All new photos with more to follow…Penguin, Tasmania demographics…
The People of Penguin — A Coastal Tapestry
There’s something quietly profound about a town like Penguin, Tasmania, a place whose name conjures images of little blue penguins bobbing on Bass Strait, but whose real identity is shaped by the people who live there, the gentle pace of their lives, and the contours of community woven through generations.
At the time of the 2021 Australian Census, Penguin had a population of about 4,132 people, up from around 3,800 in the previous census, a steady but modest growth that speaks to its appeal as both home and haven.
Age and Life Stages
Walking down the streets of Penguin, you’d notice that time feels a little gentler here. The median age is around 47 years, which is older than the national Australian median of 38. That tells you something right away: this is a place where people settle longer, grow roots, watch seasons pass, and choose rhythm over rush.
Older adults, from retirees quietly enjoying the seaside breeze to folks in their 50s and 60s, remain active in community life. Meanwhile, children and young adults exist, but they don’t define the town’s profile the way they might in a university city or bustling suburb.
In essence, if Hobart or Launceston feels like the energetic heartbeats of Tasmania, Penguin feels like a slower, steadier breath, a place where age and experience shape the pulse of daily life.
Gender and Community
Like most small towns, Penguin’s gender balance hovers near even, with about 48–52% male to female, a familiar symmetry in human terms. It’s the sort of place where neighbours know each other’s names and generations mingle on the footpaths.
Households and Home
Penguin has roughly 1,863 private dwellings, and most households average 2.3 people, indicating this is not predominantly a town of large families. The picture here leans toward couples, perhaps with adult children who’ve flown the coop, retirees with decades behind them, and individuals at different stages of life choosing calm and connection over the chaos of a city.
What stands out most is the ownership pattern: a solid majority of homes are owner-occupied, and the median weekly household income is around $1,301, which is respectable for a small town and reflects a community focused on stability and sustainability.
Heritage and Identity
Penguin’s demographic story isn’t just about age and income; it’s also about heritage. Indigenous Australians, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, make up a meaningful slice of the population (around 8–9%), which is higher than state and national averages. This reflects a deeper, older connection to the land, sea, and sky that predates European settlement, a reminder that every landscape carries memory and meaning far beyond what census tables can capture.
Language and culture here are predominantly English-speaking, as you’d expect in a Tasmanian coastal town, where most people were born in Australia and have strong ties to the land and community.
Work and Lifestyle
It’s tempting to imagine everyone here just watching waves or strolling the beach at sunset, but life has texture. Many residents work in professional occupations, and despite the town’s small size, there’s a quiet economic persona; tradespeople, local businesses, hospitality workers, and those who commute to nearby towns like Ulverstone or Burnie for work.
Income brackets tend to be in the middle range nationally, and mortgage repayments and rents, while more modest than in Australia’s big cities, still reflect a mix of long-time locals and newcomers who’ve chosen this pace of life as their intentional place in the world.
What the Numbers Feel Like
Numbers on a census report are dry and dutiful, but the essence of Penguin is anything but. There’s the echo of laughter at the local bakery, the deep hum of the wind off Bass Strait, the shared stories at a cafe table overlooking the bay. It’s a town shaped by nature and nurtured by neighbours.
In demographic terms, Penguin is:
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Mature and grounded, with an older median age.
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Stable and connected, with most households owning their homes.
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Culturally anchored, with a notable Indigenous presence and overwhelmingly Australian-born community.
- Economically balanced, comfortable but not booming, reflective of a coastal town that values quality of life over quick growth.
For us, who travel long and wide, we find Penguin’s demographics tell a story that resonates: a place where life slows but doesn’t stop, where community is more than a data point, and where every resident contributes to the quiet narrative of the place.
