Gliding over frozen rivers and lakes was once a popular winter pastime across northern Europe. A new wild skating tour of Sweden hopes to revive it, and revel in the sublime scenery, too

It was the question on all of our minds, but I asked it: "How do you know when the ice isn't safe to skate on?" Niklas, our imperturbable guide, rubbed his chin, looked thoughtful for a moment, then offered up the distilled wisdom of a lifetime spent playing around on frozen water. "When it breaks," he said with a broad smile.

We had skated just over six miles when we reached the edge. The ice just stopped, and the liquid version of the Baltic Sea stretched out to the horizon. I hadn’t expected this sudden, ­unnerving divide. I hadn’t expected to be so far from land. And I hadn’t ­expected to be told that the solid surface I was standing on was only 3in thick.

Glückliches Schweden: Wenn Seen, Flüsse und Küsten gefrieren, entsteht das schönste Schlittschuh-Revier der Welt. Beim Tour-Skaten gleitet man mit Rucksack und Proviant durch die nordische Einsamkeit, 50 Kilometer täglich sind kein Problem.

I take my first steps out on to the frozen waters of the Baltic and my legs lock with fear. All that practice on the Christmas rink feels like a futile flirtation as my Swedish guide gently urges me to put my trust in the long metal “tour skating” blades and slide.

Escape the circle-skating crowds at Somerset House and ice-skate with a sense of purpose on a four-day trek through south-eastern Sweden's vast network of frozen lakes, with Nature Travels. The trip involves ice-fishing and, if conditions allow, moon-skating.

The skating season is almost upon us, but if the thought of jostling for elbow room with kamikaze teens and boozed-up office workers on a synthetic rink leaves you cold, check out the new wild-skating trip from Swedish tour operator Nature Travels.

I am in the middle of a Swedish lake watching winter melt away. The snow has gone and birch trees which cover surrounding islands are starting to bud. I should be worried, given that I am standing on ice, about three kilometres from land, and cracks are literally forming all around me, creating a thudding noise which reverberates across the bay, and through my body.

John Savelid is waiting for me at Stockholm airport holding a strange bag that looks like a rucksack with too many straps. "It's a day sack for skating," he tells me, "but also a life jacket in case you go through."