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“Are you insane?” remarked the vegetable seller happily when I mentioned I was going skiing. A understandable reaction since just a while back I was seen on supports due to a hip replacement. Acquaintances from my sister’s circle were even more worried: “How old are you? Eighty? I don’t think this is a wise plan. You’ll fall and break something.” My elder brother Andrew, aged 86, decided it was better not to tell a soul.

A Long-Standing Dream

For at least two decades I’d had a secret desire to experience one more ski trip. One last taste of clear skies, crisp atmosphere and the excitement that comes with finding yourself still intact at the base of a white hill. My ability was limited, and decades had passed since my last ski outing, but that wasn’t the point. As an octogenarian, I wanted to find out if I was still capable. Should I succeed, how about inviting Kate, my sister, part of our elderly ladies’ circle who motivate one another to join regular fitness events? Then I remembered that, during our younger days, Andrew came along on my first ski holiday. That was 67 years ago, but Andrew had some talent, so I invited him too. Penny, a friend, who is so absurdly young (claiming to be 67) that she’s almost an exception, was invited along and venture out with the elders and brush up on German. Each of us worked to enhance our fitness levels, but none of us had skied for four decades or more.

Picking the Location

Seefeld, in Tirol near Innsbruck, was where we decided to go, as it has many snowy pastimes – provided we endured our two-hour lesson on the first day (which, to be honest, was the only skiing we intended to do) – and is happily without après-ski malarky. It draws in family groups rather than boisterous teens, and is quintessentially Austrian, with distinctive church steeples and chalet-type houses. We stayed at the welcoming, family-operated a charming inn and we dined somewhere new every night.

“We call this Kaiserwetter,” remarked our guide Janina when I commented we couldn’t believe our luck at rising every day to unblemished heavens, warm sun and lots of powder for early March.

We were all pretending just to be eager, completely unafraid, as we boarded a shuttle to the slopes. It was full of young people and families with winter gear and radiating energy. It seemed the young man getting our ski gear looking doubtful at our undertaking.

I expected to slip as soon as I moved. Yet I remained upright. Everyone managed to stay upright.

The instructor, Ulrich, who had been informed about our senior status, grinned courageously as we stomped towards him. We chatted rather noisily, grinning excessively, maybe attempting to delay the time when we had to attach our boots to the skis. Inwardly, I was sure I would tumble as soon as I moved. However, I remained upright. None of us did. Ulrich remained calm, giving us enough time at each stage of the lesson to gain in confidence.

Modern Skiing Advances

Modern skis are much easier to manage, I realized – more compact, lighter weight with curved tips – than the long, cumbersome things I remember from the 60s that often led to lift mishaps. We understood we wouldn’t be permitted on a ski lift whatsoever, so thought we’d have to laboriously herringbone up the hill and descend, tumbling during the descent. That’s how it was in 1958. Yet there existed a fantastic contemporary contraption, a moving walkway, or moving walkway, that conveyed us effortlessly to the summit of the easy learning hill, which was crowded with daring youngsters. We were the only adults.

Once the lesson ended, we hadn’t even fallen, had everyone performed adequate plow maneuvers and even a sort of parallel turn. We felt ecstatic. “That was just amazing!” exclaimed Andrew, who doesn’t usually exaggerate.

Additional Adventures

Could we have managed a entire week of winter sports? Perhaps, but the range of options Seefeld offered was more enticing. There were hikes around several bodies of water, public transport allowing visits to absolutely charming hamlets, and the “cold-weather trek to Hämmermoosalm, a 4.6-kilometer hike with toboggan return”, as the brochure nonchalantly explained.

After viewing Olympic events, we two were aware of sledding techniques. You dash after it, shoving the toboggan, then leap on and hurtle down on your belly at velocities comparable to racing cars. Our guide offered reassurance. Nothing to worry about: we’d sit on the sled and direct it with our boots. Yet we remained apprehensive. Andrew chose not to participate but we three plugged on.

Someone wearing crimson overalls zoomed past shouting something over his shoulder about Kate.

As a 12-year-old it proved fatiguing pulling our family’s DIY toboggan up a local hill in Buckinghamshire in our wintry youth, and now in my eighties it felt draining pulling a somewhat lighter sled ascending in high-altitude atmosphere (the alpine hut, a customary high-altitude retreat, is at 1,410 metres) for about three miles. I fell behind, complaining quietly about being too old for this. {The glühwein and Gulaschsuppe|The mulled wine and goulash soup|The warm