As we did ten years ago when we stayed in Penguin, we still find it to be that rare kind of place that wraps around us the moment we arrive. There’s something about the salty breeze rolling in from Bass Strait, the unhurried greetings along the footpath, and the familiar curve of the coastline that makes us exhale a little deeper. We slip into its quiet pace effortlessly, as if we’d never left. The beauty isn’t loud or showy, just steady and sincere. And somehow, in its quiet charm and gentle pace, we feel not like visitors passing through, but like we belong exactly where we are.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, February 17, 2016:
Heading out later today to take photos…
Gosh, we are enjoying it here in Penguin as much as we did ten years ago, if not more.
There’s something magical about waking to the sounds of nature instead of traffic that settles the nervous system in a way that’s hard to describe unless you’ve lived both ways. No sirens. No engines. No muffled bass from passing cars. Just wind brushing through the grass, the distant bleating of sheep, and the low, conversational murmur of goats in the pasture just beyond the house.
Seeing the goats and sheep grazing so close to us adds a sweetness to the day. They go about their business without hurry, without agenda, and somehow that pace seeps into us. Every now and then, a rooster crows as if to remind everyone that time is still moving forward, even here. The air is cool and clean, blissfully free of smog, and when I step outside for a deep breath, I can actually feel the difference in my lungs.
The sun is finally peeking through the overcast sky this morning, little shards of light slipping through the gray. It feels like a gift. After we finish a few household tasks and I wrap up this post, we’ll head out for a drive. We want to take photos while the sun is shining, stop at the pharmacy, and pop into the little market for a few odds and ends. These simple errands feel pleasant here, almost leisurely.
Downtown Penguin truly is a delight.
The quaint streets, the charming little shops, the easy parking, and the absence of crowds make it feel welcoming rather than overwhelming. It’s only about a ten-minute drive from this property, which already feels convenient. But in thirteen days, when we move into Sunrise, we’ll be even closer. Two minutes by car, a ten-minute walk.
And that walk matters to me.
I’ve been working so hard these past two months. Seven days a week of leg strengthening and physical therapy-type exercises. Along with that, I’ve added a somewhat vigorous routine to raise my heart rate. It hasn’t always been easy, especially after everything my body went through.
That 47-night cruise took more out of me than I expected. Three strains of flu back-to-back while on board left me drained in a way that lingered. There were days I wondered how long it would take to feel like myself again. Recovery, I’ve learned, is not linear. Some mornings felt hopeful; others felt like setbacks.
But here, in this peaceful pocket of Tasmania, I can feel the difference. My stamina is improving. My breathing is stronger. My legs feel steadier. The progress is real.
Soon we’ll head to the local clinic to get prescriptions for Tamiflu to take daily during the upcoming 25-night cruise. After what we went through, we’re not taking chances. Being long-term nomads has taught us many lessons, and one of them is this: preparation brings peace of mind. It’s not about expecting the worst; it’s about knowing you’re ready if something unexpected happens.
For now, though, we’re choosing to stay right here in this moment.
The goats grazing.
The roosters crowing.
The cool air brushing against our skin.
The promise of a sunny afternoon in a town that feels like it’s quietly rooting for us.
In thirteen days, we’ll be even closer to the heart of Penguin. Closer to that walk I hope to make confidently. Closer to the sea, the salty air drifts through town. Closer to another chapter in this wandering life of ours.
And today, that feels like more than enough.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, February 16, 2016:
Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone in the western hemisphere…The eastern hemisphere celebrated yesterday…
It makes no sense for us to make a fuss over holidays anymore. Before we left the US 13 years ago, we let go of the heart-shaped cake pans and all the decorations we used for various holidays: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, Valentine’s Day, July 4, with hundreds of small flags to line the shoreline at our lakefront house, along with special decorations for birthdays. Those days are long behind us, 13 years later.
Now, our roots move with us.
Birthdays and anniversaries are simpler. We make a reservation. We dress nicely. We sit across from each other at a small table in a local restaurant and raise a glass. Next Friday will be my birthday, and we’ve done exactly that, booked a table for two. No grand gestures. No elaborate surprises. Just us. And honestly, that has become more than enough.
