I THINK I am fairly intrepid when it comes to travel. Having spent 20 years commuting between Edinburgh and Glasgow I couldn’t be anything else. My shortest recorded time for this journey, one way, door to door, is 65 minutes; the longest, eight and a half hours (during the 2010 blizzard).

In 1982, I travelled, along with 40 fellow idiots, in a bus from Aberdeen to the south of Spain to watch Willie Miller and Alan Hansen bump into each other in the World Cup. That may sound like a mere bagatelle, but consider, dear reader, the following facts: this was the height of summer, the bus had no air conditioning, it had windows that didn’t open, no toilet, and one single, solitary video (Bruce Lee’s Enter the Dragon).

I have been on a short-haul flight in the Caribbean, sitting up front, when 10 minutes into the journey and with the ground a distant speck, the pilot leaned across with a polite “Excuse me” and pulled the door firmly closed. I had been leaning against it moments earlier.

I have been on 13-hour economy-class long-haul flights with sawmill-standard snorers on either side of me; I have driven cars without brakes and ridden bicycles whose front wheels have come off. In short, I’m not easily fazed.

However, I’m getting to the stage in life when I would prefer the destination to be the adventure rather than the mechanics of getting there. I went to the south of Spain again last year, but I took the more convenient option of flying.

If the opportunity arose, therefore, I would probably politely decline any offer to take the ultimate long-haul flight – a trip into orbit as a space tourist.

Prestwick, as you’ll know, is on the shortlist to become Britain’s first spaceport. Richard Branson hopes to operate commercial space flights from there – for a mere £155,000 his Virgin Galactic outfit would take you 68 miles above the Earth’s surface and let you experience zero gravity. And now it seems Donald Trump wants to get a piece of the action – it was reported at the weekend that he wants his Trump Turnberry operation to become the official hospitality partner.

Quite apart from not wanting to line the Trump pockets any further, I fail to see the attraction of travelling nearly 70 miles up the way just to have a squint at the ground. I can do that on Google Earth. And if I want the sensation of having my stomach meet my mouth, I only have to watch the Hibs try to defend.

Besides, knowing my luck, I’d be stuck beside a snorer. Or else they’d forget to shut the door properly.