‘You’re mad!” Caroline the greengrocer said cheerfully when I told her I was going skiing. A reasonable reaction since not so long ago I was shopping on crutches following a hip replacement. My sister’s friends were more concerned: “How old are you? 80? I don’t think this is a good idea. You’ll fall and break something.” My brother, Andrew, 86, decided it was better not to tell anyone.
For at least two decades I’d had a half-buried wish to experience one more ski trip. A final fix of blue sky, frosty air and the exhilaration that comes with finding yourself still intact at the bottom of a snow-covered slope. I was never much good, and hadn’t skied for decades, but that wasn’t the point. At 83, I needed to see if I could still do it. And if I could do it, how about inviting my sister, Kate, one-third of our Old Crones group who encourage each other to do parkrun each week? Then I remembered that, as teenagers, Andrew had joined me on my first ski holiday. That was 67 years ago, but Andrew used to be quite good, so I invited him too. My friend Penny, who is so absurdly young (67, so she says) that she doesn’t really count, was also allowed to come and try her luck with the oldies and practise her German. We all made an effort to get as fit as possible, but none of us had skied for at least 40 years.