Valentine’s Day has quietly slipped into the background. No cards. No flowers. No gifts. No cake, carefully frosted and decorated to celebrate the occasion. At first, I wondered if I’d miss it. After all, tradition has a way of wrapping itself around your heart. But here’s the curious thing: when every day is filled with shared discovery, shared problem-solving, shared wonder, what exactly are you commemorating on February 14?
We celebrate constantly.
We celebrate when we arrive safely after a long travel day. We celebrate when we discover a perfect little café tucked down a side street. We celebrate when we sit on a veranda watching the sky change colors, grateful that this nomadic life still fits us. We celebrate resilience when plans shift unexpectedly, and kindness carries us through.
Right now, we’re settled for a few precious weeks, and that alone feels like a gift. The holiday home we’re in is newly built, still carrying that new house scent. We are the first tourists to live here, and there’s something quietly special about that. It feels untouched, like a blank page waiting for stories.
Our meals lately have been homemade, simple, and satisfying. There’s something grounding about cooking in a kitchen that’s not yours yet feels temporarily entrusted to you. I move around the counters, finding my pace with unfamiliar utensils, adjusting to a different oven, and different light through the windows. Tom does the dishes, often without being asked. I cook. These small gestures, repeated over decades, have become our truest form of romance.
We don’t need roses when we have reliability.
We don’t need cards when we have consistency.
Two weeks from today, we’ll move to Sunrise at Penguin. Just writing that makes me smile. The name alone feels hopeful. After the earlier mix-up with dates and the unexpected scramble upon arrival in town, it feels especially meaningful that we’ll soon settle into that home properly. Experiences like that could easily rattle us. But instead, they remind us how adaptable we’ve become.
In the meantime, we’re soaking in these days. The light filters through the wide windows. The quiet hum of rural life. The sense that, for now, we don’t have to pack or rush to an airport. We’ll do that again in April.
Tomorrow afternoon, we plan to wander into Penguin, this quaint and beautiful little town that already feels welcoming. There’s something charming about coastal communities, the steady presence of the sea, the tidy shopfronts, the subtle nods exchanged between locals who recognize each other. We’ll take photos, of course. We always do. It’s our way of preserving moments that otherwise might blur together in this ever-moving life.
I suspect we’ll linger by the water. Perhaps sit on a bench and simply watch. These small towns have a way of inviting you to slow down.
And that, I suppose, is the quiet lesson in all of this.
We no longer measure love by decorations or holidays circled on a calendar. We measure it in shared glances across a restaurant table. In navigating unexpected hiccups without blame. In packing up a life over and over again and choosing, each time, to continue together.
Valentine’s Day may have fallen by the wayside. But love hasn’t.
If anything, it has deepened, simplified, and clarified.
Every single day, in this ever-changing world we inhabit, feels like a celebration already. And neither of us needs anything more than that.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, February 15, 2016:
Out to dinner in Penguin…Delightful evening with our upcoming landlords…
There’s something special about the way travel humbles us. On Thursday evening, after what had been one of the more surprising days in our many years of wandering this planet, we found ourselves sitting across the table from Fran and Terry, the very landlords of our upcoming March 1 rental in Penguin.
If you didn’t read yesterday’s post, here it is. It tells the story of our unexpected arrival in town… without a place to stay. A simple mix-up in dates, confirmed long ago, somehow unraveled in real time. And just like that, we were in Penguin with our luggage and no holiday home waiting for us, at least not until March 1. The already homeless couple became homeless even further.
But here’s the beautiful part.
Instead of awkwardness or frustration, there was kindness.
Instead of blame, there was grace.
Fran and Terry opened their home to us that first night, and within hours, they had helped us secure a lovely interim property, where we’ll happily stay for the next two weeks, until Sunrise at Penguin becomes available on March 1. We are more than fine. In fact, we’re grateful. These little bumps in the road often turn into the stories we cherish most.
Feeling bad about the mix-up, Fran and Terry insisted on taking us out to dinner on Thursday evening. And not just anywhere.
