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What kid doesn’t like snow? Nine years old, I saw pictures of Finnish winters, and promised myself I’d go there one day. Aged twenty-five and with sparkly eyed ignorance, my first solo trip was booked. I was off to see the snow. With no stable job and only a couple of hundred quid in the bank, I slung my bag on my back regardless. The new found sense of adventure felt massive. I even wrote a song about it; ‘For sixteen years I wanted to see the snow, And to go to places no-one else wanted to go. So I pulled on my wellies and my warmest hat, Gathered physical necessities in my backpack.’ The consequences of having nothing but those bare, physical necessities were yet to come. The lack of research and funds became apparent later. Naively armed with a print out of a few scattered hostels dotted up the west coast of Finland, and some scribbled notes of bus and train stations: I was buzzing. Train to the airport, plane to Helsinki. With an overnight wait for the next flight north, I found the comfiest looking seats. There it hit: I was really strapped for cash. Reality poured in, smashing the pioneering excitement to the sides. ‘I should have saved more money; this feels extreme: The lengths that I’ve gone just to live a childhood dream.’ Didn’t get much sleep that night. Overwhelmed, fuzzy headed, I tried hard to be in the moment: but my being in that moment was likely to result in living off cheap noodles once home, and a pleading conversation with the landlord. A further three hundred miles up the country, in Oulu - there was the snow! Piles of it, un-walkable in, twinkling white through the morning haze. I caught the early commuter’s bus to the train station. Another wait to travel further north. Shivering and thirsty: you can feel prepared with the physical necessities, but at the end of the day, a sealed can of spaghetti hoops isn’t going to help you in a six degree waiting hall. Finally, I was in Kemi, the farthest north I’ve ever been. The daylight was closing down only a couple of hours after its arrival; the snow still abundant and gleaming. I trudged my way sleepily through the crunchy streets to find the hostel. It was boarded up and empty. ‘I can’t shake this feeling something’s not quite right: Not just the lack of food, conversation or daylight.’ Darkness comes quickly in northern Finland. I watched it cloak everything, brushing the sparkle from the snow, whilst sitting cold, bemused and feeling utterly lost. ‘Stand up, girl’, I told myself. I walked into a hotel that charged the same amount for one night as I could earn in a week. They told me where I could catch a bus to the border. There was a hostel in Sweden’s Haparanda. I did not expect to find it, but with sleep deprived determination, I set off. Arriving in Tornio, the bus driver vaguely waved in the direction of Haparanda. Although the snow claimed any visible differentiation of pathway and road, I fastened my backpack tight and began to walk. ‘I’m hungry and I’m tired and I’m relying on my feet: So I’ll walk across the border just so I can get some sleep.’ The glowing lights of IKEA signalled salvation. The map told me that the hostel was close. I cannot believe I found it. I stayed for three days. There was no tin opener, so I never got to eat my spaghetti hoops. Travelling home, I wrote in my journal: “This trip was the most hard-going, scariest and loneliest of experiences … and I’m so glad, and proud of myself for seeing it through. Not for the things I have seen, but for what it has taught me.” A childhood dream tick-box was checked, but that wasn’t the real triumph. I may have unexpectedly learnt the necessity of proper preparation the hard way: but it’s been one of my greatest lessons. The art of thorough planning has served me across four continents since that first solo adventure, when I went to see the snow.