Sometimes when I travel, I end up in places so unexpected that I have to pause and ask myself, how did I get here? It usually happens somewhere bizarre and well off the beaten path. One minute I’m drinking pints with locals in a dive bar at the final metro stop in Oslo, the next I’m sharing an awkward encounter with another traveller in a Pakistani restaurant hidden down an alley in Bangkok. They’re never really planned, and rarely do they feature in guidebooks or bucket lists. Yet these are the moments when I sit back, grin, and think: this is why I travel. Because I wouldn’t have found myself here otherwise.

Helsinki, in early 2023, gave me one of those moments, and if I’m honest, it’s probably the one I still treasure most. My friend Caleb and I had booked the trip in the most typical fashion: on a whim, during a half-hearted hunt for cheap flights. The result was five days in Finland in February, the kind of trip most sensible people would think twice about. Sub-zero temperatures, limited daylight, and Ryanair flights that left us questioning whether the seats had ever actually been attached with bolts. But that’s the nature of budget travel, isn’t it? You sign up for a mix of discomfort and discovery, and usually end up with a bit of both.

By the time this day rolled around, we’d already done some wandering through central Helsinki: admired the cathedral, braved the biting cold along the harbour, and eaten more pastries than I’d like to admit. The weather had calmed slightly, from heavy snowstorms to a softer snowfall and occasional bursts of blue sky. Our plan was to head to Seurasaari, an island known for its open-air museum and traditional Finnish buildings, but mostly frequented in summer. That didn’t bother us. In fact, the appeal lay in doing the opposite of what people recommend.

On our way there we stopped at Sibeliuksenpuisto, a park dedicated to the composer Jean Sibelius. The sculpture at the centre is striking: a collection of metal pipes welded together into something that looks almost like an organ for giants, eerie against the winter sky. As I was taking photos, carefully navigating the icy paths, I noticed a red cabin near a small bridge. It looked weathered, maybe even abandoned. Its roof sagged slightly under the weight of snow, and it had that air of something forgotten. I almost walked past, but something about it pulled me closer.

That cabin ended up giving me my favourite photograph to date.

As it turned out, it wasn’t abandoned at all - it was a café. A café called Regatta. Outside, the first thing you notice isn’t the door but the curiosities dotted around. A large wooden swing that looks like it’s survived decades of children and is definitely too delicate for me. A rusting car painted with the Ukrainian flag and labelled, for reasons known only to its owner, ‘The Limousine of the House’. And rows of tables and chairs, smothered in untouched snow, as though they’d been waiting months for someone to return. I could almost picture what it must be like in the summer, bustling with families, groups of friends, cyclists stopping for coffee. In winter, though, it had the strange charm of being frozen in time.

The cabin itself was a picture of Nordic tradition: red wooden panels, thick white paint highlighting the frames, cartwheels and trim, and snow building into layers on the roof. Above the door hung a simple wooden sign with the word ‘Regatta’.

Inside, it felt like stepping into someone’s living room. The young barista barely looked up from their magazine as we shuffled in, stamping snow from our boots. The radio hummed with Finnish pop music, which gave the whole place an oddly modern edge against its vintage surroundings. Wooden benches were tucked tight against the walls, making it cosy to the point of cramped. But cosy in a way that made you want to stay. The walls were covered in framed photographs and paintings: dogs, boats, houses - little fragments of life frozen in moments. The windowsills were crowded with objects that could’ve been pulled from an attic: an old violin, dusty lamps, kettles that looked like they’d brewed a thousand cups of tea.

The coffee was as simple as it gets. No chalkboard of options, no oat milk flat whites or cold brews. Just a pot on a hotplate, poured into a small red cup. You could ask for milk if you really wanted, but it wasn’t necessary. The simplicity made it perfect. Strong, hot, no frills. There was something deeply comforting about sitting with that cup, staring out through slightly murky glass at the frozen water beyond. The window itself almost acted like a filter, softening everything outside: dog walkers passing, kids tugging sleds, a commuter hurrying along. Everyday scenes, but framed in such a way that they felt timeless.

We sat there for forty-five minutes, not doing anything particularly memorable - just drinking coffee, thawing out, people-watching. Yet it’s those pauses that make travel feel real. The moments where you’re not rushing to tick something off, but simply existing somewhere different, letting the place sink in.

Eventually, we finished our coffees and pushed on towards Seurasaari. The entrance to the island is a white-painted footbridge, though by February most of the paint was peeling, exposing the wood beneath. It looked tired, almost ghostly against the snow. Crossing it felt like walking into another world.

The island itself was silent. A few scattered figures - a dog walker here, a jogger there - but no more than a handful of people in sight. The open-air museum was closed for winter, its buildings snowbound and quiet. A small amphitheatre, used for summer performances, sat abandoned in the middle, its seats buried. Walking further, we followed the shoreline, gazing across the frozen sea to Helsinki’s industrial district, smoke rising faintly into the sky. The contrast was stark: life bustling on the far shore, silence pressing in around us on the island.

What struck me most about Seurasaari was how eerily different it must be between seasons. In summer, I imagine it buzzing with life: children running between the houses, performances filling the amphitheatre, tourists drifting from one activity to another. In February, it felt like a place forgotten. Lonely, but not in a sad way - more in a way that makes you feel you’ve stumbled across something secret.

And maybe that’s why that day stands out so vividly in my memory. It wasn’t just about the photograph, or the coffee at Regatta, or the strange beauty of Seurasaari in midwinter. It was the fact that none of it had been planned. We hadn’t come to Helsinki looking for those moments, but we found them anyway.

Travel often gets boiled down to highlights - the big landmarks, the “must-sees”. But it’s days like that which keep me hooked. When you find yourself somewhere you never expected, doing something so ordinary it becomes extraordinary. Sitting in a cramped cabin drinking coffee, wandering a near-abandoned island in the snow, asking yourself quietly: how on earth did I end up here?

The truth is, you don’t really have an answer. You just have a memory - one that stays with you, lingering, tugging you back long after you’ve left. And for me, that’s the best part of it all.

—

From snow-dusted cabins to the stillness of frozen islands, Helsinki offered scenes I couldn’t resist capturing. You can explore the full photo series from the trip over in the Finnish gallery.

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