The Neptune Grand Hotel Bar & Bistro is exactly the kind of place we love discovering in small towns. Warm lighting, friendly faces, a bit of chatter at the bar, and the kind of menu that feels generous without trying too hard. It has that relaxed Tasmanian charm — unpretentious, welcoming, and quietly proud of what it serves.
Dinner was delicious. Fresh, flavorful, beautifully presented without being fussy. There’s something especially enjoyable about dining out when you hadn’t planned to — when the evening takes a turn and becomes something softer and sweeter than expected. Conversation flowed easily. Laughter came naturally. What could have been an uncomfortable situation felt instead like the beginning of a friendship.
And here’s the part that makes us smile: Monday through Thursday, they offer a dinner special for AUD 25, which at today’s exchange rate is about US $17.69. We’ll absolutely be back for that. It feels almost decadent to dine out at those prices after months of carefully cooking at home. We don’t need extravagance, just a cozy table, a good meal, and that gentle hum of community around us.
Being here in Penguin feels… easy.
Yesterday afternoon, instead of driving to the larger supermarket in nearby Devonport, we shopped for groceries right here in town, with the best customer service on the planet. The owner and four of his employees boxed up our groceries and put them in the car’s boot. We’ve always preferred supporting local businesses whenever possible. And Penguin, with its population of only about 4,000, somehow offers nearly everything you could need. Bakeries, cafés, markets, small specialty shops, pubs, restaurants… all tucked into this seaside town with an unassuming confidence.
There’s something comforting about walking into a local grocer where people greet one another by name. Where shelves are modest but thoughtfully stocked. Where life moves just a touch slower.
The rain has been drifting in and out today — soft, on-again off-again showers that leave everything glistening. We haven’t ventured out for many photos yet, but we will. When the skies clear and that Tasmanian light shows itself, we’ll head out with our cameras and wander.
For now, we’re settling in.
And oh, the sounds.
Sheep bleating in the distance. Goats with their curious little calls. Roosters announcing themselves without apology. From our temporary home, we can hear them all. It’s a symphony of rural life that feels grounding and real. After so many months in various environments around the world, it’s delightful to get what we jokingly call our “animal fix.”
Tasmania has already surprised us.
We expected beauty. We expected cool air and coastal charm. We expected good food. But this unexpected layer — the kindness of strangers who quickly become friends, the soundtrack of farm animals, the joy of supporting a small town — feels like a gift.
Travel isn’t always seamless. Even after years of carefully organized itineraries and color-coded calendars, something can slip through the cracks. But what defines the experience isn’t the misstep — it’s how people show up afterward.
Fran and Terry showed up for us.
And now, instead of remembering Penguin as “the place we arrived without a booking,” we’ll remember it as the place where we were welcomed to the table, where a mix-up turned into a memorable meal, and where sheep and roosters serenade us all day.
We’re exactly where we’re meant to be.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, February 14, 2016:
We made it to Penguin, encountering a major pitfall!!!….Yikes!…
Note: Our line and paragraph issues continue. We are working on this. Thanks for your patience.
Well, we never expected what happened yesterday. In all our years of world travel, it was a first. After countless bookings, confirmations, calendar entries, and neatly filed emails, we’ve never once arrived somewhere without a place to stay, until now. When we originally booked Sunrise at Penguin nearly a year ago, our arrival date was set for March 1, 2026.
Later, due to necessary changes in our itinerary, which can happen in this nomadic life, we adjusted the date to February 12, 2026. Terry, the owner of Sunrise at Penguin, acknowledged the change in a text. We tucked that confirmation away in our minds and carried on, confident everything was in order. Yesterday, while driving along Tasmania’s northwestern coast toward Penguin, I sent Terry a quick message letting him know we’d be arriving in about 30 minutes. His reply stopped us cold: “I don’t have you scheduled to arrive until March 1.”
Apparently, although he’d acknowledged our date change, he hadn’t carefully noted it in his booking calendar. The house was fully booked until March 1. We were effectively homeless for 17 nights, on top of already being homeless. For a few seconds, the car felt very quiet.
