‘Exploring Finland with our baby was a delight’
Finland has been named the world’s happiest country for nine years running, but arriving in Helsinki, dishevelled from one of my first flights with my nine-month-old baby, I was less interested in national rankings and more in having a nice nap. My husband, Jake, and I had emerged from the fog of newborn life and the idea of a holiday felt possible again. My ambitions were small: a sunset beer, a walk in the woods, reading a few pages of my book uninterrupted.
But Finland, with its famously family-friendly culture, made exploring with my tiny new travel companion a delight. Finnish parents are supported with generous, gender-equal parental leave, affordable childcare, and free healthcare and education. No one bats an eyelid at a pram parked beside a restaurant table or a baby snoozing outdoors in the cool air, and the terrifyingly efficient public transport system is a dream with children.
In Helsinki, we found ourselves in the cool neighbourhood of Kallio, where locals spilled out on to terraces in the late evening sunshine. We stayed at Hobo Hotel, which, despite attracting a hip crowd, was kitted out with travel cots and highchairs. At a bar aptly named Holiday, my daughter, Sylvie, sat happily chewing a spoon while we drank paloma cocktails in the long golden evening light of July, when the sun barely seems to set at all.
Part of Finland’s appeal for me lies in jokaisenoikeudet, or “Everyman’s Right” – the law that gives everyone freedom to roam the country’s forests and lakes. On the southern coast, we hiked through pine forest and over moss-clad rocks towards Lake Kukuljärvi, with Sylvie snoozing, strapped to my front. At a traditional laavu – a simple wooden shelter with a communal fire pit – Jake and I cooked sausages and boiled coffee over open flames. Sylvie eventually deigned to wake from her nap and gnawed on flakes of pink salmon like a tiny woodland creature. Then I handed her to Jake and jumped from the rickety jetty into the lake for a swim.
In summer, Finns are all about escaping to remote cabins. At Santalahti in Kotka, simple self-catering wooden cottages were just steps from the sea, but my favourite tiny houses were Majamaja, four minute off-grid cabins perched on rocks on the Baltic Sea. A stay here felt truly wild, yet we were a 10-minute drive from Helsinki if we ran out of nappies.
On our last day, we boarded a little ferry which chugged the 15 minutes from Helsinki to Lonna island, a tiny military outpost turned summer escape. Now uninhabited and carpeted in wildflowers, it has a wood-fired sauna overlooking the sea. Inside, women of all ages sat side by side as steam curled from the stove. Finnish children grow up going to saunas from infancy, and two locals showed me how to plonk Sylvie into a bucket of cool water, where she spent the entire time grinning with her four newly minted teeth at the sauna-goers smiling back at her. “She’s Finnish now!” one woman laughed.
Sian Lewis
‘I struck gold with the Vespa tour’: Naples with my teenage son
On a wing and a prayer, I took my 13-year-old son, Ned, to Naples. Just the two of us. He was old enough to carry his bags, young enough to bunk in the same bed and keep the cost down. I’d booked a small apartment in the centro storico with decent wifi in case single parenting got the better of me and we simply needed to play Fifa.
My worry didn’t last long. I struck gold by booking a Vespa tour with Michele and Luigi at NeaTour, who took our brief – “Show us where you wouldn’t normally go” – as a personal challenge. We wove through the city under balconies dripping with washing, past giant graffiti and smelly fish stalls, and shared fruit with elderly women sitting outside on old chairs. We stopped at Bar Nilo to pay homage to Maradona and check out a lock of his hair, then scootered on to a towering mural of the icon himself.
Michele handed Ned a cornicello, a small red charm to ward off bad luck. Legend has it they only work when given as gifts, and we bought into it immediately, wandering off into the Quartieri Spagnoli (Spanish quarter) despite all the warnings of theft and danger. Doors were open everywhere. It was tempting to peep in. One family were inside finishing lunch. Without ceremony, they invited us in. Wine appeared. A Pepsi for Ned. Three generations shifting to make space for strangers who weren’t strangers any more.
Naples worked like that. You needed to give in quickly. We took the smallest alleyways, watched football with the locals, stayed out until the early hours. Not because of the place itself, but because of the interruptions: conversations, offers, eye contact that turned into something wonderful.
Of course, it wasn’t all a success story, despite the cornicello. It was a terrible idea to climb Vesuvius in the midday heat. Blisters, lack of water, wishing we wore hats. Then, on the same day, Pompeii. Crowds, dust, exhaustion and the surreal shock of carved penises everywhere.
