Looking for a different European holiday? Consider a snowy escape to Norway’s quiet side

By Kellie Floyd

NZ Herald·

13 Mar, 2025 06:00 AM5 mins to read

Imagine stepping into Narnia – Skirvedalen’s snowy beauty offers a peaceful escape like no other in Norway. Photo / Kellie Floyd

Far from Norway’s well-trodden tourist paths, Skirvedalen offers a snow-covered escape like no other. With secluded cabins and a rhythm that invites you to slow down, this hidden gem redefines what it means to disconnect, writes Kellie Floyd

If Narnia were a real place, it would surely be here. Snow blankets everything, dense fog rises from the grounds and swirling flurries create a magical glow in the sky. I half expect Mr. Tumnus, with his red scarf trailing behind him, to step out from behind one of the fir trees and shyly invite my family for tea and tales of distant realms.

Skirvedalen, a nature preserve, 2.5 hours’ drive west of Norway’s capital, Oslo, is far from the country’s main tourist hotspots. It’s a region dotted with private cabins, used for hunting in summer and cross-country skiing in winter. But arriving one month after the winter season ends, there’s no smoke curling from the cabin chimneys. In fact, we see no other soul for our week long stay. My suspicion this area is hidden from the world is confirmed over the course of our month in Norway. Every Norwegian we meet asks, “Where is this?” when I mention it. Nearby destinations like Vemork in Rjukan, site of the famous heavy-water sabotage during World War II, sometimes ring a bell. Others know Gaustatoppen, often referred to as Norway’s most beautiful mountain. But Skirvedalen seems to be tucked away in quiet seclusion and offers my family the unexpected magic of disconnecting and slowing down.

Snowy morning walk. Photo / Kellie Floyd

We drive along a tiny mountain road, flanked by towering evergreens dusted in white and it feels like we’re driving through a portal into another world – or perhaps into a realm beyond the wardrobe. The landmarks mentioned in the cabin owner’s directions are hidden beneath a thick layer of snow so it takes all four of us to spot the faintly visible turnoff that leads to our home in the snow.

We don’t find Mr. Tumnus, but we do eventually find our cabin in the woods. Its painted dark – a beautiful contrast to the white all around. Its pitched roof is heavy with snow, as is the large wooden deck that wraps around its exterior and houses an outdoor spa. Inside, a fireplace keeps us warm and cosy, while large windows and French doors fill the space with light and frame sweeping views of the snowy landscape outside.

Soon, we’re all in the spa, sitting mostly in silence. Not because we agreed to, but because it feels as though nature itself is asking us to be still. This stillness is uncommon in our family travels, but here, it feels right – necessary, even. I find myself listening for the sound of snow. At first, there’s almost nothing but then it emerges: the patter of snowflakes landing on the branches above, the muffled thud of clumps slipping off and landing on the ground. The wind carries a sound, too – it brushes the trees and stirs the snowflakes. Together, the snow, the wind, and the birds create a symphony so subtle it feels like a secret, or perhaps a whisper of Narnia’s magic. This silence is occasionally broken by our kids’ screams as they jump in and out of the spa and into the deep snow, their own version of a cold plunge.

Skirvedalen is so remote that even many Norwegians aren’t familiar with its location. Photo / Kellie Floyd

Moose and reindeer are our elusive neighbours, though we never see them. The only evidence of their presence is fresh tracks through the snow each morning. On walks we search half-heartedly – more out of curiosity than determination. The joy lies in simply being present. The kids giggle as they test the strength of iced-over ponds with rocks, a satisfying thunk breaking the quiet. There’s beauty in this unhurried rhythm and this accidental solitude feels wonderfully indulgent.

Our days are mostly spent outside. We build snowmen and snow forts, with the kids choosing to eat a salad sandwich lunch in their snowy playground. Bundled in colourful winter jackets, they sit cosily in the fort they previously defended during fierce snowball battles with their dad and me, their cheeks flushed from the cold.

With no restaurants nearby, no museums to visit, and no landmarks to tick off a list, our days and nights are unrushed. The kids spend hours sledding directly from the back deck – the snow piled so high it forms a seamless slope straight to a tall pine tree with a tyre swing. They purposely tumble off just in time to scramble onto the swing before starting the hard trek back up the hill, pulling their sled behind them. I feel compelled to visit the outdoor spa several times a day. It’s a magical place to sit and watch the snow fall. My husband enjoys borrowing the cabin owner’s snowshoes for a bit of quiet exploration through the snowy terrain. Evenings are spent in front of the open fire, sprawled across couches draped with blankets, animal furs, and cushions. Here, a game of chess can take as long as we want.

This is a week without crowds, itineraries, or distractions. Without us knowing at the time, it’s also a week that allows us to abandon the ordinary rules of travel and embrace the extraordinary – just as Narnia does in the pages of C.S. Lewis’ world.