Travel Day…We’re off to Auckland for an overnight stay…A two hour drive…An early morning flight…
By the time I glanced at the clock and saw it was edging toward 11:00 am, the house in Kaiwaka was back to how we found it: clean, organized, and uncluttered with our stuff. We’re totally packed except for the computer bag and a few odds and ends. The little car is loaded to the brim. Only the sense of anticipation remains.
This house…oh, how we’ll remember it.
It wasn’t only the structure itself, lovely as it was, perched in its peaceful pocket of rural New Zealand. It was Dave and Eing. From the moment we arrived, weary and road-worn, they wrapped us in kindness. There’s something profoundly comforting about landlords who feel more like friends, who show up with a bag of jasmine rice because they read you were running low, who insist on dinner and quietly outmaneuver you when the bill arrives.
For two months, we lived in a kind of gentle stillness.
Yes, the location was remote. There were times we had to plan carefully for groceries or errands. But what we gained in exchange was immeasurable. No traffic noise—no traffic at all, really. No crowds. No sirens. Instead, our days were punctuated by the bleating of sheep, the low murmurs of cattle, and the occasional triumphant crow of a rooster. The peacocks’ haunting, almost cry-like calls would drift through the air, and the magpies carried on their animated chatter as if narrating the countryside.
Silence, but never emptiness.
This morning, as Tom slid the last bags into the car, we realized we could leave one newer carry-on behind for Dave and Eing. Doing so, may mean I won’t be wedged quite so tightly in the front seat during our two-hour drive to Auckland. Small victories matter in this nomadic life.
Yesterday, we found ourselves talking about Penguin, Tasmania, and what awaits us there. A town of just over 4,000 people, hardly a metropolis, but after Kaiwaka’s sweeping rural landscape, it will feel lively in the most delightful way. Easy access to shopping. Restaurants within minutes. The freedom to pop out for coffee without mapping a minor expedition.
And the beach.
Across the road from our new home, the shoreline stretches wide and welcoming. Parks nearby. The scent of salt air. And each evening, the fairy penguins will return from the sea, waddling ashore in the ritual that gave the town its name. I can hardly wait to see them with my own eyes. When we do, of course, we’ll share photos. Some moments are too special not to pass along.
It will be cooler there than Kaiwaka has been lately, and I’m looking forward to the temperate air. The heavy humidity we’ve felt here will give way to something fresher, something brisk enough to invite long seaside walks.
And then there are the celebrations ahead.
Valentine’s Day. My birthday, on February 20. Our 31st wedding anniversary, on March 7.
Three beautiful markers in just a few short weeks. We may go out to dinner. We may simply stay in, sip our adult beverages, make a special dinner, and treasure the view by the water with grateful hearts. After all these years, it’s less about grand gestures and more about shared glances, quiet laughter, and the steady comfort of knowing we’re still choosing this life, and each other, every single day.
There is so much to celebrate beyond the dates on the calendar. The quality of our lives. The freedom to follow the sun. The kindness of strangers who become friends. The health that allows us to pack up once again and head toward the next horizon.
We leave Kaiwaka with full hearts. And we arrive in Penguin carrying that gratitude with us.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, February 11, 2016:
Packing once again…One day and counting…
Note: Until we change the design of our site, paragraph spacing may be an issue.
At this point, 90% of my packing is done, which in our world always feels like a minor miracle. I always forget how satisfying it is to see the neat little piles dwindle, the suitcases standing at attention by the door as if they, too, are ready for the next chapter. Tom, as always, packs his clothes his way…button-down shirts carefully hanging on the same plastic hangers that have traveled with us for years. Those hangers have seen more countries than many passports.
Soon, we’ll clean the house. For me, the biggest hurdle is always the refrigerator. I dread it every single time we leave a holiday rental. It’s never as bad as I imagine—fifteen minutes at most—but somehow it looms large in my mind. Perhaps it’s symbolic. Cleaning out the fridge feels like erasing the evidence that we ever lived here. The condiments we bought, the carefully selected produce, the bits and pieces that sustained us during quiet dinners at “home.” Wiping those shelves clean is my silent goodbye.
