I have to fly quite often between Corsica and Marseille for medical treatment on The World's Top Airline (Air Corsica) on a sixty seat propellor plane.
It's fantastic. You get a chestnut flour biscuit and a choice of luke warm coffee, semi hot chocolate, Super U orange or apple juice from the original branded container or slightly flat, originally fizzy Orezza water from a litre bottle once we've battled against the wind and got to about 10 000 feet.
You can more or less see the water all the way.
There's always a few dogs on board and if you're lucky, a cat in a, "Going to the vet's" type scarifying cage. Cats are not good fliers, in my experience. Presumably, their owners have second homes on the island and want to take them there as well for a few months in the summer.
In the winter, there's not much demand for flights, so more than once, we've taken off in Calvi, then landed back again in Bastia to fill up the seats. A distance of less than fifty kilometres, considering that both airports are out of town.
I have this mad idea that one day the pilot will say, "Good morning passengers, I can't be bothered with this, I'm just going to taxi along on the wheels down the Route Nationale. There's only going to be two hay lorries and a tractor on the road at this time in the bastard morning anyway and we can have ten minute espresso and cigarette break at Ponte Lecchia at my cousin's bar halfway through. Much more civilised."
Then there was the time when we tried to set off in a blizzard and the Captain had to abandon take off twice. He came over the tannoy and said we all had to get off then thirty seconds later said, "No. I've changed my mind. I'm going to give it one last go!"
We made it, obviously, but still. It was very tense.