Ice, Ice Maybe?

The border crossing into Finland was like entering a new world. Conspicuous by its absence in Norway, snow blanketed the ground in every direction, the first proper sign of winter we’d seen on this trip. After weeks of rain, grey skies, and damp everything, it was almost a relief to finally encounter the season that had been nipping at our heels since Oslo. The border itself was understated: a modest sign, a dusting of snow, and a landscape that could only be described as quintessentially Finnish—flat, pine trees spaced with mathematical precision, and intermittent lakes with frozen surfaces broken only by the occasional brave ice fisherman. The monotony was occasionally interrupted by reindeer wandering onto the road with a calm disregard for traffic, an attitude that seemed to sum up the pace of life here.

Our first stop was Inari, home to Siida, the Sámi Museum and Nature Centre. If Norway gave us glimpses of indigenous culture, Finland rolled out the red carpet. Siida offered a fascinating and humbling look at the history, traditions, and sheer tenacity of a people who’ve not only survived but thrived in a landscape that feels specifically designed to discourage human activity. Inside, the exhibits were superbly curated, while outside, we wandered through a rebuilt indigenous village, complete with original wood carvings made by Sámi inhabitants many cold moons ago. From Inari, we continued south through a quiet and still environment with only the occasional car passing by. It was a stark, unchanging view of Finland’s wintery north, beautiful in its simplicity but offering little variation over the long hours of driving.

We eventually reached Rovaniemi, a city that bills itself as the official home of Santa Claus, which is probably a very lucrative title to hold. The allure of meeting the big man himself was undeniable until we saw his prices, which suggested he might have diversified into luxury goods. Instead, we settled for wandering among festive animals, sipping mulled wine strong enough to jumpstart a snowplough, and soaking up the cheerful, slightly kitschy atmosphere. It was Christmas distilled into an experience—a little over-the-top but impossible not to take some pleasure in. The Arctic Circle marker added a sense of occasion, though crossing it southward felt more like an exit than an achievement.

Leaving the Circle behind, the landscape began to shift ever so slightly, with more signs of human habitation appearing—small farms, scattered villages, and an increasing number of signs advertising saunas. Our next stop was Oulu, a bustling central city perched on the edge of the Gulf of Bothnia that provided a welcomed change of pace after days of near-monastic quiet. Known as the “Silicon Valley of the Nordics,” it combines tech innovation with a flair for the wonderfully odd. This is, after all, a city that proudly hosts the Air Guitar World Championships and boasts a male voice choir that shouts rather than sings. A city of cutting-edge quirkiness that immediately appealed to us both.

Finland holds the global title for most saunas per capita, with an impressive 3.3 million spread across a population of 5.4 million. It’s less a cultural quirk and more a national obsession. The campsite in Oulu was no exception, featuring not just a sauna but a hot tub, which quickly became our nightly routine. The heat, the silence, and the ritualistic nature of it all were oddly addictive. By the end of our stay in Oulu, I was seriously considering building one on our miniature patio in Swansea, although how it would fit remained an unsolved mystery. One evening, in a particularly surreal turn of events, I found myself in the hot tub surrounded by seven Finnish men, collectively fluent in about three words of English. Their expressions hovered somewhere between curiosity and polite confusion as if they were trying to figure out if I’d wandered in by mistake. When Lowri emerged from the van after teaching, she stopped, blinked, and declared the scene—me sitting among a wall of stoic Finns in a haze of steam—the most bizarre thing she’d seen in many a month.

As the temperatures plummeted and the nights grew unnervingly long, Finland’s quiet charm began to weave itself into the fabric of the journey. It wasn’t dramatic like Norway, nor as immediately picturesque, but it had its own kind of appeal: a calm, reflective quality that felt like the perfect contrast to the extremes we’d just left behind. As we looked ahead to Helsinki, it felt like the perfect counterbalance to the stillness we’d found so far—a city that promised a different side of Finland, one with a little more buzz but hopefully just as much warmth.

J