The Finnish landscapes that inspired a cult ’90s children’s TV show character

As a kid, I’d get home from school, grab a packet of crisps and juice carton, and sit in front of the TV for my daily dose of cartoons—usually some combo of the explosive Battle of the Planets, the mysterious Ulysses 31 or the ridiculous Scooby Doo.

But in 1983, a quirky, odd and somewhat meditative cartoon appeared. I, like many children of the ‘80s, was instantly captivated by the adventures of a group of gentle, hippo-esque characters living in a magical valley with their quirky friends—the wandering Snufkin and outspoken Little My. These cozy yet melancholic stories blended whimsical adventures with deeper themes about belonging, seasonal change, and finding comfort in both solitude and community. The Moomins had entered my world.

But it was in 1945, 80 years ago, when Tove Jansson’s first Moomin book, The Moomins and The Great Flood, was published where Moominmamma and Moomintroll search for the missing Moominpappa while crossing a great flood to find a new home. Jansson wrote and illustrated all her Moomin books, creating a whole new world.

But what makes these stories timeless isn’t just their whimsy. It’s their distinctly Finnish relationship with the landscape. And that’s how I found myself, walking the streets of Helsinki on a warm late June morning, retracing the steps of their creator: Swedish-speaking Finnish author, painter and illustrator Tove Jansson.

Standing outside Luotsikatu 4 in Helsinki’s Katajanokka district where Tove lived as a child, I see the architectural influences that would later shape the Moominhouse. The large 1900s apartment building with steep traditionally slated roofs and a crested tower seem to have planted the first visual seeds of Tove’s imaginary world.

From here, she’d walk each day to school at Läroverket för gossar och flickorat (The Helsinki Educational Institution for Boys and Girls), a Swedish language school. In what’s now called Tove Jansson Park, the onion domed towers of the Russian Orthodox Cathedral appear; further on, is Helsinki Cathedral and its green copper dome. In fact, grandiose art deco and imperial buildings that would have dominated Jansson’s horizon.

Tampere is also home to the world’s only Moomin Museum—in 1986, Jansson and Pietilä donated a substantial collection of art to the Tampere City Library … Inside, you’re transported into Moomin Valley.

Helsinki’s architecture creates a striking backdrop, but it’s the contrast between urban grandeur and natural longing that’s key to understanding Tove’s work. As I reach Jansson’s school, I’m struck by the view that would have greeted her from the classroom, as the dual slender spires of St John’s Church reach high into the blue sky, echoing the architectural details that would later appear atop buildings in Moominland. A short detour leads to Kaivopuisto Park, where the Ursa Observatory stands with its distinctive dome and classical proportions, not dissimilar to the Observatory in her second book, Comet in Moominland.

I also see how his very same grandeur might have sparked Jansson’s longing for natural horizons. Dan Richards, travel writer, author and writer of several papers on how landscapes inspire writers, notes that her Helsinki studio was “full of books and box files of collected clippings about lighthouses and seamarks.” This wasn’t about rejecting the city, but about finding balance between built and natural environments—a theme that would define Moominvalley’s harmonious blend of domestic comfort and wild adventure. In the stories, the Moominhouse serves as a cozy refuge where characters gather for safety and warmth, while the surrounding wilderness offers endless possibilities for exploration and discovery.

I wanted to see these landscapes for myself. Finland’s geography tells the story of a land shaped by ice and time—endless forests punctuated by crystalline lakes, archipelagos scattered like stepping stones into the Baltic, and a quality of light that shifts dramatically with the seasons. This is landscape as character, not mere backdrop.

In my research, Steve Nash, lecturer in Cultural Studies at Leeds Beckett University, observed how the “Moomins reflect, explore and adapt.” Speaking of Moomintroll, protagonist in many stories, Nash says  “His journey isn’t about conquering his landscape. It’s about learning to live in it.” This philosophy, rooted in Finland’s harsh yet beautiful geography, shaped Tove’s imagination and her characters’ individual world view: Moomintroll is curious and gentle. Moominpappa the philosopher and storyteller with dreams of grand adventure, and Moominmamma, the wise nurturer.

From Helsinki, I take the train west towards the old Finnish capital of Turku, the gateway city to the Turku Archipelago, home to over 40,000 islands. Jansson’s life partner and graphic artist, Tuulikki Pietiläs, moved to Turku when she was four and spent her formative years here. Their love for island life would, in later years, lead them to find a home on Klovharu Island in the archipelago of Pellinge, an hour east of Helsinki by boat.

As Dan Richards mentions in his book Outposts, which delved into landscapes that have inspired authors, the scattered islands of Pellinge and Turku provided “the direct topographical model for Moominvalley”, appearing in her illustrations and maps of caves, coves, piers and paths through the deep dark woods. These island maps, with their intricate shorelines and hidden harbors, translate directly into the Moomin books’ emphasis on finding safe havens and weathering life’s storms together.

The journey north to Tampere takes me deeper into Finland’s lake district; here, the landscape shifts from coastal archipelago to inland waterways. Tampere is also home to the world’s only Moomin Museum—in 1986, Jansson and Pietilä donated a substantial collection of art to the Tampere City Library. Initially housed in the library’s basement, this treasure trove of Moomin artwork, miniatures and manuscripts found a proper home when it moved to a purpose-built space within Tampere Hall in 2013.

