Friday-night to Sunday-night. Two real days. Monday standup from London.
Apply for membership →What matters for you
Last Friday departure leaves at half past seven. Sunday-night returns put you in your kitchen by eleven. The schedule was built around the way you actually leave the office — not the way the airline sells fares. The weekend, when it ends, is yours.
Membership is selective on purpose. We are picky about who joins because the person across the aisle from you matters. No wotsit-rustlers. No phone-calls-on-speaker. Just adults who chose this cabin for the same reasons you did, on a flight you all paid attention to.
Not because they read it from a manifest sixty seconds before they served you. Because the crew has worked the network long enough to know who flies frequently, who likes which window, who would prefer not to be asked twice. Your preferences travel with you. We learn faster than you'd expect.
There is no overhead address on the aircraft. Your name is the only thing said aloud — by the captain when he greets you on the way to the cabin, by the maitre d' when she shows you to your seat. The cabin is what an aircraft cabin used to feel like when an aircraft cabin was a place you wanted to be.
Most airlines fit as many seats as the airframe will take. We fit as many as the experience will take. About seventy of you on a plane built for one hundred and seventy. The empty seats next to you are the point.
Tell us in advance and the cabin remembers. The birthday cake clears customs before you do. The anniversary champagne is poured at the moment the wing dips over the destination. The crew has done this many times; what feels new to you is something we've kept quiet on a hundred flights for a hundred different reasons.
A premium vehicle, a driver briefed on who you are, what you're carrying, and where you're going. Children greeted by name. Bags taken at the door — not seen again until your hotel.
The 100-step morning
Friday, six-forty-two. Your driver pulls up at the office. By seven-fifty, the cabin doors close. By nine-thirty-five, you are at Comporta. Dinner is at ten. The car is waiting. Sunday night you do it in reverse — bed in London by eleven, Monday standup from your kitchen at nine. Two real days, neither half-eaten by transit. The thing money cannot buy in any other way is the thing this membership buys: time you can spend on the people who matter, in the places you actually want to be, without the Friday-evening Heathrow tax.
Trips that fit
Membership covers you and your partner. The weekends start arriving.
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How members keep the calls, the deliverables, and the deck on track between London and the Alps.
Friday night out, Sunday night home. The day in between is yours.
The 70-pax model, in plain English.
A small, deliberate, twice-yearly evening for the people who got us here first.
