Normally my favourite view of a Mediterranean beach is from a bar or restaurant, preferably with something cold, refreshing and alcoholic nearby. But this time there was no hooch to hand - and I felt in urgent need of a belt of something strong.

Nervous? You bet. I had manoeuvred my bulky frame into something that from the outside looked like a perfectly nifty and elegant small plane, as it rested on the Tarmac at Murcia's San Pedro airport. Now here I was in the front seat, trying inelegantly to fasten the straps in what seemed to be a very frail vessel indeed, suddenly uneasily reminiscent of a Reliant Robin with only a thin sheet of Perspex between me and the elements.

The engine roared into life with all the reassurance of a hyped-up lawnmower as we wobbled down the runway. Could this thing really take off with my 16 stone of frightened blubber aboard? What would happen if I accidentally leant against the door handle? Should I have asked for a parachute?

Behind me, my fearless friends Jackie and Emily chatted nonchalantly about tapas recipes or some such in the way women do when faced with the utmost peril - I was too busy praying to pay attention.

Juan-Luis, our pilot, fiddled with toggles and switches, flashed a Tom Cruise smile and we surged forward at an impossible rate - and (gulp!) were airborne. My fears fell away from me along with the ground. A minute later I was, almost literally, in heaven.

My spirits soared. Onward and upward! To infinity and beyond! I was Lindbergh and Buzz Lightyear rolled into one. Intrepid, that's me.

I risked a glance downwards and was instantly rewarded with a stunning view of the Mar Menor, the magical lagoon that swimmer-cum-actress Esther Williams once dubbed the "largest swimming pool in the world".

And yes, it really did look like it does on maps, only infinitely more beautiful, a translucent lake of turquoise separated from the true, deep blue Mediterranean by a thin sandbar of golden sands. I could just make out the slender passage from the tiny port of San Pedro into the Med, the ancient Roman saltpans and the nature reserve beach close by.

I can't say that my unaccustomed bird's-eye view of the sandbar of La Manga (not to be confused with the nearby golf resort of the same name) improved the high-rise monstrosities perpetrated under Franco and unwisely allowed to continue since.

Here was a site to rival Venice's Lido utterly sacrificed to mass tourism - it only serves to underline the wisdom of Murcia's current planners in encouraging only low-density, low-rise development in tune with the region's landscape and ecology. But at least the beaches were still evidently glorious.

To landward, the string of tiny villages lining the western shore of Mar Menor were linked by roads along which apparently tiny cars made their way. The shoreline was punctuated by a series of wooden jetties reaching into the placid waters.

We flew over the volcanic island of La Grossa, a world-renowned bird sanctuary, fascinated by the clouds of birds wheeling safely below us and then over the tiny harbour of Cabo de Palos at the south end of Mar Menor, where only an hour or so earlier we had enjoyed an idyllic lunch on the pretty terrace of El Pez Rojo, a tapas experience I'd recommend any time. It was fun to see a gaggle of children waving enthusiastically skyward at us.

And on to a view that was truly breathtaking. Just south of Mar Menor the landscape changes dramatically as forested hills reach up and up, with tiny roads winding between them down to coves of glowing umber sand, most of them deserted. This is Calblanque, Cornwall-on-the-Med, picturesque and unspoilt. The afternoon sun was beginning to slant, throwing the contours of the hills into sharp relief and creating a symphony of greens and golds.

Here and there we could spot small groups of sun-worshippers sprawled on the beach or venturing into the sea. And on one isolated bay, a couple of four-by-fours had clearly been having fun creating patterns on the otherwise virgin beach, like a seaside version of crop circles.

If there was a message for us, I couldn't read it - but they'd obviously had a great time making them. From my vantage point, glorious as it was, I couldn't help wishing I was down there savouring the tranquillity.

We banked sharply and for a giddy instant my stomach knotted as I found myself looking downwards through that flimsy plastic window at the wooded peaks below.

The moment of exhilarating vertigo passed and I was almost disappointed as the plane righted itself and we headed north once more, over a new sea, this time of the shimmering greenhouses below, glinting in the sunlight like frozen waves across the fertile plains that make up la Huerta, the market gardens of Murcia. It was time to go home.

One last sight of the lovely Mar Menor and we were floating in to a gentle landing, safe, sound and wanting to do it all again as soon as possible. I still felt the need for a stiff drink - no longer to calm my nerves but to celebrate.