Capri proved the antithesis. Beautiful and polished. Botox clashing with bougainvillea. We neither wanted nor could afford the restaurants or designer shops, but lovely assistants indulged us as we tried on sunglasses and handbags costing more than my monthly salary.
Sixteen years earlier, I’d photographed boats arranged like petals outside the Blue Grotto, and wanted to see if we could make it happen again. What I never expected was the same boatmen agreeing to recreate it, carefully positioning themselves into a floating flower.
Trusting local knowledge, we left everything on the old iron stairs leading into the water and swam through the tiny cave entrance. The azure blue was so dense, like liquid moonlight lit from within. After diving and GoPro posing, we swam to the back and sat watching the regulars in their cave cathedral.
As we climbed back up the cliff, salt-dried and tired, Ned turned to me and said, “That’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“Me too,” I replied.
Jill Mead
‘One for the family album’: glamping with granny in Norfolk
Sitting on the veranda with a glass of rosé, my mum and I watched rabbits hop through ferns while birds of prey soared overhead. We decided the view from our “safari” tent was pleasingly wholesome – the only howls were coming from the teenagers inside …
Last summer, I took my twin daughters, my mum and my dog, Miss Babs, on holiday to north Norfolk. Aged 19, the girls are fully embroiled in their own lives – Lola has the travelling bug, Nancy’s away at university – so it was a rare opportunity for us all to get together.
We stayed on the edge of the Sandringham estate, the royal family’s Norfolk retreat, where Experience Freedom, the glamping arm of the Caravan and Motorhome Club, has smart safari tents for us commoners to enjoy (from £69 a night).
While a week in Norfolk is not quite “Ibiza with the girls”, the twins adore their granny and jumped at the chance to come along. A child of the 70s, I grew up holidaying with multiple generations. Every year, my very extended family would head en masse for a week at St Margaret’s Bay holiday camp near Dover. We went the full hokey cokey, joining glamorous granny contests, donkey derbies and a highly competitive fancy dress competition. I adored those holidays with my beloved grandparents, aunts, uncles and numerous cousins, plus aunty Joan and uncle Dick, my nana’s neighbours, who always came, too.
This trip didn’t involve such a large crew, but we had a lovely time in Norfolk. I enjoyed early morning dog walks through the Sandringham estate while the twins slept in. My mum cooked us a full English breakfast every morning, drawing the girls out of their beds with the smell of sizzling bacon. Afternoons were spent on the beach at Old Hunstanton or bobbing around the twee villages that dot the north Norfolk coast. We’d head back to camp in the late afternoon for a glass of rosé on the veranda, when the girls would entertain their grandmother with some inappropriate TikTok reels. One night after dinner, Nancy and Lola challenged us to a game of Cards Against Humanity, only to be utterly horrified when their grandmother won.
Sating the different wants and needs of teenagers and a septuagenarian was not always easy. Tensions did rise, particularly when the sisters snipped at each other or bickered over doing the washing up. More than once, I had to throw the girls a stern look when they dropped the F-bomb in front of their grandmother. And as the unelected leader of the pack, by day three I had decision-making fatigue over what to do, where to go and what to eat.
On our last afternoon, we popped to the main house to see our royal neighbours. Sandringham House is not dog-friendly (unless you’re a corgi or an assistance dog), so Lola stayed back with Miss Babs. Wandering through the hallways of the royal family home, I watched Nancy and her nana, arm in arm and nattering happily, and thought: “This holiday is definitely one for the family album.”
Tracey Davies
‘We would have happily carried on going to who knows where’: Interrailing to Turkey with our boys
I was due a sabbatical, my wife, Vicky, is a teacher and so gets long school holidays, and our boys Tom and Jack were nine and 11, which created an opportunity for an adventure beyond the usual Cornwall. So, in the summer of 2023, we took the train – to Asia.
I never did the Interrail thing in my youth, so why not in middle age? And kids up to 11 go free. (You still have to pay for reservations, and sleepers; it’s really not a cheap holiday). We got passes that give you 10 days travel within two months, and on an August morning we set off with backpacks to the tube, the boys mortified at the prospect of being spotted by their school friends.
