By Willie Walsh (chief executive of British Airways)
I learnt to fly when I was 17, before I could even drive. In my early twenties, I had a four-seater Cessna, and I flew all over Ireland: my favourite trip was to the Aran Islands, off the west coast. I'd land on Inisheer, a tiny place: there were three pubs, one shop, a small hotel . . . you were totally disconnected from the world. I'd meet up there with about 20 pals, stay for two or three nights, play football with the local kids, have a pint or two . . . and lose track of time. It was great.
One time I got a call from a pal of mine. He was winding me up: "Ha ha, I'm about to get on the ferry to the Aran Islands. Bet you wish you were here!" I was sitting at home, and I thought, well, I could probably beat him there. So I called a couple of friends, we jumped in the plane, and we were on our second pint of Guinness by the time he landed. You can imagine his face when he saw us there, standing in the door of the pub.
Funny thing was, he'd had the worst crossing of his life, the sea was so
rough. The next day, he begged and begged me to fly him back to Galway so he
wouldn't have to get on the boat again. And I didn't. Well, he shouldn't
have wound me up.
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