A Beginner's Guide to Finnish Sauna

I’m going to be honest with you. The first time I sat in a Finnish sauna, I was absolutely terrified. Not of the heat — I’d been in saunas before, the fancy kind at hotel spas back in England. No, I was terrified because my Finnish colleague Mikko had just casually stripped naked and was holding the door open for me like we were walking into a Tesco.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s ready.”

Reader, I was not ready.

The first time

That evening was my introduction to what I now understand is the single most important cultural institution in Finland. Not parliament, not Nokia, not even ice hockey — sauna. There are roughly 3.3 million saunas in Finland for a population of 5.5 million people. The maths doesn’t quite work out until you realise many Finns have more than one.

My first sauna was in Mikko’s apartment building, one of those communal saunas that most Finnish apartment blocks have. I remember walking into the changing room, trying to figure out the etiquette while simultaneously trying not to look at anyone. Mikko was chatting away about his weekend plans as if we weren’t both completely starkers. That, I’ve since learned, is the entire point. Sauna is the great equaliser. Everyone is just a person sitting on a wooden bench.

The heat hit me immediately. I sat on the lower bench — a wise choice for beginners, the temperature difference between benches is significant — and tried to breathe normally. Mikko threw water on the stones (the “loyly,” which is sacred — never throw water without asking if others are okay with it), and the wave of steam that followed nearly made me bolt for the door.

I lasted about seven minutes that first time. Mikko was diplomatic about it.

The etiquette nobody tells you

Here’s what I wish someone had spelled out for me before that first experience.

Yes, you’re naked. In most Finnish saunas, particularly private and communal ones, you go in without clothes. A towel to sit on is fine, sometimes expected. Swimming trunks in a Finnish sauna are a bit like wearing wellies to bed — technically possible, but everyone will wonder what’s wrong with you. The Finnish Sauna Society has been preserving and promoting sauna traditions since 1937, and they’ll tell you the same thing: textile-free is the way it’s done.

Be quiet, or at least calm. Sauna isn’t a party. You can talk, sure, but keep it low-key. Think gentle conversation, not pub banter. Some of the best sauna moments I’ve had were in complete silence, just listening to the hiss of water on stones and the occasional creak of the wooden benches.

No phones. This should go without saying — the heat would destroy your phone anyway — but I’ve seen tourists try. Just don’t. Sauna is one of the last phone-free zones in modern life, and that’s part of its magic.

Ask before throwing loyly. If there are other people in the sauna, a simple “Heitetaanko?” (shall we throw?) is polite. The answer is almost always yes, but asking matters. It’s a small gesture that shows you understand the shared nature of the space.

Cool down between rounds. Finns don’t just sit in the sauna for an hour straight. You go in for ten to twenty minutes, come out, cool down — a cold shower, rolling in snow if you’re brave, or even jumping in a lake if one’s nearby — and then go back in. Three rounds is typical. The contrast between hot and cold is where the real magic happens. My first time trying a cold shower between rounds, I made a sound that I’m told was audible from the car park. By the third time, I was almost enjoying it.

Not all saunas are equal

Before moving to Finland, I thought a sauna was a sauna. I was wonderfully wrong.

Electric saunas are the most common, especially in apartments and public swimming pools. They’re convenient and consistent but lack a certain soul. Think of them as the microwave meals of the sauna world — perfectly fine, does the job, but you know there’s something better out there. Most apartment building communal saunas are electric, and they’re where most of my weekly sauna sessions happen. No complaints, but no poetry either.

Wood-burning saunas are where things get interesting. The heat is softer, somehow. More enveloping. You hear the fire crackling, you smell the birch wood, and the whole experience shifts from “I’m sitting in a hot room” to something almost meditative. My friend Jari has a wood-burning sauna at his summer cottage in Hameenlinna, and an invitation there is genuinely one of the highlights of my Finnish social calendar. The ritual of heating the sauna — carrying the wood, lighting the fire, waiting for the stones to reach the right temperature — is part of the experience. You earn that heat.

Smoke saunas (savusauna) are the aristocracy of the sauna world. There’s no chimney — the smoke from the fire fills the entire room, coating the walls black, and then the room is ventilated before you enter. The heat is incredibly gentle and deep, nothing like the sharp blast of an electric kiuas. I’ve only been in a smoke sauna twice, both times at a cottage in Lakeland, and both times I understood why UNESCO added Finnish sauna culture to its intangible cultural heritage list in 2020. It’s genuinely transcendent. The air feels thick and soft, the warmth seems to come from everywhere at once, and you leave feeling like you’ve been gently reassembled.

