I’ve just returned from Finland. Yes, I know what you’re thinking – why her? Why couldn’t it have been me?

But sometimes a girl just gets lucky and I’m delighted to say that Finland is a natural haven for those of us over the age of 45.

For starters, there’s hardly anyone there; even in its capital, Helsinki, I had to look hard to spot anything resembling a queue, a traffic jam or a crowd of people.

And once you’re in the surrounding countryside the chances of seeing or being seen drop dramatically.

As do, interestingly, the number of clothes shops.

Indeed, I think these two factors are the main reason behind the country’s hugely relaxed female population.

That and, of course, the fact that being Scandinavian means they’re nearly all naturally blessed with good looks, fine cheek bones, blonde hair and legs that go on forever.

Combine that with an attitude to life that seems to encompass everything that is healthy and fresh and athletic, and you have the recipe for the perfect woman – annoyingly they also possess a great sense of humour and are fantastically nice. Damn. No, make that double damn.

As a 48-year-old Kidlington woman, I could imagine why they might stare when they spotted me – loads of make-up, a suitcase full of inappropriate clothes, and a diet unaccustomed to freshly prepared meals, especially any involving fish.

As I realised during my four-day stay by the coastline, any young mum worth her salt considers it perfectly normal to not only cook fresh fish, but to catch it too – which is something I’d like to see Nigella Lawson do while maintaining her dignity.

Yet, strangely, instead of being horrified by this alternative universe, I found it astonishingly reassuring.

Instead of feeling pressured to look made-up for Hello magazine (if I could only achieve this just once I’d be happy), I quickly began to realise that their appreciation of beauty revolved more around how many logs they could cut for firewood than sporting any enviable cleavage bought and packaged on Harley Street.

In fact, within less than 48 hours I had decided to forgo my make-up bag in favour of cheeks that stung of salt and coastal winds.

Yes, it’s true. I managed to go the last two days without once dipping into my make-up bag – although my lip salve took a real hammering and it’s not often I consider applying it to the tip of my nose.

But within a few hours of being in the country I found myself squatting over a fresh haul of fish, separating the catch from the nets – and being hugely relieved that along with the four dresses I carefully packed I did also think to throw in a couple of pairs of jeans.

However, amid a sea of expensive stripy tops and well-cut slacks I did mince around one entire evening in a little black number. Well, you can take the girl out of Oxford but you can’t take Oxford out of the girl.