It’s midnight, in June. Powder pink and dark grey clouds drift across a pallid sky, the palette reflecting in the motionless water of Lake Inari. Islets of pine and just-budding birch create pools of distorted shade close to the horizon of this 420 sq mile (1,080 sq km) lake in Lapland, northern Finland. There is not a sound. It’s so silent, I barely breathe to avoid disturbance. Only me, the lake and a moonbeam-coloured moth, whose wingbeat is inaudible.

I am sat beside my car-sized campervan, with mesmerised reverence for the rose-tinged panorama. I do not wish to go to bed and miss this moment. And I am loving the wild freedom and deliciousness of being entirely alone, with nobody in the world knowing my exact whereabouts. Ordinarily, I would be long asleep by midnight, exhausted after a day of work and family life. But I have left my husband and (adult) children at home in England for an eight-week solo camping adventure through Denmark, Sweden, Finland and Norway, with the singular aim of reaching Nordkapp (North Cape) and Knivskjellodden, Europe’s northernmost point at the top of Norway, in time for midsummer.

Earlier in the day, I’d met Father Christmas. “If you’re driving north, be careful of the reindeer,” the costumed gentleman said as I sat beside him at Santa Claus’s Main Post Office in Rovaniemi, the capital of Finnish Lapland, a place considered over-touristy in winter, but certainly not during my summer visit.

“We have 230,000 reindeer here in Finland, but only one of them has a red nose.” As it happens, I see countless reindeer, in Finland, as well as Norway and Sweden, creeping through forests and grazing at the coast. Not Rudolph to my knowledge, but many females with calves, all legs and ears.

My meetings with reindeer and the night beside Lake Inari are two of many memorable experiences on my road trip through the Land of the Midnight Sun, so called because north of the Arctic Circle the sun doesn’t set below the horizon during the summer months. It doesn’t set for long south of it either, including in Denmark, where (after I’d driven my campervan from the UK via Germany) my Nordic adventure started in Rødby, on the island of Lolland.

Other than reaching Nordkapp, I have no plan; no accommodation booked either. Instead, I am utilising the popular practice of Allemansretten (everybody’s right, as it’s known in Norway), which is also legal in Finland and Sweden: the right to stop off-grid overnight on uncultivated land, leaving without a trace. On my journey I’m able to park up and stay overlooking fjords, beside mountain passes, with lake or coastal views.

From the flat plains of Lolland, Denmark’s fourth-largest island, my route north takes me to Helsingør for the ferry across the Øresund to Helsingborg in Sweden, leaving a rear-view image of Kronborg Slot – “Hamlet’s Castle” – at dawn.

Luminous lupins and puce pinks litter the roadsides of my 370-mile cross-country route to Sigtuna, 30 miles north-west of Stockholm. The lakeside settlement of colourful timber houses is Sweden’s oldest town. Half an hour’s drive north is Linnaeus’ Hammarby, a pretty 18th-century farm that once belonged to Carl Linnaeus, the botanist who developed the binomial system of naming species we use today.

Hammarby is wonderfully representative of this Uppland region of Sweden. I walk 10 miles through the cultivated countryside along the Dannmark Trail between Linnaeus’s farm and Uppsala, a route he would walk with his biology students for nature studies. Students at Uppsala University (where Linnaeus was a professor) are celebrating finals when I arrive, mingling around ice-cream cafes and in floral parks and botanical gardens. Nearby, the vast twin spires of the city’s rust-red cathedral protrude above blossoming rowan trees.

From Uppsala, I follow the E4, a road that reaches the border with Finland, covering more than 600 miles over six days. Along the way I cross Scandinavia’s longest suspension bridge, the Högakustenbron, at the Höga Kusten, or High Coast, a Unesco world heritage site.

Vast stretches of empty road lined with little but pine trees provide a chance for contemplation. But it’s not until I arrive in the colourful town of Karasjok days later, having crossed from Finland into Norway, that I truly understand the scale of the Nordics. For Karasjok feels very far north, yet it is still a four-hour drive to Nordkapp.

Karasjok is the Norwegian administrative centre for the indigenous Sámi population of Sápmi, the cross-border cultural region that includes parts of Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia. The parliament building resembles a traditional lavvu tent and, nearby, Sápmi Park offers an introduction to Sámi traditions.

Leaving Karasjok, the road winds its way alongside Porsangerfjorden, passing fishing hamlets, waterfalls, shaly mountain cliffs and tremendous viewpoints before dipping beneath the Arctic Ocean by tunnel to reach Magerøya, the island upon which Nordkapp sits. I chance upon fine weather as I climb beyond Honningsvåg, one of Norway’s northernmost towns, over snowy mountain plateaux to reach Nordkapp. A tear forms in the corner of my eye. I am alone, about 2,500 miles from home by the quickest route, and I wish my family could see what I can. But this is a solo adventure, and I have reached my goal, staying up all night to watch as the midnight sun sends orange beams across the Arctic Ocean. Captivating.

It is not by the quickest route that I return home, though. My journey back south through Norway (and ultimately Sweden and Denmark, too) is contorted, meandering west and east. Picnics beside turquoise sea coves on the Lofoten Islands, watching pods of dolphins in the Norwegian Sea. Bulging rivers and thundering waterfalls in Saltfjellet national park. Then small farms and meadows with emerald stripes of hay, amassed buttercups, and long lakes through the region of Trøndelag. It is Norway bursting into colour after the bleached landscapes of the north. Occasionally I’ll put in a long stretch in one day – 200 miles or so. Other days, I simply stay put, enjoying the view or stepping out for long walks.

Atlanterhavsvegen – a 22-mile national scenic route across skerries and strung together by bridges – is captivating. Then Runde, one of Norway’s westernmost islands, renowned for a colony of puffins that breed on the cliffs here. A steep mountain walk across the island reveals clusters of people perching on cliff edges in the hope of witnessing the spectacle of birds coming in to roost.

But it is the east of the island where I park up and sit alone for days, watching an otter swimming among the lichen-speckled black rocks, alerted by a clatter of ducks and ducklings, shelducks, wigeon and oystercatchers. Keeping my distance, I observe parent gulls sheltering fluffed-up chicks as curlew call overhead. Orchids, sea campion, clover and a host of other flowers smother the coastal ground. A memorable time.

So, too, my wild camp at the summit of Sognefjellet mountain pass, the highest road in Scandinavia. I set out from Lom, an attractive town that sits between three national parks and possesses a famous stave church and the fascinating Norwegian Mountain Centre. The road, also a designated national scenic route, runs alongside the pretty Bovra River initially, then climbs into some of Norway’s wildest scenery. My overnight is cold, with huge frozen lakes of glacial blue and roadside snow above the height of the campervan. In the morning, as Nordic skiers and a pack of snowmobiles head out to nearby glaciers, I brush snowflakes from my windscreen to begin the descent to the green and luscious Sognefjord. It’s as if I have stepped through a wardrobe and imagined the wintry summer scene.

I appreciate that being alone by choice is entirely different to loneliness. I am often asked of my solo travels, “Don’t you ever get lonely?” I can feel lonelier, I explain, in a crowded room than camping in the wild. Yes, leaving family behind creates a sense of “wish you were here”; special moments I’d like to share. Then again, this adventure is understanding that the memory is mine alone. The thrill, the excitement, the calm and occasionally the trepidation. I’d do it all again tomorrow.

The writer travelled in her own campervan, using Scandlines ferries between Puttgarden, Germany, and Rødby, Denmark. In the UK and Europe, hire of Roadsurfer’s smaller vehicles starts at £49 a night