I should have seen it coming - all the signs were there. In the evenings, I’d ignore my husband’s habit of staring intently at pictures of fleshy mounds on his phone. When driving, if we saw them in the distance, his face would light up, and he'd point with the same uncontainable excitement as a child spotting a drive-thru McDonalds. He swore he’d give them up, but the urges only grew stronger, especially after finding like-minded souls who shared his fixation with…climbing mountains.

Granted, he often invited me along on what he quaintly called “walks,” but unless it involved a dog or a pub, I saw little point in an aimless trek.

So when friends and family joked, “He’ll be climbing Everest next,” I laughed - nervously. Because I knew the seed had been planted. And sure enough, the flight is booked. In October, my husband will fly to Kathmandu, take a bus deep into the mountains, then walk for six days with a sherpa to a town called Lukla, where he’ll begin what’s ominously known as The Three Passes.

My one saving grace? He won’t be climbing 8,849-metre-high Everest itself (he insists that’s passé) but he will be making a pilgrimage to base camp - because let’s face it, no mountain addiction is complete without it.

For the record, my husband isn’t an adrenaline junkie - he scoffs at bungee jumping. But he does enjoy a challenge. He’s driven motorbikes, at speed, completed the gruelling Kokoda challenge (twice) and holds a Masters Australian Boxing Title. He’s also a volunteer for the Queensland State Emergency Service, and has been known to dabble in snake catching… Thing is, he’s getting more adventurous with age - and he’s not alone. Recent articles and studies have highlighted a growing trend of older adults engaging in thrill-seeking activities - often driven by a desire to seize the time they have left. And women over 50 are getting in on the act too.

But as far as I’m concerned, you don’t need to scale a mountain or jump out of a plane to flirt with danger – it’s everywhere you look - and even the sedentary amongst us aren’t beyond reach. Prolonged sitting is said to be a silent killer, linked to everything from heart disease to early death - although, let’s be honest, Charlie Bucket’s work-shy grandparents seemed to manage just fine.

We don’t fare much better outside the confines of the home, rolling the dice just by crossing the road or stepping foot into a car. The world has never been a more dangerous place - or at least, it feels that way. Once, we feared sabre-toothed tigers; now, a rogue peanut can take someone out in seconds. But food allergies aren’t the only unexpected threats lurking in modern life.

Granted, it’s worse here in Australia, the home of Satan’s pet-shop, where an innocuous stroll should be approached with caution 🐍. And don’t assume it’s any safer on the roads. The first time I took the wheel over here, a kangaroo jumped onto my bonnet before I’d even left the drive.

It’s not just this country. In the U.S., the yearly risk of dying from a shark bite is roughly 1 in 250 million, whereas the risk of dying from a vending machine accident is about 1 in 112 million. Yes, you read that right - according to official figures, vending machines are (roughly) twice as deadly as sharks.

We’ve all run the gauntlet - me included. I used to enjoy the thrill of a rollercoaster - and in my youth was a regular visitor to Dreamland, a theme park in Margate previously known as BemBom Brothers. However, my love affair with such rides began to wane after a particularly hairy episode on what was known as the Mary Rose - an 85-foot attraction which bore more than a passing resemblance to a pirate ship. This particular ride swung back and forth, not by the traditional way of a set of tyres below the boat, but with a huge, powerful motor at the top of the central arm. As the ride picked up momentum, it turned a full 360 degrees before doing the same in reverse.

It was while suspended upside down, with one metal bar doing little to contain me, when I began to realise that while enjoying an adrenaline-filled ride, the very least I should expect in return for my pocket money was feeling safe in the knowledge that I really couldn’t fall out.

Many years later, age-related amnesia led me to step onto another ride at a music festival in Cheshire. Assuming that time would have brought an overhaul of safety measures, I regrettably didn’t get the chance to ask the toothless fellow strapping us in to confirm. Within seconds, we were hurled 200 feet into the air, prompting a scream so bloodcurdling that a passing crow winced. Throughout the agony I thought to myself, is this it? Is this the way I go? On a ropey ride in the North of England?!

