When I was twelve years old I ice skated with what used to be called gay abandon. I had no fear, would orbit the Silver Blades Ice Rink in Liverpool at light speed for two hours every Saturday morning. Fifty years later it is a much slower shadow of my former self trying to make it round the outdoor rink in Seefeld, Austria. But I did.

As you will have read in yesterday's blog (there will be a test) it was Carnival Time in Innsbruck, celebrating Shrove Tuesday, the start of Lent (or Borrowed, depending on which side you're on), and the official end of winter. Which is why daughter Catherine and I got little sleep last night in our Airbnb apartment. The guys in the apartment below tried their best to sing Beatles' songs till two in the morning, but it really was more of an Eight Days a Squeak effort. Still noisy though.

It meant that it was midday before we felt up to doing anything, but that 'anything' was a 40-minute trip by train to Seefeld, a pretty alpine village on a plateau north of Innsbruck.

The journey itself was a delight, as the train wormed its way up mountainsides and through tunnels, giving increasingly snowy glimpses of steep ravines, fir trees covered with new snow, white distant peaks, a winter wonderland - a Narnia. One you wouldn't want to ever find the wardrobe door to ausgang from.

We stopped at a few stations along the way, all tiny and seemingly in the middle of nowhere, until we reached Seefeld itself. The previous night's snow had been shovelled off the platform, and from the main sidewalks in town as we emerged from the station to explore.

The population is only about 11,000, though swells to three billion when tourists visit, which is all year round. So, Seefeld, pop. 3 bn. And at this time of the year most of them are wearing ski boots, snowboard boots or cross-country boots. This is, without doubt, an alpine sports centre, offering everything from skating, curling and Nordic skiing to the more usual downhill skiing and snowboarding. I think I read there's a bobsled course too.

Either we were in a time warp, or something special is going to happen in a couple of years, but at a junction of snowy roads in the centre of town was a large sign announcing 'Seefeld 2019.' Maybe the council were just planning ahead. Maybe someone had lost the '7' part of the sign and had to make-do, turning last year's 6 upside down.

Never mind. Whatever the year, the ghoulash soup at a nearby hotel proved an effective antidote to both winter and time travel, and a short stroll around town afterwards confirmed that Seefeld was indeed pretty and surrounded by lovely mountains.

The sun did its best to squeeze through the overcast, and even managed to throw a shadow at one point, but the sun loungers and deckchairs on the terrace of the Hotel Wetterstein remained empty. That didn't stop us enjoying a coffee there though, looking over enthusiastic Nordic skiers tackling flat snow with no assistance from gravity to get where they were going. They define the term 'flat-out.'

To the left we could see the Olympia complex - comprising indoor and outdoor heated swimming pools, curling, and - hallelujah - ice skating. Since we hadn't brought any swimming gear with us I tentatively suggested to Catherine that maybe some skating would be in order, to which she agreed. I use the term loosely.

As Bolero played through my head and I skated to glory - admittedly without Jayne Torvill to throw around - my legs reminded me that they hadn't had to stand on ice for at least thirteen years. If truth be told, and it always is in these blogs even if somewhat obliquely, it has been fifty years since I ice skated regularly. I still have the certificates.

But I never got beyond the competent speeding, backwards skating, turning and even something resembling a vague pirouette... I never conquered figure skating or leaping about. However, as Catherine took tentative steps around the outdoor rink, I did the same, and within half an hour it all came flooding back: the fear, the trembling, the any-moment-now-I-am-going-over terror.

I managed somehow to stay upright. It dawned on me that I had an audience; the ice rink is immediately outside the very heated swimming complex, and through the windows I could see an entire dress circle - well, undressed circle - of people in bathers and bikinis sitting in deckchairs watching me. I waved, and almost fell over backwards.

Catherine meanwhile increased in confidence, lengthening her strides and speeding up on her orbits. I did too, to the point where I even crossed my feet going round the curved bits at the ends, and yes even backwards on a couple of occasions.

But all my joy turned to jelly when, after having inwardly celebrated that I was obviously the oldest skater there, a gentleman of a certain age - let's say 70 - arrived and started doing turns and - for God's sake - jumps in the centre. They weren't Olympic standard, but they were competent, and he didn't falter. I gave him some applause, which was lost since I was wearing woolly gloves, but he saw and nodded his appreciation. I desperately wanted to ask him to teach me how to do what he was doing, but my German is limited to Ein glas Veltliner bitte, and he didn't look like a wine waiter.

Catherine tried to photograph me as I skated past her, but in the photo I am blurred. I tell everyone this is because of the speed I am going. In my head I am Christopher Dean. In reality, I'm not much of a skater. But if I get the opportunity to spend any more time in Seefeld, then in the words of that most famous of Austrians: 'I'll be back!'