur.

I would never speak to or see my children and husband again. Then a solid jolt broke into my fears and we were hurtling along terra firma before coming to a stop amid shouts of sheer relief and hysterical crying.

Behind me, an old lady, her ears plugged, must have woken at the din and asked, ‘Oh, are we in Malaga already?’

‘Not yet, Mum,’ a middle-aged brunette replied. ‘We’ve landed in Luton.’

‘Luton! But I don’t want to be in Luton.’

I envied the old woman’s oblivion during our recent crisis but, must admit, I wanted to batter her until she bled. Shaking, I followed my father out and down onto tarmac where an air hostess, to my horror, led her passengers over to a replacement waiting to fly us on to Malaga.