LETTING go is never easy. Whether of a loved one, a habit, or even just the fact that you can manipulate ice to your will, the tune might come easily but it’s harder to dance to than a certain Disney princess makes it look.

Our culture is so obsessed with time these days that you’d imagine we’d all be skilled in moving on by now. I mean, we’re only a paragraph in and I’m sure you’ve already left behind my original point. And who could blame you? Not this glasshouse girl. But when it comes to the big stuff – you know, that which weighs on our minds and heavies our hearts – we just never seem to find the easy way to get over it.

I’m a sentimental soul: there are west coast winters less slushy than this fool. So clinging on like a velcro limpet is pretty much my full-time occupation. The pay sucks but there's great job security. However, in a change of tack unrivalled since Shergar, I decided this week to let go of everything and hope that my mind might follow where my feet lead.

The Highland Fling Bungee Jump in Perthshire is a quite unique way to see one of Scotland’s idyllic vistas – from the bottom up. Opened in May 2011, by John Swinney no less, the platform over the River Garry is the UK’s first permanent bungee venue, but it leaves an impression that lasts – thankfully no more than metaphorically.

As I took my place in the cute cabin by Killiecrankie Visitor Centre, which serves as base, muster point and last-ditch toilet facilities for Highland Fling staff and visitors, it was clear I wasn’t the only winter jumper around. In fact, nearly 30,000 successful jumps have been completed since the purpose-built site was erected. I didn’t think to ask about the unsuccessful. Outside, the sun shone on a dry but cool afternoon, while inside the warmth of anticipation kept we nine free from frost, as we emptied pockets and tightened shoelaces in preparation for the big upending. Among us were first-timers and reassuringly old hands from Dumfries to Aberdeen, brought together by stretchy ropes and a deep suspicion of gravity. It’s funny how life works, right?

After a weigh-in without the fists and fighting talk, our harnesses were fitted and one of the three bungee masters, Loz, bundled the group towards the minibus, where we fastidiously buckled up for the two-minute journey. Well, no point in taking unnecessary risks, after all. On the backs of our hands, like judgemental hieroglyphs, were scrawled our weights and corresponding bungee cord colour; I guess to ensure we didn’t hit the ground – or the stratosphere.

Below Garry Bridge, amidst a landscape of autumnal colours and mirroring waters, Jason waited to stand us on the scales once more – he’s a member of staff, it’s not just a fetish – and then it was one-by-one, like Noah’s Plan B, up the ladder to meet Debbie on the gantry above. Suspended from the bridge’s sheltered underside, the metal walkway leads the jelly-legged towards their doom or, as it’s more positively known, the bungee platform.

Branded as 51Y, I was on the yellow cord, with others spread across green, blue and red. Bungee is not for the colour-blind, it seems. While we waited for the sure-footed team to treble-check equipment, the jumpers huddled on the mezzanine, sharing stories and a communal adrenaline buzz. Euan gave me tips from his seasoned perspective, while fellow novice, Gillian and I envied his habit, all the while glancing through the grating underfoot to the river waiting below.

The call soon went up for a volunteer, and my voice found itself before I could properly hide it. I’m not in the market for exaggeration – the rates are a million times too high for me – but that climb down to the final platform was the most daunting approach ever. By the time I was having my ankle cuffs attached and waddling like a malcontent penguin towards what can only be described as the gangplank, my face was throwing smiles that my nerves couldn’t catch. I guess you probably know by now that, these days, I’m not scared of much – but bridges aren’t much, they’re much more. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that I’m a recovering aquaphobe whose relationship with water is more strained than Christmas Day clothing, but standing 40 metres above a river with a big elastic band tied to my ankles is surprisingly a decent reminder.

With Debbie’s hand steadying my back, it was out to the very edge, toes tickling the nothingness beyond. A quick pause for a photo and it was three, two, one… BUNGEE.

Falling, spinning, trusting mass to air. Tom Petty ringing through hissing ears. Hopeful that any moment, any moment now… And the line bites back, reaching full extension and at last taking the strain. So I followed it upwards – it was persuasive that way, but not nearly as violent as I had expected. The bounce was forceful, sure, but not aggressively so: I’ve felt more yank at a friendly thanksgiving. Instead it allowed me those moments to just enjoy the sensation of springing and the view of our inverted isle.

All too quickly, the winch line was by my side, beckoning me back to uprightness. The journey up was certainly less frenetic than its counterpart, but I appreciated one more for the other. On the level once more, I cheered with the rest as each jumper made that same trip in their own way: backwards, tentatively, with great gusto. Each of us taking up the mantle then finally letting go.