In celebration of solitude
Immersed in a different culture, with a cabin in the woods, Melanie Dower found what she was looking for on the other side of the world.
As an extrovert who thrives on the company of others, I’ve recently found myself seeking a quiet place to retreat. When my son’s school closed due to COVID-19, I felt as though I was on maternity leave again, only this time with a talkative 8-year-old.
If I was remiss about locking the bathroom door he would appear while I showered, outlining his evacuation plan should we encounter a zombie apocalypse. Lunchtime conversation was peppered with talk of galaxies far, far away, something I know very little about, making me an often-disappointing audience.
As summer loomed and our vacation plans were cancelled, I started to look closer to home for ways to enjoy our time off. Since moving to Finland six years ago I’ve learnt that having almost 24 hours of sunlight each day creates a lot of time to fill.
It was around this time that my husband encouraged me to pursue my long-held dream of owning one of the tiny cabins on an island near our home in Helsinki. For Finns, going away to the summer cottage is an intrinsic part of life, with midsummer sparking an exodus into the forest to fish, sauna and swim in the lakes. “The whole point of going to the summer cottage,” my Finnish colleague explained, “is to see no one”.
Often described as shy or introverted, Finns are actually friendly and warm people and make very loyal friends. They do respect personal space however and appreciate those who do the same. Small talk is often regarded with suspicion or at the very best, a necessary step in the social dance with foreigners. Genuine conversation is highly regarded, where people speak clearly and humbly, with no need to fill in periods of silence unless there is something of value to add.
Finns also tend to favour activities that encourage quiet mindfulness, such as walking in the forest or cross-country skiing on paths cut through the trees. When the lakes freeze over in winter, Finnish men can be seen dotted across the ice, sitting next to their fishing holes, waiting quietly and alone for the next bite.
Looking for the chance to experience this stillness myself, I started searching for a cabin and when the opportunity came up to buy one, I jumped at the chance. With the island just a 15-minute cycle from our city apartment, it seemed the perfect way for me to escape without needing to always plan days or weeks in advance.
Established during the post-war era, the cabin sites were originally allocated to returning veterans who couldn’t afford a summer cottage of their own. Each beneficiary was given a plot of land to camp on and over time, the owners built tiny cabins, according to guidelines set out by the City of Helsinki that restrict floorspace to no more than 14m2.
While my neighbours are close, the cabins are well-spaced and face in different directions so no one looks onto another. As nature in Finland is left mostly untamed, the plants that spring up form natural privacy screens between us.
With no electricity or plumbing, water is gathered from communal taps that are turned off in winter to prevent them from freezing. It’s these elements of seasonal semi-permanence that make me appreciate the space even more.
As I cycle over the bridge that connects the island to the city, I feel the busy-ness of life drift away as I anticipate the quiet rituals I’ve created for myself at my cabin. Upon arrival, I leave my shoes on the terrace and change into socks or slippers, as is the custom in every Finnish home.
I fill my water bottle from the outdoor tap and pick lemon balm from the garden, then snack on fresh raspberries bought from the store. Pheasants roam boldly and squirrels visit often, gathering wild bilberries in summer and mushrooms that grow after the first autumn rains.
I feel any tension leave my body, which I attribute to there being no power or internet connection, my only appliances being my laptop and the fireplace where I occasionally burn birch logs for heating. I’ve filled the cabin with books, mainly short stories and poetry, deliberately chosen so I can pick them up and leave them again to continue another afternoon. Everything here has been selected mindfully, carried in my arms down the sandy path that leads through the trees.
If I want to I nap, leaving the door open to catch the gentle sea breeze. Finns respect privacy and an unannounced caller is very unlikely, even though they would be most welcome. I spend most of my time however at the outdoor table writing in my journal, letting the events of the previous week seep through me and then leave my body.
Later, when I return home, my mind feels well-rested and spacious and at night sleep comes easily, no unexamined thoughts vying for attention. I’m present, attentive and without the usual nagging feeling that I have forgotten something important.
Living in Finland has changed me in a way I never anticipated. While I still love the company of others, I’ve found the value of solitude and the comfort that stillness brings in the form of a real sense of calm. I’m present for my husband, for my son, for the whole Star Wars galaxy, but most importantly, I’m present and protective of this time for myself.