It's my Van Life - this is the story of how Jarno became a camper van lover
Van life is my lifestyle, van life is my passion, van life is my future.
This holy trinity captures the three core ideas that have been seeking their place and form in my life since childhood—ever since those early camperlife experiences etched themselves into my memory. These values still travel with me today and, what’s craziest of all, it’s only in recent years that I’ve truly started to listen to their call with a more open heart.
It all began when we journeyed each summer with our family’s car and caravan combo through northern Finland, Lapland, and all the way up to the northernmost corners of Norway.
Somewhere in Lapland, heading to Norway
The Scent of a Camper = Freedom & Little Victories
It was the late 1980s—a time when road-tripping with a caravan in tow was still popular. Back then, very few of my peers had ever flown on a plane, but many had already explored Finland far and wide in a car-caravan combo. The wildest families didn’t even bother with a caravan—just a tiny car doubling as transport and sleeping quarters.
Anyone who’s ever been into this lifestyle back in the day knows that smell—the signature scent of an old-school camper or caravan. I don’t know what causes it or why it smells eerily similar in every vehicle, but it soaked into my skin early and deeply. Even now, whenever I catch a whiff of it in some retro rig, a wild camping fever takes hold. My feet get itchy, my eyes start scanning the horizon for mountains, and suddenly, adventure feels inevitable.
To me, camping and van life come with just the right amount of simplicity and suspense. There’s a balance—you’re meant to feel a bit unsure, a bit excited. Will the gear hold up? Will we find a good spot to sleep? How do we navigate this unfamiliar city? Will we make it to the ferry in time?
But then come the wins. Those sweet little victories along the road that trigger a shot of endorphins and bring a grin to your face—we made the ferry, nailed the navigation, found the most amazing overnight spot, that mountain view is unreal, I fixed it and we’re rolling again.
Those are the moments that stick. And honestly? That’s what keeps me chasing the road.
The SMELL and a little break from driving.
Maybe It All Started Back Then…
Perhaps this mindset took root in my childhood, when cars and caravans were relatively small and, let’s be honest, a bit unreliable compared to today’s road warriors. I still vividly remember the anxiety I felt when our car—a 1970 Toyota Crown, mind you—would cough and wheeze due to some mysterious malfunction. Yet somehow, my dad always managed to patch it up, one way or another, and our journey would continue like nothing ever happened.
Of course, chatting with him years later, I learned that those "catastrophic" breakdowns were usually just minor stuff—things like a busted radiator hose, a snapped auxiliary belt, or some other basic hiccup. Problems that could be solved with a bit of roadside first aid, or at least handled well enough to limp into the next town in search of a scrapyard or some quirky shop that stocked the necessary spare parts.
Cars back then were straightforward machines—no nonsense, no computers. And since we always had a proper set of tools packed, there was no need to call for help. Just roll up your sleeves and get to work.
I guess that’s why, to this day, I over-prepare for our trips. My van is stocked with a trusty survival kit that lets me tackle most common issues myself: socket set, a few pliers and screwdrivers, spare fuses and electrical connectors, duct tape, zip ties—you know, the holy grail of roadside repairs.
Because if there’s one thing vanlife has taught me, it’s this: if you're ready for the worst, you'll enjoy the ride even more.
By the Arctic Ocean with dad.
These days, help is never far away. Massive auto parts chains like Motonet and Biltema dot the map—practically every town has one. And thanks to mobile phones, you’re never really stranded; help is just a call away. Not like in the old days, when phone calls ran through wires and getting stuck truly meant being stuck.
Grit, Blanket Seats & Creative Tax Dodging — The 1980s Way
Back in the 1980s, car travel wasn’t just about adventure—it was also a masterclass in endurance. Or... was it actually a creative workaround for brutal vehicle taxation? Either way, those childhood road trips to Norway and back to Turku with my brothers were the stuff of legend.
Picture this: thousands of kilometers in the back of a Toyota Crown, seated on a plywood bench, facing backwards, with nothing but a blanket and a pillow for cushioning.
At the time, Finnish legislation wasn’t exactly camper-friendly. Vehicle comfort came with a hefty tax tag, so people got creative. The name of the game was keeping costs low—often at the expense of actual comfort. And when tax rules tightened, DIY solutions got smarter. After all, necessity is the mother of all camper van hacks.
Looking back, it was all part of the magic. Minimal comfort, maximum experience. And somehow, the lack of luxury just made the journey feel that much more epic.
One could argue that this was Finland’s version of 1980s-style grit training, served by the state itself. But for me, the call to adventure and that tingling feeling in my feet always outweighed the numbness in my behind.
Later in life, I’ve made a point to ensure that my fellow travelers ride a bit more comfortably—even if it costs a little extra. Comfort, after all, is no longer a luxury, but a part of the experience.
And as the years have gone by, I’ve started placing more value on comfort and reliability—a mindset shift that helped bring IVAN to life.
That said, I’m still always game for a little bit of chaos—adventures with just the right amount of unpredictability. I actually crave a bit of drama, as long as it stays in the zone of light tension and budget-friendly solutions.
Unhurried Time, Simple Food, and True Presence — The Core Ingredients of a Great Journey were already present on my childhood trips
Even as a kid, our trips had all the right ingredients: unhurried time, simple meals, and the kind of presence that modern life so often forgets.
But let’s talk about those little sugar cubes of emotional balance—the heart-stirring highlights that still live in my memory.
