What a day trip to Lapland really looks like — 4am alarms and -21°C weather

In a new series So, is it worth it? our travel experts put experiences to the test to see if they’re really worth your time and money. This week, we’re on a day trip to Lapland.

Setting my alarm for 4am, I thought ‘why am I doing this?’  

Half an hour after the familiar anxiety-inducing trill rang through the bedroom, bleary-eyed and in desperate need of caffeine, our Uber arrived, and I still hadn’t answered that question.  

My five-year-old son, however, was much clearer on the purpose of the incredibly early-morning journey we were embarking on.  

We are going to see Santa in Lapland.  

Even my 11-year-old daughter had managed to allow herself to be a teeny bit excited. 

Sniffing around Gatwick for a bacon sandwich to get rid of the taste of sleep not fully eradicated by brushing my teeth, it wasn’t difficult to spot the other dads on the same pilgrimage.   

Armed with Canterbury Travel’s maroon backpacks, their children had gleeful, twinkling looks on their faces. All these positive emotions are only going to lead to one thing, I thought: a domino-effect tantrum-filled return flight.  

But before that, there were more good endorphins to release.  

Any hope I had of having a quick snooze on the four-hour chartered flight to Enontekiö Airport (which is essentially a large shed next to a strip of tarmac, well into Finland’s Arctic Circle) was swiftly banished when the festive fun began with a rendition of Jingle Bells and an in-flight cuddly toy race. More coffee it is, then.  

By the time we landed, I believed it must be late afternoon. After all, it was nearly dark.

What I’d forgotten was that the sun had set at lunchtime two weeks ago and wasn’t due to rise again until the middle of January.  

The next major dad-dread I had was the impact the -21°C Arctic blast blowing through the plane door was going to have on our very coddled children (my daughter wears base layers in anything up to +19°C). 

Thankfully, we were swiftly bundled through a production line of boots, snowsuits, and helmets.

My son initially refused the gloves – a classic rookie error, and one I allowed him to explore for roughly 90 seconds.  

When things got really cold on our 20-minute sleigh ride pulled by a snowmobile, he conceded that Daddy might occasionally be right.

He quickly accepted the specialist mittens I’d smuggled along and we huddled together under a thick blanket, peace restored.  

Once we’d warmed up around a fire, we were very fortunate to be among the first to go and see Santa.

I was quietly relieved. This meant I wouldn’t have to repeatedly expose my arm to the cold to check the time, or watch my phone battery haemorrhage power as I obsessively ensured we didn’t miss our slot. 

In a rare lapse of parental competence, I realised I’d left both children’s letters to Father Christmas back at the airport with the rest of our belongings. 

I braced myself for the moment the illusion shattered. 

Instead, Santa deployed a magic trick, let them pull his very real beard, and gave them a physics lesson in how he gets around the planet so quickly.

He calmly reassured them that an elf would collect their letters later. Even my daughter, who I suspected was dangerously close to ageing out, looked momentarily unstuck. The cynicism was well and truly thawing.  

That gave us time to enjoy everything else on offer: reindeer rides, huskies, toboggans and snowmobiles (yes, even for the five-year-old).

Watching my pre-teen shriek with laughter as she drifted a snowmobile around a frozen track was worth the 4am alarm.  

Like many parents who dread mealtimes away from home, we always arm ourselves with a bag full of surefire snacks (one day we’ll pluck up the courage to remove this safety blanket, I’m sure). 

Although options are limited, they clearly know their clientele well: Pasta Bolognese (optional potatoes) and crepes. Simple, hot, and included in the price.  

By now we’ve been on the go for 14 hours and, aside from an over-aggressive snowball fight from our 11-year-old against her younger brother, we’ve still managed to avoid all tantrums.  

The screaming tube of terror I’d imagined for the flight home never materialised.

Thanks to everyone under the age of 10 collectively falling asleep the second we took off, I even managed to drink a glass of wine in contented silence. 

We unlocked our front door shortly after midnight. Filled with magic, no major tantrums and a million happy memories, it felt like we’d experienced our own Christmas miracle.

Richard Hartley-Parkinson’s family was a guest of Canterbury Travel, but don’t expect us to sugarcoat anything – our reviews are 100% independent.