When my son, Max, turned six, I asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday. I was expecting a cinematic outing or maybe a day at the beach, but he had other plans. To my surprise, he declared, “I want to stay in a big tent in the countryside!” No matter how many times I suggested alternatives, he stuck to his guns.
After some searching, I stumbled upon a yurt listing on Airbnb. My wife, Lisa, thought it might be a fun adventure. The reviews painted a picture of a cozy escape, but I knew better. With two kids in tow, the idea of “relaxation” seemed far-fetched. I wasn’t a fan of camping, but I figured it could work—after all, we were spending a modest £120 to sleep in a large tent far from home. The thought of a starry sky and perhaps some deer wandering by kept me hopeful.
However, the first warning signs came when the yurt’s owner messaged me about the weather. “It hasn’t stopped raining, and the area is really muddy,” she cautioned, suggesting we park at a nearby hotel to avoid getting stuck. I decided to keep this tidbit to myself, thinking I was shielding Lisa from unnecessary worry.
On the day of our adventure, we packed the car as if we were going on a lengthy European vacation. Our destination was Lewes, a town with a castle and some dining options to entertain the kids before we fully committed to the yurt experience. The castle was delightful, and I even enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine, feeling quite cheerful despite the relentless rain.
As we arrived at the yurt’s location, I jumped out to grab the key from the hotel reception, only to find the mud beneath my feet incredibly slippery. After a few awkward moments, I finally found someone to assist me, and I received the key along with a warning about the muddy conditions surrounding the yurts.
Ignoring the advice, we drove down a long, muddy lane toward the yurt. I had just stepped out to scout our accommodations when I heard the tires spinning behind me. My wife, Lisa, had accidentally driven the car into a thick patch of mud. Panic ensued as we realized we were stuck.
With darkness falling and our youngest, Leo, crying, we decided to abandon the car and head to the yurt. Unfortunately, the handle on the yurt’s door broke off as I tried to enter, setting a tone of chaos for the night ahead. Inside, it was surprisingly cozy, decorated with rugs and candles. However, the fire soon became our nemesis, going out multiple times as we huddled in our winter coats.
We eventually managed to get a fire going, but the night grew colder, and the sounds of the nearby highway reminded me of how isolated we really were. Sleep came in fits and starts as the boys tossed and turned, and I pretended to be asleep while Lisa futilely poked at the fire.
The next morning brought no relief. Lisa informed me that the shower was broken, and our breakfast plans quickly turned into a struggle with a tiny frying pan. While the boys munched on cold pastries, we faced the daunting task of dealing with the car.
After a failed attempt to free it, Lisa ventured off to find help. As I waited with the kids, I felt a wave of relief when she returned with a pickup driver who saved us from our muddy predicament.
As we packed up to leave, I realized this adventure would be one for the books, albeit not the one I had envisioned.
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Summary
Our family trip to a yurt turned into a chaotic adventure filled with mud, mishaps, and unexpected challenges. Despite the difficulties, it became a memorable experience that highlighted the unpredictability of family outings.