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I’m not rejecting the idea of staying in a treehouse. Like sleeping in a National Trust folly from centuries past, or an old lighthouse on a Greek island, it’s cute. But it is also contrived to get a certain demographic of urbanites to feel like they’re doing something “authentic”, rather than go to Soho Farmhouse for a weekend again, which is what most of them really want to do. We’re all so stressed, we are desperate to be five again, with no responsibilities.
There are tipis and yurts aplenty all over the country, priced higher per night than any half-decent budget hotel. No matter how pretty the wood-burning stove is, or how many shearling throws they put on the bed, you’re still going to be taking a hike in the middle of the night to go to the toilet. On one of my infrequent forays into this territory, I stayed in a yurt by Ben Nevis. On arrival, the rain was lashing hard at the canvas, and I groaned in misery. Once we’d run out of all the M&S goodies I’d packed, I told my husband I wanted to leave.
But it was a long drive back to his parents’ house, and late, so we literally weathered the storm. And – hurrah – the next day was gorgeous. Maybe I could enjoy this, I thought. But, on the second evening I realised I needed the toilet, and I didn’t want to go and play hide and seek with spiders across the squelchy field. I decided to take my chances in the vicinity of our accommodation. Unfortunately, halfway through I realised a family of five were having a barbecue outside the yurt next door, and staring agog, hot dogs in hand, over at me. We left early the next morning – and moved to a hotel where I could be much less in touch with nature.
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