There are also public saunas worth seeking out if you’re visiting Finland. Helsinki has several good ones. Loyly (the restaurant-sauna complex in Hernesaari) is popular with tourists and locals alike, and Kotiharjun sauna in Kallio is one of the last traditional public wood-burning saunas in the city. Both are good entry points if you don’t have access to a private or communal sauna.

Why Finns take it so seriously

I used to think sauna was a wellness thing, like a Finnish version of a spa day. I was wrong in a way that now embarrasses me slightly.

Sauna is woven into the fabric of Finnish life in a way that’s hard to explain to outsiders. Business deals have been sealed in saunas. Families gather in saunas on Christmas Eve. Historically, women gave birth in saunas because they were the cleanest, most sterile room in the house. The dead were washed in saunas before burial. The Finnish word “saunoa” — to sauna — is a verb, an activity, not just a place you go. You don’t “have a sauna” in Finnish. You sauna.

For me, it took about six months of regular sauna-going to truly get it. There’s a moment, usually in the second round, when the heat stops being something you endure and becomes something that holds you. Your muscles unknot. Your thoughts slow down. The stress of trying to learn Finnish grammar or figuring out why everyone at the bus stop is standing exactly two metres apart just dissolves. The Finns have a word for this too — “saunarauha,” meaning sauna peace. It’s a state of mind as much as a physical sensation.

I think that’s why Finns are so protective of their sauna culture. In a country where winters are dark and long, where the culture values silence and personal space, sauna is a place where barriers come down. You sit with friends or strangers, completely vulnerable, and it’s fine. More than fine. Some of the best conversations I’ve had in Finland have been in saunas — something about the heat and the darkness and the shared vulnerability makes people open up in ways they wouldn’t at a dinner table.

The after-sauna beer

I’d be lying if I said the post-sauna ritual wasn’t part of the appeal. You step out of the sauna, your skin tingling, your body radiating heat into the cool evening air, and someone hands you a cold beer. Or a cider. Or just a glass of water, honestly — the drink itself matters less than the moment.

There’s a Finnish concept called “saunakalja” (sauna beer) and it’s practically a protected cultural treasure. The combination of deep relaxation and a cold drink on a summer evening, maybe sitting on a dock by a lake, legs dangling over the water — I’ve had expensive meals in London restaurants that didn’t come close to that level of satisfaction. There’s a purity to it. Everything unnecessary has been stripped away, literally and figuratively, and what’s left is wood, water, warmth, and good company.

Even in winter, the after-sauna moment is special. You stand outside in the cold air, steam rising from your skin, the stars absurdly bright overhead (no light pollution at the cottage), and you feel absolutely alive. It’s primal. It’s simple. It’s the best thing in Finland, and Finland has a lot of good things.

Vihta: the birch branch thing

I should mention the vihta (or vasta, depending on which part of Finland you’re in — this is apparently a contentious regional debate). It’s a bundle of fresh birch branches that you gently beat yourself and others with during sauna. Yes, really.

I was deeply sceptical the first time Jari handed me a bundle of wet birch leaves and told me to hit myself with it. But the sensation is actually wonderful — the leaves release a green, earthy scent, and the gentle beating stimulates blood circulation and makes your skin feel incredible afterwards. It’s not painful (unless someone gets overly enthusiastic, which has happened). In summer, when fresh birch is available, it’s a standard part of the cottage sauna experience.

You can buy dried vihta from shops in winter and rehydrate them, but it’s not quite the same. Like most things, fresh is better.

My advice if you’re new

Start on the lower bench. Stay for as long as you’re comfortable, even if that’s five minutes. Don’t try to out-sauna a Finn — they’ve been doing this since they were babies (literally, Finnish babies go to sauna). Drink water before, during, and after. Try a cold shower between rounds even if it sounds horrible — your body will thank you for it in ways you don’t expect. And don’t worry about the nudity thing. I promise you, after the second visit, you won’t even think about it.

If you have sensitive skin or health concerns, check with a doctor first — sauna is generally safe for healthy people, but it’s intense. Don’t drink alcohol before or during sauna (after is a different matter). And if you feel dizzy or unwell, get out immediately. There’s no shame in it.

Three years in, I sauna at least once a week. My apartment building has a communal sauna with bookable slots, and Wednesday evening is my time. It’s become as essential to my routine as a cup of tea — which, coming from a Brit, is the highest compliment I can give.

If you’re moving to Finland, or even just visiting, please try a real sauna. Not a hotel one with mood lighting and eucalyptus oil — a proper Finnish one. It’ll be awkward at first. You’ll feel too hot and too exposed and slightly confused. And then, somewhere around the third time, you’ll get it. And you’ll wonder how you ever lived without it.