When my son Max turned six, I asked him what kind of birthday celebration he wanted. To my surprise, he didn’t choose a trip to the movies or a day at the beach, which I had anticipated. Instead, he declared, “I want to stay in a big tent in the countryside.” No matter how many times I tried to persuade him to think again, he stuck to his guns.
After some searching, I stumbled upon a yurt listed on Airbnb. My partner, Lisa, thought it could be a fun and unique experience. The reviews boasted of a relaxing escape, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that spending the night away from home with our two kids would hardly be relaxing. And frankly, romance was not on the agenda for parents in our thirties.
Having forked out the £120 to sleep in this oversized tent in the middle of nowhere, I tried to convince myself that it would be a good time. I’ve never been fond of camping, and the idea of rain and cold temperatures in England didn’t help. Why not just stay in a hotel? That question lingered in my mind, but I told myself the kids would enjoy it. The yurt looked cozy in the photos, and I had visions of starry skies and feeding berries to curious deer. Maybe for once, our youngest, Leo, would sleep through the night.
The first warning sign came when the owner of the yurt messaged me. She attached a photo of herself surrounded by flowers, looking all the part of a yurt owner. But her message was less inviting: “It hasn’t stopped raining for weeks, and it’s really muddy. You might want to park at the nearby hotel.” I decided to keep this info from Lisa, wanting to shield her from the impending doom.
On the day of our adventure, we packed the car as if we were heading off for an extended vacation. Instead, we were bound for Lewes, known for its castle and various eateries—a perfect distraction for the kids before we reached the yurt. The castle visit was delightful, and I even indulged in a couple of glasses of wine, feeling merry despite the torrential rain outside.
“BBC Weather said it’d be dry all weekend,” Lisa remarked as we watched the downpour. The yurt was situated on a farm that also operated as a hotel, which was a relief in case we needed to escape the elements.
When I jumped out to pick up the yurt key, I nearly slipped on the slick grass—my family would have found that hilarious. After waiting at reception, a young woman finally emerged. She mistook me for the children’s entertainer, which I found amusing, though it felt like a compliment I didn’t quite deserve.
Once I finally got the key, the hotel staff member warned me, “Don’t even think about parking near the yurts. Just drop your stuff off and park back here.” Naturally, I didn’t heed her advice. As I scouted the yurt, I heard the unmistakable sound of spinning wheels.
“We’re stuck in the mud!” I exclaimed when I realized Lisa was trapped in the parking area. She was trying to maneuver the car out of the thick muck. Swapping places, I tried to rescue the car, but instead, I drove it deeper into the mud.
In the dark, with our youngest screaming, Lisa decided to abandon the car for the night. We trudged through the mud toward the yurt, feeling like soldiers after a battle.
Inside the yurt, the door handle came off in my hand, a sign of the chaos to come. The interior was surprisingly cozy, decorated in a way that would appeal to those who appreciate a bohemian lifestyle. The fire was lit, then extinguished, and after several attempts, we finally got it going.
While the boys were glued to their screens, I rummaged for food and my partner lit candles to brighten the dim space. I handed the kids a bag of crisps as we all settled into our makeshift home.
As night fell, it got incredibly cold—about as chilly as one might expect from a tent in January. I feigned sleep each time Lisa rolled out of bed to poke the fire. The isolation, which initially seemed appealing, was marred by the distant roar of traffic.
The following morning, Lisa announced, “The shower’s broken.” Breakfast consisted of bacon and eggs, which turned out to be a logistical nightmare due to the tiny frying pan and the artisanal bacon that disintegrated.
After a muddy walk, we had to come to terms with the car situation. I stayed with the kids while Lisa attempted to rescue our vehicle. She soon messaged me that she was stuck, but thankfully, a friendly pickup driver offered her a ride back.
Eventually, we managed to pack up our muddy belongings and escape the yurt. As I handed the key back at the hotel, I jokingly remarked, “My wife’s filthy,” and immediately regretted it when the receptionist stared at me blankly.
In the end, our yurt adventure was more of a muddy misadventure than the peaceful getaway I had hoped for. If you’re contemplating a similar trip, consider reading up on pregnancy and home insemination; resources like the CDC can provide valuable insights.
Summary
Our family’s attempt to celebrate a birthday in a yurt turned into a muddy disaster filled with unexpected challenges—from getting stuck in the mud to dealing with broken amenities. Despite the chaos, we managed to escape with memories to last a lifetime.