2nd July 2026

On the last port day of the cruise, flushed with the dangerous optimism of my “better second week” intentions, I made a decision.

I would go on the organised excursion up Sugarlump Mountain.

This is an important distinction. I did not, unprompted, wake up and decide to stride alone into the Norwegian wilderness like a woman in a breathable jacket advert. I selected an official ship’s excursion, from the safety of a printed itinerary, surrounded by fellow passengers whose average age suggested that if things became difficult, I might still be used as part of the rescue team.

This is one of the unexpected joys of a sedate cruise: at 60, I am not only not old, I am practically junior staff.

I have spent much of this holiday feeling sprightly by comparison. There are people on this ship who can make entering a lift look like a military operation. There are walking sticks with more confidence than I possess. There are couples who have been married so long they communicate entirely through eyebrow movements and strategic sighing.

Beside them, I am a spring chicken.

A slightly weathered spring chicken, admittedly. One with reading glasses, opinions about chairs and a growing interest in handrails. But a spring chicken nonetheless.

So when the Sugarlump Mountain hike appeared on the excursion list, I was emboldened. If this ship thought its passengers could manage it, surely I could. This was not some extreme adventure holiday populated by lean Scandinavians and people called Tor. This was a cruise excursion. There would be clipboards. There would be headcounts. There would almost certainly be someone called Margaret with a pacemaker and better waterproofs than me.

The name helped too. Sugarlump sounds adorable. It sounds small, round and harmless, like something placed beside a teacup. It does not sound like a place where one might be forced into a private negotiation with one’s calves. Had it been called Mount Regret, I might have approached the matter with more caution.

But Sugarlump? Sugarlump sounded manageable.

Sugarlump sounded practically cake-adjacent.

In the end, however, the promised Sugarlump excursion turned out not to be Sugarlump at all, but somewhere called Sperrenhakken.

I will admit this caused a small adjustment in expectations. Sugarlump had sounded like a friendly pudding. Sperrenhakken sounded rather more like the place in a Nordic crime drama where the body is found.

Still, it was very beautiful.

And, crucially, only about 6km in total.

This was welcome news. Week two, as previously declared, was supposed to be my better week. Less buffet. More movement. Possibly even yoga, though I continue to regard that as an aspiration rather than a binding contract. I have already spoken publicly about strategic energy management. It seemed only right to test the strategy on a modest Norwegian outing in the company of people who had packed walking poles and emergency mints.

The beginning was lovely.

There was fresh air. There were views. There was the pleasant bustle of an organised outing, with everyone pretending not to assess everyone else’s footwear. I felt almost sporty. I had a jacket. I had trainers. I had the quiet confidence of a woman who had walked past the promenade deck several times and assumed some of its health benefits had transferred by proximity.

For a short while, I was magnificent.

Then something unexpected happened.

I continued to be magnificent.

I managed the whole thing with extreme ease, which I am choosing to accept as firm evidence that I remain youthful, vigorous and, quite possibly, only moments away from being scouted for a late-life career in expedition leadership.

There are, of course, alternative explanations.

Out of more than 3,500 passengers, this excursion was attempted by a mere 14 people. Fourteen. That is not so much a hiking group as a breakaway civilisation. It probably says less about my athletic superiority and rather more about the particular demographic of this cruise.

Still, context is everything.

On some holidays, 60 might place you somewhere in the sensible middle. On this one, I was practically the youth vote. Had there been an emergency requiring someone to jog lightly, I might have been pointed at with hope.

This is the thing about being one of the younger ones. It gives you pride, but it also removes your excuses. You cannot announce, “I’m too old for this,” when the woman ahead of you is at least eighty, wearing a sun visor, and moving with the grim efficiency of a mountain goat who has seen things.

So I walked.

Not heroically, because heroism seems excessive for 6km and good footwear. But comfortably. Pleasantly. With only the occasional pause that could be presented as appreciation of the scenery rather than strategic cardiovascular admin.

And it was beautiful. The landscape did that Norwegian thing of looking ancient, dramatic and completely indifferent to whether anyone was using it for personal reinvention. The water spread out dark and shining. The mountains stood about being magnificent. The air was clear enough to make breathing feel like something one had previously been doing incorrectly.

There was, I admit, a certain satisfaction in it. Not transformation. Let’s not get carried away. I did not finish the walk and decide to take up fell-running, wild swimming or one of those hobbies where people voluntarily sleep in small tents and call it freedom. But I did feel pleased. Properly pleased.

I had joined the excursion. I had walked Sperrenhakken. I had not disgraced myself in front of the ship’s senior walking-stick elite.

At 60, this counts.

Perhaps this is what the better second week was really about. Not becoming a new person. Not suddenly turning into someone who rejects pudding and greets dawn with stretches. Just occasionally choosing the option that requires a bit more effort, a bit more breath, and a bit more faith that the body will come along once it realises there is no refund.

Of course, by the time we came back, I had completely reclassified the buffet.

It was no longer temptation. It was recovery nutrition.

Bread? Necessary. Cheese? Medicinal. Pudding? Morale. Wine from the premium drinks package? Electrolytes, probably.

Back on the ship, I moved with the careful dignity of a woman who had briefly borrowed an outdoorsy identity and was now returning it in only very slightly damaged condition. My legs were still present. My knees had not yet instructed solicitors. I made perhaps one noise getting into a chair, but nothing that required witnesses.

Because, annoyingly, I had managed it with ease.

This is pleasing, but also inconvenient. It removes a number of excuses I had been keeping in reserve.

On the last port day of the cruise, during my better second week, I went on an organised excursion that was supposed to be Sugarlump and turned out to be Sperrenhakken. It was only about 6km. It was very beautiful. Fourteen of us did it, out of more than 3,500 passengers, which made the whole thing feel less like a walk and more like selection for a specialised youth squad.

Not youthful, perhaps.

But youthful by cruise standards.

And in this phase of life, I am absolutely taking that.