The laundry is washed, dried, folded, and tucked away. I love knowing that when we arrive in Penguin, we’ll start fresh, with no lingering piles waiting for attention. We’ll only have what we wear for the drive tomorrow, our overnight stay in Auckland, and then the four-hour journey from Hobart Airport to Penguin. There’s something deeply comforting about beginning in a new place with every sock and shirt clean and ready.
If all goes according to plan, we should arrive in Penguin by dinnertime. I can already picture it: unloading our bags, taking a moment to exhale, and then heading out to dinner in one of the restaurants in town, just a five-minute drive from the house. Today, we’ll decide where to go, weighing menus online and considering what suits both our tastes and our way of eating. After travel days, we like something simple, satisfying, and welcoming. No fuss. Just good food and the pleasure of sitting across from each other in yet another new setting.
Unpacking will likely take a full day, and we’ll leave that for the following morning. I’ve learned not to rush that process. Unpacking is how we settle in. It’s how a rental house slowly begins to feel like ours. Afterward, we’ll make the 25-minute drive to Devonport for groceries. There is an IGA market in Penguin, but from what we remember ten years ago, the selection was limited. Of course, a decade changes many things. Perhaps we’ll be pleasantly surprised. Travel has taught us never to rely too heavily on old memories; places evolve, just as we do.
Tonight, we’ll say goodbye to Dave and Eing, our kind and thoughtful hosts who so quickly became friends. We’ll offer them our remaining food, a couple of steaks, an unopened one-kilogram block of Gouda, a few containers of sour cream, and a handful of odds and ends. We’ve done well to finish nearly everything else. Passing along what remains feels right, a small gesture of gratitude for their generosity.
Tomorrow, we plan to leave around noon, giving ourselves ample time to reach our hotel in Auckland. This morning, we paid the toll charge online in advance. There are no toll booths here, only cameras quietly recording license plates. Failure to pay results in hefty fines. The cost for our trip is NZ $3.60, US $1.57. It’s modest, but ignoring it would trigger penalties not only from the toll authority but also from the car rental company, which would charge our credit card on file. Each country has its own rules and systems for toll roads, and we’ve learned it’s always worth checking in advance to avoid unnecessary fees.
And so, another chapter gently closes while the next waits just beyond tomorrow’s drive. That’s it for today, dear readers.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, February 10, 2016:
Happy Super Bowl Sunday!…More new local photos…Two days and counting!!!
Today’s post will be short, and not because there isn’t plenty swirling through my mind. It is short for two very practical reasons. First, I have packing to do. In two days, we’ll be leaving Kaiwaka after nearly two months in this peaceful little corner of New Zealand. Tomorrow night, we’ll stay near the airport in Auckland, positioning ourselves for an early-morning flight to Tasmania. The process of moving on has become familiar to us over these many years, yet it always carries a mix of anticipation and quiet reflection. We’ve settled into the green pastures, the winding country roads, the gentle cadence of rural life. And now, once again, it’s time to follow the next bend in the road.
At least this time, the two-hour drive to Auckland will be in daylight. When we arrived here on December 13, that drive felt endless. It was dark. We were exhausted. Both of us were sick, and I was struggling with a respiratory virus that made every breath feel tight and labored. I remember sitting cramped in the front seat of the tiny rental car, luggage wedged beneath my feet, trying to find a position that allowed me to breathe just a little easier. The highway lights blurred past while I silently counted miles and wished for a bed.
It is strange how certain travel days etch themselves into memory more vividly than the postcard-perfect ones.
Hopefully, this departure will feel lighter. We are well now. Stronger. Grateful. The suitcases may be just as full, but we are not weighed down in the same way.
The second reason for today’s short post is far less dramatic and much more fun.
