When it came time to celebrate my son, Alex’s sixth birthday, I asked him what his heart desired. I anticipated a trip to the movies or perhaps a day at the beach. Just weeks prior, he had expressed excitement about bowling with his cousin, which I thought could be a fun plan. But Alex had something different in mind.
“I want to stay in a big tent in the countryside,” he announced, and no matter how many times I suggested other options, his answer remained the same.
After some searching, I found a yurt listed on Airbnb. My partner, Lisa, thought it could be a fun experience. The reviews spoke of a tranquil getaway, but I knew better; a night away with our two kids would hardly be relaxing. Romance is for the child-free crowd, after all. Still, I paid the £120 and convinced myself it would be fine. Camping was never my favorite pastime, and in England, rain is usually a certainty.
Why not just stay in a hotel? That question nagged at me, but I focused on the idea that the kids would enjoy it. The yurt looked cozy in the photos, and maybe we’d get lucky with a clear night sky or a peaceful evening surrounded by nature.
The day we set off, I received an unsettling message from the yurt owner: “It’s been raining non-stop, and it’s very muddy. You might want to park at a nearby hotel instead of risking getting stuck.” I chose not to mention this to Lisa; I thought I was shielding her from unnecessary worry.
Once we packed the car, it looked like we were preparing for a month-long European holiday rather than a weekend getaway to Lewes, a town with historical significance but not the reason for our trip. We were there for the castle and some family-friendly restaurants to keep the kids entertained before heading to the yurt.
The castle was enjoyable, and the restaurant was even better. I indulged in a couple of glasses of wine, feeling pleasantly tipsy, even as rain poured down outside. “The weather forecast said it would be dry all weekend,” Lisa remarked, peering out at the deluge.
The yurt was situated on a farm, which was also a hotel, so I felt a bit better knowing civilization was nearby in case we needed help. I dashed from the car to the hotel to grab the key, only to nearly slip on the wet grass. I buzzed the reception, but it seemed deserted. Eventually, a young woman appeared, mistaking me for a children’s entertainer, which left me unsure whether to take it as a compliment.
After a bit of back and forth, I finally got the key and a warning about the mud. “If I were you, I’d unload quickly and park far back. If you get stuck, you’re on your own,” she advised. I nodded, pretending I wasn’t already aware of the risk.
As we approached the yurt, we drove down a long, muddy lane. I spotted the yurt parking area and felt optimistic, but that quickly faded. I leapt from the car, ready to scout out our accommodations, when I heard the wheels spinning behind me.
“What’s going on?” I yelled, only to realize Lisa had attempted to turn the car around and had gotten us stuck.
I jumped into action, but despite my best efforts and some wooden planks we found nearby, the car remained entrenched in the mud. With our youngest son, Max, screaming and the night rolling in, we decided to leave the car and focus on getting settled in the yurt.
When I finally got inside, the door handle came off in my hand, a fitting symbol of the chaos. But the yurt was surprisingly cozy, adorned with rugs and candles. We managed to get a fire going after a few tries, and my sons glued themselves to our phones, watching Paw Patrol while Lisa and I struggled to cook our dinner using a tiny frying pan.
As the night wore on, the cold crept in, and I found myself pretending to be asleep while Lisa battled the fire. The peace of the countryside was drowned out by the sound of a nearby highway, and I questioned who else was out driving so late.
Morning arrived with a broken shower and drizzle outside. Breakfast turned out to be a soggy affair, with the only frying pan we had being too small for our ambitions.
After a muddy morning walk that ended with Max falling and getting completely covered in dirt, we faced the reality of our stuck car. Lisa had read online that laying down towels might help, so she ventured off to find assistance while I wrangled the kids, who were growing restless.
Eventually, Lisa returned, triumphant in a van with a helpful driver. I made multiple trips to the car, dragging back our mud-laden belongings. When we finally loaded up and escaped the yurt’s muddy grasp, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.
In the end, our yurt adventure was far from the peaceful escape we had imagined. But it made for a memorable birthday, one that will surely be retold for years to come. For those interested in home insemination, check out this resource for additional information and tips, or visit Women’s Health for more on pregnancy and related topics.
Summary
Our family yurt adventure turned into a muddy misadventure filled with unexpected challenges, from getting the car stuck to battling the elements. Despite the chaotic experience, we created lasting memories.
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