A different kind of snow
A different kind of snow
We had no concrete plans for the end of the year — only a shared desire to get away.
We didn’t feel like joining crowds or the frenzy of the holidays. We simply wanted peace, open space, and maybe a bit of snow
Our first idea was to head to Portugal with our rooftop tent, chasing light and warmth. But when a friend who grew up in Spain warned us about the freezing winds and unpredictable winter weather between Saragossa and Madrid, we changed our minds. It didn’t sound like the kind of escape we were after.
Our thoughts drifted north.
Last summer we’d spent five weeks exploring Sweden and Norway — a journey that left us in awe of Scandinavia’s vastness and silence. We often wondered what that same landscape might feel like under snow. People told us different stories: some described a dark, depressing winter hole; others, a serene fairy-tale world. Impulsive as ever, we decided to believe the second group.
We reached out to Marco and Aafke, the lovely Dutch couple we had met during summer at Wildlife Sweden — their small natural campsite tucked deep into the woods of Hälsingland. They also run two cozy Airbnbs in a renovated old school building. We asked if we could stay there from December 24 to January 2. Camping at –15°C wasn’t exactly an option. Their quick and warm “yes” was all we needed. Plans made. Bags packed. Done.
Once I close the front door and turn the key in the ignition, adventure begins.
Still, driving more than 2,000 kilometers without a break felt too much. So we planned a three-day road trip north. Day one deep into Denmark, day two around Lake Vättern in southern Sweden, day three into the heart of snow country.
We crossed familiar roads — even stayed at the same Danish stopover as the summer before, which might just become our family’s “traditional halfway place.” Crossing the Øresund Bridge in dense fog felt like gliding through another world. Our second night was spent in a small cabin right on the lake, in the quiet town of Vadstena. It was simple — one room, shared kitchen — but utterly peaceful. By then, snow had started to appear along the roadside, just a whisper of what awaited us further north.
On day three, as daylight faded (which in Sweden happens around 3 p.m.), we left the main highways, following smaller and darker roads covered in snow. I was thankful for the 4x4 and its bright lights — and slightly proud of my decision to skip the straight motorway via Stockholm and take the wilder route north instead.
When we finally arrived in Ängra at 5 p.m., the kids were bursting with excitement to see Marco and Aafke again — and their chickens. The fire was already burning inside our little cottage. The warmth, the flickering glow, the silence outside — it all hit us at once. We had arrived.
Ängra isn’t really a village. It’s Marco & Aafkes home, the old schoolhouse, and a few wooden sheds surrounded by endless forest. The nearest shop is 60 kilometers away. There’s no traffic, no nightlife, no distractions. Just snow, trees, and the faint sound of wind brushing across frozen lakes.
For the first days we did nothing. The girls built snowmen, rolled around in powder, and screamed with laughter. We just breathed. We cooked simple meals from the fridge in our car, sometimes shared dinner with Marco and Aafke, who are not only the best hosts but also amazing cooks. Aafke’s food alone was worth the trip.
Days started late, the sun barely showing its face, and ended early, the light fading by mid-afternoon. Evenings belonged to the fire — reading, editing photos, playing board games, listening to music, or simply staring at the flames. That gentle rhythm of slow days and long nights felt healing.
Marco is a real outdoorsman — someone who lives and breathes the Swedish wilderness. Thanks to him, we experienced adventures we wouldn’t have dared to organize ourselves.
Our first big outing was a hike through Hamra National Park, an hour’s drive away. The park is an ancient forest, one of Sweden’s oldest protected areas. The snow was deep — every step sank half a meter — and the silence was absolute. The low sun threw golden light across the treetops, and the air felt crystal clear. We had planned a 12-kilometer loop but soon realized that hiking through snow without snowshoes was exhausting. After two kilometers and an hour and a half, we stopped for sandwiches, coffee, and tea, then turned back before darkness set in. Even so, it was one of the most beautiful hikes we’ve ever done — a humbling reminder of how raw and magnificent nature can be.
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