21st June 2026

There comes a point in life when a person must face facts.

Or, alternatively, book a cruise to Norway and hope the scenery distracts everyone.

This year I turn 60 and my husband turns 70, two numbers that frankly look far too serious written down. They have the air of medical forms, pension forecasts and people asking whether you have considered downsizing. We therefore did the only sensible thing. We decided to mark these significant birthdays by leaving the country, boarding a ship, and sailing towards the Norwegian fjords in an elegant act of denial.

Not a celebration, elegant denial.

Celebration implies balloons, speeches, cake with numbers on it and someone saying, “Doesn’t she look good for her age?” in a tone that suggests mild surprise. No, this is not a celebration. This is avoidance with sea views.

The theory is simple. If you are gliding past dramatic cliffs, waterfalls and ancient landscapes carved by time, nobody can reasonably expect you to discuss your own ageing process. Nature is doing all the heavy lifting. One can simply gesture at a mountain and say, “Look at that,” whenever the conversation drifts towards birthdays, mortality or the rising cost of travel insurance.

Of course, the problem with trying not to think about age is that you immediately think about nothing else.

The moment we stepped on board, I found myself noticing things I might once have ignored. The width of the corridors. The quality of the handrails. Whether there were chairs positioned at humane intervals. How far the cabin was from the lift. How many decks stood between me and a cup of coffee. Whether “short walk” meant short in the normal sense or short according to someone who hikes recreationally and has calves like a mountain goat.

The ship itself is wonderfully calm. Suspiciously calm, in fact. There is the soft hush of carpets, the gentle clink of cups, and the unmistakable collective energy of people who know exactly when the buffet opens. Nobody is rushing. Nobody is shrieking. Nobody appears to be sleeping on a floor, unless by choice or after making full use of the drinks package.

It is, in other words, deeply civilised.

This worries me.

A fjords cruise has a reputation. It is not Ibiza. It is not backpacking through Asia. It is not the kind of holiday where you return with braided hair, questionable tattoos and a story beginning, “The trouble started after the third tequila.” A Norwegian fjords cruise suggests layers. Waterproof jackets. Binoculars. People saying, “There’s a talk later about glaciers,” and meaning it as good news.

And yet, I suspect peril awaits.

Not traditional peril, obviously. I do not anticipate shipwreck, mutiny or being chased across a glacier by wolves. The dangers here are subtler. The dangers are buffet-related. The dangers involve developing strong opinions about table service. The dangers include accidentally attending a lecture, enjoying it, and wondering whether this is who I am now.

There is also the possibility of becoming a person who checks the daily programme with genuine interest.

I have already caught myself asking, “What time is the scenic cruising?” as though scenic cruising is an appointment one might miss through carelessness. I have considered whether we should “pace ourselves” on the first day. I have felt pleased by the storage in the cabin. These are not isolated incidents. They are signs.

My husband, meanwhile, has entered his 70th birthday avoidance phase with admirable commitment. He is not old. He is simply increasingly interested in where things are, how they work, and whether there is a more efficient route back to the cabin. Between us, we now possess the combined energy of two people determined to have an adventure, provided there are toilets, seating and no unnecessary inclines.

This, I think, is the great truth of later-life travel. The desire for wonder does not disappear. It merely travels with a cardigan.

And perhaps there is something rather glorious in that.

We are not running away from age, not really. We are just refusing to stand still while it introduces itself. We are taking these milestone birthdays and placing them somewhere between a fjord, a drinks menu and whatever pudding appears at dinner. We are allowing ourselves to be awed by waterfalls, irritated by minor inconveniences, delighted by good coffee and mildly competitive about who packed better.

There will be views. There will be cake. There may be walking, though I reserve the right to define walking flexibly. There may be bracing sea air, restorative stillness and the sort of landscape that makes one feel tiny in a reassuring way.

There may also be conversations about knees.

So here we are, embarking.

Me, almost 60. Him, almost 70. Both of us pretending this is merely a holiday, while being fully aware that we have chosen to process two major birthdays by floating past ancient rocks and hoping for perspective.

The fjords await.

Age can wait its turn.

And if it insists on coming with us, it can at least carry the luggage.