While I’ve steered clear of funfairs and theme parks ever since, I did find myself suspended amongst the clouds again, many years later, after my husband booked us a trip in a hot air balloon. I was hugely excited when I realised what was planned. What’s more dreamy than floating high in the sky with a loved one?

Admittedly we were both a little disappointed to note that we would be sharing one of the three balloons with 20 other people, who looked just as annoyed to see us as we were to see them. But no matter! We had a wonderful experience ahead of us, followed by lunch and a glass of vino collapso at a winery to look forward to.

At this point the sun was just starting to rise, and as the first group climbed into their wicker basket, we watched enviously as the roar of the flame propelled them upwards. We were next.

What you might not know about hot air ballooning, is that the whole thing is reliant on buoyancy. So heating the air inside the ‘envelope’ makes it less dense than the cooler air outside, allowing the balloon to rise. However, external factors, including everything from the weather to weight and altitude, play a role in keeping it afloat. Or not.

Another interesting fact they don’t tell you is that the flame burner is deafeningly loud and so hot that, within seconds, we were huddled into the corners of the basket, desperately trying to escape the smell of our own sizzling flesh. To make matters worse, as we soared into the air, the thrill of watching the ground vanish was tempered by the realisation that the balloon before us had collided with a towering tree.

Sensing the crowd’s alarm, our pilot made light of the situation in typical Aussie fashion, by informing us that, “She’ll be alright.” I can’t recall if he followed that reassuring statement by cackling manically, but there’s a very good chance he did.

What had begun as a romantic sunrise treat was fast turning into a bit of a nightmare. The first balloon was now nowhere to be seen, and while we were relieved when the flame burner stopped, it was a very strange sensation standing in a wicker basket, hands gripping onto the sides for dear life, realising that if you leant just a little too far to take that all important photo, you’d surely hurtle to the ground.

Those who own electric cars are familiar with the sound of silence in motion, but me? I like to hear an engine purr – it’s reassuring. Yet here we were, quietly drifting above fields, trees and herds of cows. Some people were pointing in the direction of their houses, others waving to passing birds in flight.

Don’t get me wrong, it was amazing, but at the same time unsettling. We, as humans, don’t BELONG in the sky. It’s why God gave us feet. Aeroplanes? Okay, they make some sort of sense, what with their engines and safety features, but my husband and I both acknowledged that floating in a basket surrounded my strangers, with a pilot who resembled a cross between everyone’s favourite shark catcher, Quint, and Captain Murdock from 80’s classic TV show, The A-Team - was not the greatest experience in the world.

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So when ‘Howling Mad’ announced that we were going to start the descent, I was relieved. Until he ordered us to assume the brace position….

“Crouch down, face inwards,” he yelled, “and hold onto the straps… If you feel a bump, we’ve hit a tree!”

It was at this point that my dear husband thought to get behind me, for added protection. The wait was agony, but within minutes, the crash-bang landing did exactly what it said on the tin - what’s more, when my cranium met with my beloved’s, we clunked together like a pair of hairy castanets, much to the alarm of our fellow passengers.

A head knock is never ideal, but it was especially unwelcome given that, just a year earlier, I’d undergone brain surgery to remove a benign yet irksome tumour - so I can’t deny it stung a bit. But still, we’d landed. Hoorah! I wanted to kiss the tarmac, in the style of Pope JP. However, before I could do that, to add insult to injury, we were asked to help roll up the balloon - which I must admit, felt like someone telling a gun-shot victim to give the offending weapon a wipe down, but hey ho.

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Once ascertaining that everyone out that day had landed safely, we hot footed it to the winery and skulled the vino, grateful to be alive, making a mental note to celebrate our next anniversary by doing something less dangerous, like swimming with crocodiles.

However, all things considered, I do sometimes envy my husband’s fearless approach. It's a reminder to embrace life's uncertainties. While we can't eliminate risk, we can choose to seize the day - so long as we manage to avoid vending machines, hot air balloons, funfair rides, and crossing the road...

Or, as the little-known writer Mark Twain aptly put it, ‘A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.’

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