Inside, you’re transported into Moomin Valley. Huge pencil-drawn maps adorn the walls, postcard-sized originals of Jansson’s illustrations glow in darkened corners, and illuminated throughout are original three-dimensional tableaux that bring the stories to life—miniature Moomin characters float high above the waters of a lake in a hot-air balloon, while another shows the family gathered around as the mysterious Hobgoblin weaves a story that will no doubt lead to adventure. In one display, the Moomin family are on a bustling harbor loading a sailing ship set for adventure while the ever-chilled Snufkin sleeps on top of the captain’s cabin. These intricate dioramas demonstrate how water—rivers, lakes, seas—flows through every Moomin story like a life-giving force.

My museum guide Maija Karanen has grown up surrounded by the stories and the philosophies of the Moomins. She tells me there were three pillars to Jansson’s life. “Work, love and the sea. Water is always present in Finland.” She relays one of her favorite descriptions by Jansson of the sea as “green glass with white foam horses and the thunder marching like a huge train across the sky.”

Here, in this gentle interplay between human habitation and wild nature, I begin to understand Nash’s insight about the Moomin philosophy; how Jansson’s characters find their place in the landscape rather than trying to conquer it.

While the Moomin stories are beloved for their gentle philosophy, they also explore more complex emotions that reflect the Nordic psyche. There’s a lingering sense of something darker, not quite menacing but of an unknown, like a deep forest where the Groak maybe lurking; a lonely cold creature who represents isolation and the fear of being unloved, but ultimately seeks connection like everyone else. These elements mirror the long, dark Finnish winters and the psychological landscapes they create.

The museum’s crowning glory is the two-meter-tall, five-story replica of the Moominhouse. Created by Jansson, Tuulikki and their friend Pentti Eistola, this architectural marvel pieces together influences from Nordic folk traditions, Russian fairy tales, and Finnish wooden architecture.

As I circle the display, I’m enchanted by the intricate details; a blue kitchen with miniature copper pots, Moominmamma’s handbag by the door, a spiral staircase leading to cozy bedrooms under the eaves, and a working lamp that casts warm light through tiny windows. The house feels both fantastical and utterly liveable, with a porch perfect for summer evenings and a cellar that hints at mysterious adventures. Each room tells a story, from Moominpappa’s study filled with memoirs to the guest rooms always ready for unexpected visitors, embodying the Finnish concept of hospitality and home as sanctuary.

Continuing my journey deeper into Finland’s heartland, I board the train toward Jyväskylä, roughly 112 miles (180 kilometers) northeast of Tampere. Out of my train window, I enjoy the view of sea-green fields and islands clusters of silvery birch and dark green sentinel pines against a dappled gray sky. Occasionally, forest groves are punctuated by the odd outcrop of a brightly painted, steep-roofed, wooden house.

Here, in this gentle interplay between human habitation and wild nature, I begin to understand Nash’s insight about the Moomin philosophy; how Jansson’s characters find their place in the landscape rather than trying to conquer it. As we journey deeper into the Finnish heartland, I see one crystalline lake after another, their surfaces mirroring the sky so perfectly it becomes difficult to tell where water ends and heaven begins.

The train rolls into Jyväskylä, a university city renowned for its connection to the Finnish architectural pioneer Alvar Aalto, who designed several of its most distinctive building including the University of Jyväskylä. From the Vesilinna Observation Tower, the city suburbs fade into forestry and glistening lakes fill the valleys between gently rolling hills. It’s another vista that could have been lifted directly from a Moomin book illustration.

I’m here to hike the accessible Haukanniemi Trail just outside the city, in the company of my nature guide, Katri Tynkkynen. Within minutes, the urban world disappears behind walls of pine and birch. “The forest teaches patience,” Katri explains as we pause beside an ancient pine, its bark scarred by decades of storms yet still reaching skyward. “You don’t rush through it; you move with its rhythms. In winter, everything sleeps. In spring, it explodes with life. Finns understand this cycle.”

The wide pathway winds into the forest where lingonberry bushes carpet the forest floor and delicate anemones peak out from mossy logs. Everywhere, the scent of pine resin and damp earth creates a sense of peace. “Tove would have known these plants as a child,” Katri says softly, “and would have enjoyed being a part of it.” As we walk between moss-covered boulders and views of crystal-clear lakes, I begin to understand how this landscape shaped Jansson and in turn, shaped her characters. The Moomins shelter during storms rather than fight them, and celebrate the return of spring rather than trying to hurry it along towards summer.

I think of all the spectacular landscapes I’ve seen, ones that define Finland and shape its people. One last question occurs to me which I pose to Maija, my Moomin Museum guide. “Do you think Tove Jansson would have created the Moomins if she had not been Finnish?”

No,” she says, immediately. “There is something inherently Finnish in these books, a harmony with nature and a silence, a calm undercurrent.”

The Moomins endure because they offer something increasingly rare: Characters who find joy not in dominating their world, but in discovering their place within it. As Moominpappa said, “The world is full of great and wonderful things for those who are ready for them”. But first, we must learn to be ready, to adapt, to truly inhabit the landscapes that shape us.

Steve Nash’s words suddenly come back to me, of how these stories aren’t about conquering landscapes but learning to live within them. From walking through Helsinki’s architectural grandeur, I saw how urban beauty can coexist with natural longing. Exploring the archipelago through Jansson’s maps, I understood how islands teach resilience and the value of safe harbors. Following forest trails in Jyväskylä, I experienced firsthand how wilderness demands patience and respect. Each landscape offered its own lesson in adaptation—not bending nature to human will but learning to dance with its rhythms.

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