Our route in brief: Eurostar from St Pancras; a couple of nights in Paris; Stuttgart; the first sleeper to Budapest (paprika chicken and a thermal bath); another overnight to Brasov, where we got off the train and spent a week travelling round Romania (Carpathian hiking, Ceaușescu opulence-ogling, birding in the Danube delta). Then on through Bulgaria to Istanbul, Ankara, İzmir, Selçuk. Ancient ruins (boo!), waterparks (yay!), the best breakfasts and bazaars, then cooling off in the Aegean. Back via Vienna and Amsterdam.
The trains were more than just a way of getting from A(ustria) to B(ulgaria), they were a big part of the whole thing. They started off lightning-quick, smooth, pointed at the front, with western Europe flashing past on fast-forward out of the window. As we got farther east, they got older, slower and clankier, but more romantic. We liked the ones with steps up to the carriages, and a window at the back to watch the track disappearing behind, literally a window to the past.
And we liked the overnighters – apart from a rude and rather retro awakening on the border between Romania and Turkey. There was a sharp knock on the door, then uniformed men were shining torches in our blinking eyes. “Your papers, please!” Is this a summer holiday, or a thwarted escape from cold war repression? Still, holidays are about memories, right? And now it’s one of them, and a story to tell.
That aside, there is something special about boarding a train at dusk, finding the right compartment, unpacking dinner – simit bread perhaps, interesting stringy cheese, tomatoes, a glass (plastic cup) or two of rough red, with the sun going down outside the window. Then a game of cards before pulling down our bunks and drifting off to the clickety-clack of steel wheels passing over the joints in the rails. That was the heartbeat soundtrack of our month away – that, and Kraftwerk’s Trans-Europe Express, which I definitely overplayed.
Yes, of course there were strops and disagreements, times we longed for a washing machine, a pool, wifi. But had there not been tedious things like jobs and school to get back for, we would have happily carried on – clickety-clack, clickety clack – to who knows where. And, possibly because we were often literally on top of each other, I don’t think we’ve ever felt closer as a family.
Sam Wollaston
‘Reclaiming the spirit of adventure for all of us’: a healing family trip to Norway
“Miss Butler says there’s a real live Viking ship in Norway and you can go and see it!” Challenge accepted. I’d been looking for inspiration and found it in my eight-year-old, buzzing with enthusiasm at the school gate. There was more to it: I’d been widowed three months previously and felt as though I had something to prove. When someone you love is ill, your world gets very small: it was our flat, the hospital, and then the hospice. My husband, Jay, and I loved to travel, living in China when our two boys were toddlers; they were now six and eight. I wanted to reclaim that adventurous spirit for all of us.
Walking across Oslo in the early hours of the morning, I wondered what on earth I was doing. Bus tickets could only be bought in convenience stores, which were all closed, so we walked for miles over dark bridges between islands of white light. Our Airbnb host left directions to find a key, hidden behind a rock in a park near his flat: funny looking back, but stressful that night in the dark after too many Scandi noir dramas.
Norway is expensive, so I packed plenty of snacks and tried to keep costs as low as I could. In Oslo, a 24-hour travel pass could last two days: an afternoon hopping on boats and buses, then ensuring we were within walking distance of the flat when it ran out the following morning. We explored brilliant galleries and played games on the roof of the opera house. We took a ferry to Hovedøya island and found 12th-century ruins in the woods, before sprinting to catch the last boat back. We walked round Sognsvann lake picking wild blueberries. The Viking Ship Museum did not disappoint, the dark carved wood so beautifully intricate, gleaming in the pale light (the museum is now being refurbished, due to reopen in 2027). With time left on our bus tickets, we visited Huk on a whim, which, it turns out, is one of Oslo’s nudist beaches. All part of a European education.
From Oslo, we took a train to Myrdal, then the steep Flåmsbana line to Flåm for a night in the youth hostel, before continuing by boat along the Nærøyfjord, then two trains to Bergen. It was thrilling. The boat trip was our favourite, passing remote villages and watching thundering waterfalls tumble down the sides of the fjord.
In Bergen, the cheapest place to stay was a berthed yacht in the harbour. When our host had to change mooring, we went along for the ride. A planned quick transfer became a longer trip when he saw how excited the boys were to be out on the water. He produced fishing rods and gave them their first fishing lesson.
The kindness of this young man felt like a gentle squeeze of encouragement from the universe. It was a trip that reminded me of my capabilities as a parent, my boys’ resilience, the inherent goodness of people, and the power of big skies and new horizons to help start to heal a broken heart.
Ailsa Sheldon