High-flying reporter Nicola Barry, of the Press and Journal, tests a cure for her fears.

In reality, it is not so much a fear of flying as a fear of crashing.

Thanks to a course run by Aviatours, in conjunction with British Airways, those who cannot imagine life at 30,000ft without breaking into a sweat now have a glimmer of hope.

It costs £235 and includes a presentation on how an aircraft actually flies, how to control anxiety, concluding with a 45-minute flight.

I attended the course at Edinburgh Airport in rehearsal for a trip to Florida two weeks later. I passed with flying colours.

Usually, I sit on the plane, my mind in total turmoil. What was that far-off rumbling noise? Was that a wing falling off? Why are we turning right? Why, when you're at 18,000ft, does it suddenly go really quiet?

For the course, we were 55 in number, two-thirds women, one-third men, all huddled together in the name of cowardice to learn how to relax in a plane.

Fat chance, I thought, watching some of my fellow students swallow tranquillisers, even hide in the loo as the time for the flight approached.

We were introduced to our trainer for the day, the dapper, handsome, terminally patient Captain Steve Allright.

I know. I couldn't believe his name, either.

Steve told us about the intensive training pilots undergo, how an aircraft flies, about control of the aircraft during take-off, climb, cruise, descent, approach and landing. He also said pilots wouldn't fly if they didn't think it was 100 per cent safe to do so.

Over the past decade, the fear of flying course has helped "cure" more than 35,000 people in the UK.

"Out of the people here today, about 10% will be first-time fliers and some 90 per cent will have had a perceived bad experience.

The trouble with anxiety, we were told, is that the brain keeps giving you reasons not to do something. It's raining, it's too windy to fly, and so on.

Course students had their own psychologist, Patricia Furness-Smith, who explained the causes of anticipatory anxiety and subsequent panic. She talked about panic attacks and how to combat them with breathing exercises.

After the theory, participants faced the ultimate test: a 45-minute flight in a British Airways-operated ARJ jet aircraft accompanied by the psychologist, the pilot and co-pilot and Steve, our nanny.

Even as we flew, Steve couldn't relax. The questions came thick and fast.

What happens if one of the engines fails? What happens if the pilot dies and an engine fails? What happens if one pilot dies, the co-pilot has food poisoning and two engines fail? In my mind's eye, I could see the next day's headline in the Press and Journal - "Fear of flying course plunges 30,000ft into the sea. No survivors".

Quite honestly, by the time I had heard some of the fears of those around me, my own seemed to pale into insignificance.

Being with so many terrified people has its downside. It's easy to put one's foot right in it. At one point, I said to the woman beside me: "You see that guy over there? He was on a plane over the Urals in Russia when it dropped 1,000ft without warning."

Her face went green, her knees began to shake. You learn to think before opening your mouth. Those who wanted to go up to the cockpit did so at the end of the journey and, for their efforts, were given a little badge bearing the words, "I have been on the flight deck".

On the plane to Florida a few weeks later, I felt the odd twinge at the occasional bout of turbulence, but not the terrible anxiety I normally feel. As flights go, it was fairly calm. Best of all, I didn't spend my two-week holiday worrying about the return journey.