I intend to pack everything we won’t need over the next 48 hours so I can settle in and watch the Super Bowl with Tom. Living on the opposite side of the world means American traditions arrive at unusual times. Here in New Zealand, it’s already Monday, and the game kicks off at 12:30 in the afternoon.
Even after years of international travel, moments like this remind us that we carry pieces of home wherever we land. A big game. Familiar commercials. The comfort of a shared cultural event unfolding thousands of miles away. It keeps us connected, even as our address changes.
So today will be a blend of packing, setting aside what we’ll need for the next two days, mentally reviewing flight details, and carving out a few uninterrupted hours to enjoy the game. It feels balanced somehow. Responsibility first. Then a small celebration.
Tasmania awaits. Another island. Another chapter. Another set of experiences at Penguin we can remember from ten years ago, when we enjoyed ourselves so much. In Tasmania, we’ll be close to shopping and restaurants, with easy access to the quaint little ocean village with lots of penguin statues.
We’ll be back with more tomorrow, once the suitcases are zipped and the final details are tucked neatly into place.
Enjoy your day, wherever in the world you may be.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, February 9, 2016:
Do you have favorite winter destinations?…Our perceptions are different…Three days and counting…
After living in Minnesota, often referred to as the “tundra,” with its fleeting summers and painfully long, snowy, and icy winters, we made a quiet promise to ourselves when we began traveling the world. If possible, we would follow the sun. We had scraped enough windshields, navigated enough black ice, and endured enough subzero mornings to last a lifetime.
There have been a few notable exceptions. Our cruises to Alaska, Norway, and Antarctica stand out as breathtaking reminders that cold does not always equate to misery. In Alaska, we watched massive glaciers calve into the sea, their thunderous cracks echoing across icy waters. In Norway, we spotted glaciers and snowy caves. In Antarctica, we stood bundled in layers, speechless at the sight of penguins waddling across an endless white landscape that felt otherworldly and pure. Those experiences were not about enduring winter. They were about witnessing nature in its most dramatic and humbling form.
But recreational cold is very different from living in the cold.
Tom, especially, has earned his aversion to snow and bitter temperatures. After more than forty-two years working on the railroad, often in temperatures dipping to twenty below zero, he paid his dues. I can still picture him heading out the door before dawn, layered in heavy gear, bracing himself for another long shift in brutal conditions. For him, winter was not picturesque. It was relentless.
I have always felt a bit different. There is something magical about freshly fallen snow clinging to bare branches, transforming ordinary trees into sparkling sculptures. I loved those quiet winter mornings when the world seemed hushed and softened. There is a special comfort in being safely tucked indoors while snow falls steadily outside, a mug of coffee warming your hands, the furnace humming faithfully in the background. Winter, to me, held a certain coziness.
Still, when given the choice, sunshine wins.
As full-time travelers, we gravitate toward warm breezes, outdoor markets, ocean views, and the ease of stepping outside without multiple layers. We prefer flip flops to snow boots, light cotton dresses to thermal underwear. We have learned that chasing comfortable weather adds a gentle layer of joy to our nomadic lifestyle. It removes a barrier. It makes everyday living simpler.
And yet, we know we are in the minority for some travelers.
Many people, especially those who reside in tropical or consistently warm climates, dream of snow. They long for ski trips in the Alps, dog sledding adventures in Scandinavia, or cozy chalets tucked into the Canadian Rockies. For them, snow is exotic. It is exciting. It is an adventure waiting to unfold. There is undeniable beauty in watching skiers carve fresh tracks down a mountainside or families laughing together as they build snowmen.
What prompted this reflection was an article I stumbled upon in Travel + Leisure this morning. Five travel experts shared their favorite snowy destinations around the world, each describing places where winter becomes a playground rather than a hardship. Reading their perspectives reminded me how deeply personal our travel preferences are, shaped by where we have been and what we have experienced.
For us, the sun is more appealing than the snow. But I understand the allure. Perhaps that is the beauty of travel. There is no single perfect climate or ideal destination. There is only what feels right for you, in this season of your life.