What I remember most clearly is the moment I first saw distant fells and towering Norwegian mountains through the car window. That surreal experience of walking on a glacier and realizing that, yes, there can be snow in the summer.
I also remember the excitement of finally reaching the Arctic Ocean—and the puzzled look on my face when I found out it wasn’t frozen at all. A lot of things ran through the mind of a small traveler who’d just spent thousands of kilometers in a very numb seat—though in all the excitement, I barely noticed the discomfort.
What’s etched into my memory, just as deeply, is how those trips pulled us out of the working-class rhythm of daily grind and into something softer. For those precious weeks, time slowed down. We always seemed to have time to stop—at beaches, playgrounds, churches, and scenic lookouts.
And whenever our caravan stopped at a roadside rest area, my brothers and I would instantly dig out our gear—either the fishing rods or, even better, the inflatable boat. We had a transparent-bottomed rubber dinghy, which let us see straight to the bottom of those crystal-clear northern lakes. A floating window into another world.
Simple breakfast while wild-parking.
Simple Meals, Outdoor Dining & the Magic of “Piepo”
Our food on the road was as simple as it gets—and more often than not, we ate outside whenever the weather allowed. A typical dinner? Fresh new potatoes scrubbed clean in the lake, boiled in lake water, topped with a knob of butter and a sprinkle of salt, and a can of nötkötti on the side. (For the uninitiated: that’s canned meat jelly that looks suspiciously like cat food.)
Now, my mom was a great cook, so it’s still a mystery why we stuck to such easy-prep meals and even store-bought stuff. Maybe it was just part of the carefree nature of travel—a break from everything, even home cooking.
Breakfast followed a similarly rustic theme. We had a mix made from buttermilk and talkkuna flour (a roasted flour blend), which we called piepo. The taste was aggressively sour unless you buried it under a generous snowstorm of sugar. This fiber-packed breakfast did its job, and we kids loved it back then. As an adult, though? One spoonful is more than enough, thanks.
But somehow, that sense of adventure made everything taste amazing. Even the strangest meals and cheapest canned goods bring a wave of nostalgia—and maybe even a little drool to the corner of my mouth—though these days, you wouldn’t catch me putting meat jelly in my shopping cart.
From Caravan to Bedford — My First Bite of the Vanlife Bug
Not long after those early road trips, we sold our caravan, and my dad bought an old minibus that had once served as a school bus. It was a Bedford Blitz, probably from the early 1970s.
That van became his daily driver, but every summer, it transformed into our family camper. He’d strip out the back-row seats, rearrange the layout, and voilà—instant camper van, 1970s style. The van was about 4.3 meters long and two meters wide. We were a family of five—two adults and three kids—so that’s about two meters less than your average modern van. And still, we all fit just fine.
My oldest brother slept on top of a cooler placed between two seats, covered with a blanket. For my middle brother, my dad crafted a DIY hanging bed out of two poles and some canvas, stretched crosswise across the rear windows. It could be rolled up and packed away during the day to make room for seating. Ingenious. Slightly chaotic. Absolutely unforgettable.
Making room is about mindset.
Sleeping on the Floor, Floating on Lakes & Falling for Freedom
I slept on the floor with my parents. We didn’t spend much time inside the van—it was simply too cramped. Meals were eaten outside, and we spent as much time as possible outdoors. The van was for driving and sleeping, nothing more.
We packed light but smart: the clear-bottomed inflatable boat, fishing gear, spare clothes, cooking tools, disposable plates, sleeping bags, blankets, pillows, a stack of Donald Duck comics (Akkarit), and, for those sacred solo moments, a Walkman and a couple of cherished cassettes.
As much as the caravan had left an impression on me, this new way of travel hit me even harder. Suddenly we didn’t have to unhitch, lower support legs, or worry if we’d get stuck on narrow forest roads in Lapland. We could stop anywhere. Explore small roads, find epic views, reach places that would’ve made the caravan cry.
That’s when the van life spark lit up under my skin—and it’s still burning strong.
We did a couple of trips to northern Finland and Norway with the Bedford before my older brothers reached the age when tagging along with the family no longer interested them. The adventures paused, and my parents waited for their sons to grow into adulthood.
But they never came back to the road. And as the youngest “evening star” child, I eventually became the last one at home. My parents got another caravan, and the road trips resumed when I was about 14 or 15. But those stories I’ll save for another blog post.
A Legacy of Longing & the Life Lessons I Carry
As I got older and began exploring my own itch for adventure, I started realizing something: my father had that same restlessness in his blood. That longing for faraway places was passed down to me, generation to generation.
My dad has always had the heart of a traveler. But responsibilities, outside forces, and struggles with boundaries often stood in the way of his dreams. As time began running thin, those unfulfilled dreams started seeping through the seams—showing up as frustration in his later years.
I’ll never forget something he said in 2024, during a conversation about road travel. He told me, "We had a dream—at least I did—that once we got the bigger camper, your mother and I would spend our winters in Spain and return to Finland for the summer."
At the time, he was 77. His health—both physical and mental—was failing, and my mother, a few years younger, had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
That comment stopped me in my tracks. I didn’t really know what to say. All I could come up with was: “I’m trying to do things differently in my life. I’m trying to listen to my heart.”
In the backround, the Bedford.
I don’t know if it was the right thing to say. But that moment etched itself into my soul, and the thought has become a kind of guiding star for me. A life principle I try to follow every time I reach a crossroads—when I’m deciding where to go, how to spend my time, and who I want to travel with.
-Jarno