I was in Utsjoki when the thermometer reportedly rose to a historical high. Over 33°C (91°F), and in the sun, my car's gauge was nearing fifty (122°F). After a poorly slept, sweaty night in the tent, I was overwhelmed by the heat, its suffocating weight, and the exhaustion it brought throughout the day. I needed to cool down.

I opened the weather forecast to see which place in Lapland was the coolest. All the towns were hitting record highs: Inari 33°C (91°F), Sodankylä 32°C (90°F), Kolari 30°C (86°F), Pelkosenniemi 29°C (84°F). Wait a minute—I can drive even further north; the border to Norway was finally open. Norway and the Arctic Ocean, 12°C (54°F). That's where I'm going!

I don't have enough superlatives to describe Norway and its landscapes. I find it ridiculously beautiful. I notice I'm driving with my mouth open as the turquoise waters of the Arctic Ocean stretch out, with curve after curve revealing steeper, darker, and snow-capped mountains. Alongside them, even in dry seasons, magnificent waterfalls rush, providing plenty for a Finnish eye to marvel at. Millions of years shaped by the mercy of sea and sky, the ancient rocks have been sculpted into sharp peaks softened by the green, lush moss mounds growing in between. Together, they create an image of a hobbit land or at least the highlands of Scotland.

If I could stop at every bend on the winding, perplexingly narrow roads, I would. Maybe it's made difficult to stop because the traffic keeps moving forward. However, on the Varanger Peninsula, the so-called traffic consists of the occasional Norwegian camper quietly cruising along and trucks bearing the names of local villages that speed through the curves at a pace that is a bit alarming.

I have traveled before on the Lyngen Peninsula. In fact, that's where my entire blog began when I traveled alone in a rental camper through the landscapes of Lapland and Norway. A certain circle closes as my home is in Lapland, and now I'm traveling to Norway in my own adventure van.

The Varanger Peninsula has a different landscape. In Lyngen, the mountains rise up to the clouds, and their magnitude is something that someone who grew up in inland Finland cannot truly comprehend. The Varanger Peninsula looks like the remote tundra landscapes of Utsjoki extend all the way to the Arctic Ocean. The peaks rise higher, but otherwise, the wild birch forests, vast open spaces with clear ponds and streams, and the herds of reindeer grazing freely here and there feel strangely familiar. Despite the borders opening, I see very few other travelers. This wild Norway is what I enjoy.

I was thinking of driving to Nordkapp, the northernmost point in Europe, but for some reason, I changed my mind. Perhaps while waiting in line at the border crossing in Nuorgam, I overheard another traveler mention they were heading there, which suddenly made it lose its allure in my eyes. I know, not the best travel tactic. I looked at the map and saw Berlevåg—I hadn’t heard of it before. Located by the Arctic Ocean, the road winds along the coastline, and most importantly, the temperature is +12 degrees Celsius.

Berlevåg turned out to be a charming fishing village that seems to have slipped into an unknown era. It feels a bit like it’s fallen asleep in history, but I don’t mean that in a negative way. Rather, it’s charmingly forgotten in history.

I took a quick trip to the village in the evening, but turned back a few kilometers when I spotted the most perfect sandy beach, with what could even be called a road leading to it. You often see dreams of parking a van on deserted beaches on social media, but especially in July, the reality is different. There are crowds, and the "deserted" beaches are often dotted with cars and tents.

That's why I felt like I had found a real gem.

I ended up staying at the beach for two nights—no, wait, three. I’m not sure, time sometimes loses its meaning. Time passed at its own pace, without concern for the clock, aside from basic tasks and the occasional work hours here and there. Mostly, I wandered along the beach, collecting treasures. Did you know that every tide—twice a day—washes ashore a new batch of treasures from the sea? Shells, stones, feathers, and unfortunately, a lot of other stuff too, mostly plastic junk. I didn’t know, and with every retreat of the tide, I went to see what it had offered this time. I made art out of them—or maybe just creations—and took some pieces home with me. It’s wonderful to bring home souvenirs, the kind that have a story to tell and memories attached to them.

On the day I left, after a salty morning swim, I drove back to the village of Berlevåg. A few days surrounded only by saltwater quickly depleted my water supply. A 20-liter water container is more than enough for almost a week when used solely for drinking and cooking, but when it's also used for washing dishes and other necessities, it runs out fast. At a long-forgotten campsite, I was able to take a shower for three euros and refill my water tank. I haven’t felt such joy for three euros in a long time. I hadn’t showered at all during the trip, only washed in lakes, rivers, and even in a somewhat pitiful pond. And for those concerned, I never wash directly in natural bodies of water—I soap up elsewhere and carry rinse water farther away. Don’t worry. In any other context, this shower wouldn’t have been anything special, but in this situation, it was the best shower I’ve ever had. No exaggeration.

I drove leisurely along the cape of the Varanger Fjord. I stopped to explore the rocks, resting in the sea breeze, with seagulls screaming their reign from above. The sea smelled fresh, icy, even familiar. The sea has never felt that way to me before. It's always been something vast, unpredictable, even frightening. On previous trips to warmer countries, the sea doesn’t have a scent, it reeks. The fancier the place, the worse the smell. But here, it was the opposite. The scent was unmistakably of the sea, but fresh. Clean. I realize that’s becoming rarer in the world we live in.

My trip was, once again, a bit aimless. At some point, with the wind tossing my hair into my face and a hum ringing intoxicatingly in my ears, I started to miss home. Finnish Lapland. Its sweet, slightly silly, and almost pitiful landscape compared to all this grandeur. The silence. Especially the silence. It's never quiet by the sea.

I ended up driving almost all the way around the peninsula. I also noticed that not every corner of the peninsula has roads, and not all roads circle back along the other side of the fjord. For a moment, I wondered why that is, but I quickly understood as I drove, mouth agape, along a sheer cliff face, where the turquoise sea below was swallowing more and more of the rock with each crashing wave.

I crossed back into Finland via the Näätämö border. On the other side of the border were breathtaking fjords, mountains, and snow-capped peaks, but on this side, there’s home.