And for now, we are happily following the warmth.
Here’s the article from Travel+ Leisure online magazine:
“We Asked 5 Travel Experts Their Favorite Winter Wonderland Destinations—and They All Said the Same Thing
From reindeer sleigh rides to the Northern Lights, this destination delivers the perfect winter escape. By Stacey Leasca
Sure, summer sun is great, but have you ever tried bundling up to play in freshly fallen snow? The season of hot cocoa, warm mittens, and snowball fights is nearly here, and it’s time to plot out your winter wonderland adventure. And, according to the travel experts we spoke to, there’s nowhere better to experience the true magic of winter than in Finland.
“It just feels so serene, so peaceful, with a pristine blanket of snow covering thick forests for several months of the year,” Chris Brunning, the co-founder of Untold Story Travel, told Travel + Leisure about Finnish Lapland. “The seemingly perpetual sunsets and the magical winter nights—there’s nowhere quite like it. There’s also a rich indigenous heritage that often goes overlooked, wonderful local people with that famously dry Scandinavian sense of humor, and some of the cleanest air in Europe.”
There’s also plenty to see and do for every kind of traveler here in the winter, according to our pros.
“It is truly spectacular to see in winter, as it is located inside the Arctic Circle, making it possible to see the Northern Lights fairly easily from this location,” Michelle Jensen, editor at Travel HerStory, told T+L. “It is also a wonderful place to enjoy a variety of winter-based activities, such as reindeer sleigh rides, dog sledding, ice floating, snowshoeing, snowmobiling, and the world’s only snow sauna, located at the Arctic Snow Hotel.”
As Jensen added, it’s great for families with small children (or really for kids at heart too) thanks to “Santa’s Village, where you can meet the big man himself, visit Santa’s post office, eat at a snow restaurant, snow tube, and do other activities.”
Want to make that visit to Santa even more spectacular? Consider booking with Brunning. “Through our contacts with the man himself, we can arrange a private sleigh ride through an enchanted woodland at dusk,” he said. “Before long, you’ll happen upon some frantic elves lost in the forest. The light from a roaring fire glows in the distance, and together you enter a small log cabin, where none other than Santa Klaus himself is waiting to welcome you.”
And according to Jozef Verbruggen, the founder of Untamed Travelling, the entire region is a sensory treat. “[It’s a] place with a thick blanket of snow and deep frozen lakes,” he said. “Put on your snowshoes for a walk and only hear the snow crunching under your shoes.”
With all that snow, you might expect it to be a place where things get cancelled and moved around due to the weather. Not so, said Riderly CEO Carlos Nasillo. “What makes Lapland special is the fact that winter isn’t just a season, it’s an entire way of life and an operandi in which the locals have learned to thrive in situations that would simply shut down most other destinations,” he told T+L. “The reality of true winter survival culture is ages ahead of a manufactured winter resort.”
Of course, you could always make a winter visit to Lapland a double feature by pairing it with a nearby city escape, just as Claire Riley, a travel advisor with Duende Travels, recommends. “Pairing a few days in Finland’s capital of Helsinki with the rest of the week in the arctic part of the country is a perfect combination: great cuisine, culture, design, and nightlife in Helsinki, followed by a pure shot of nature in the north,” Riley explained.
She noted that there are plenty of great lodges up near Ivalo or Rovaniemi that offer the glass igloo accommodations everyone is after with a visit to the region, plus an array of outdoor activities. “On my visit to Ivalo, I learned to snowshoe, cross-country ski, and snowmobile, and that was all before the sun went down and Aurora activity started,” she said.”
For all these years, we’ve chased the sun as if it were an old and loyal friend, guiding us from one hemisphere to another, warming our days and lightening our spirits. There is comfort in endless summer. It suits our nomadic hearts. But, once again, there will be a small and welcome exception to our rule.
From May 10 to May 14, 2027, we will be returning to Alaska as part of a booked Azamara 65-night cruise itinerary. And truthfully, we won’t mind in the least.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, February 8, 2016:
