AFFORDABLE, ELEGANT CAMPING
French company Huttopia opens ‘glampground’ in New Hampshire’s White Mountains
Early one morning last summer at a new Huttopia “glamping” property in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, I jumped up from my cushy mattress and could barely wait to step outside. There’s nothing quite like the sun’s insistent pink glow through the walls of a tent to nudge you out of bed at sunrise. Unless you’re my teenage nephews, in which case there’s nothing quite like sleeping until the sun’s high in the sky. More about them later.
Huttopia is a 19-year-old French company that builds and manages resort-campground hybrids. I knew about its dozens of locations in France, but I wasn’t heading to Europe any time soon. So when I learned that its first U.S. camp was opening in Albany, N.H., last June, I booked a New England getaway.
As glamping — glamorous camping — has gained in popularity, we’re seeing more affordable options. No longer do you need to drop US$800 a night for Italian linens under an artfully draped mosquito net. Huttopia’s concept — which features well-designed, Ikea-like tent kits imported from France — is more of an elegant KOA than a rustic Ritz-Carlton.
In fact, these individual accommodations, which include sheets and towels (and thankfully don’t offer Wi-Fi), may be the answer for those of you who like the idea of camping but don’t actually like camping. Poof ! No more kneeling in the dirt, fiddling with tent posts, searching for that eternally misplaced flashlight or struggling to boil water for your morning joe.
“We provide a getaway in the heart of nature without the inconvenience of traditional camping,” said Nash Abdrabo, Huttopia’s new CEO for North America. He told me the company will open camps in California and Maine in 2019 and that it plans further expansion across the United States.
When my nephews Zach and Griffin, my beagle Hammy, and I visited the White Mountains last August, we arrived to a quiet glampground with a heated swimming pool and a shiny Airstream trailer where you could buy homemade pizza. The boys grabbed a basketball while Hammy and I stepped into a large tent that serves as the site’s lodge. French music played, and I glanced around to see a pantry (“le garde manger”) stocked with wine, snacks and camping gear. After I checked in, we pulled wagons — overflowing with our backpacks, food and gear — down
a path to our home for the night, a canvas tent with wooden posts, just a few steps from Iona Lake.
The Trappeur tent, one of Huttopia’s four styles of glamp-commodations, sat on a wood platform that created a large deck and a comfortable indoor living area. The glampy parts: a timed heater on the ceiling and a kitchen with refrigerator, sink, Ikea glasses and plates, pots and pans, and extravagances like a salad spinner and a Bodum French press. A narrow bathroom separated two rooms just big enough for a queen bed on one side and bunks on the other. We scanned the interior, flipping switches, testing Velcro window coverings and exclaiming over new-found frills, and then we slipped into swimsuits. The outdoors were calling.
Bien sûr, Huttopia felt wholesome. Guests can rent canoes and paddleboards, take nature hikes, play beach volleyball, watch outdoor movies, and use a communal grill to cook their catch of the day. For parents, there’s beer and wine at the Airstream; for kids, there are scheduled activities such as painting and ping-pong tournaments.
After we spread our wet clothes on a drying rack, my industrious nephews went to the lodge to buy firewood and cheddar cheese Pringles. They gathered pine cones and twigs for kindling and, with some help, started a fire. Later, after veggie burgers and grilled zucchini, we unpacked S’mores ingredients, found sticks, and skewered our marshmallows. In minutes, our fingers were sticky and chocolatey, our stomachs full.
Inside, we washed dishes. I cleared up some confusion around our linens (folded neatly on top of naked mattresses) by explaining to the boys that what they thought were “thick sheets” were actually crisp duvet covers we’d need to put on the duvets. Pockets lined the canvas walls in lieu of nightstands — handy spots for a paperback or water bottle. We took turns in the tiny bathroom. The sink was the size of a toaster oven, and I bumped my elbows and knees on the walls while using the shower and toilet. Nonetheless, we all felt a little spoiled that we could wash up, ostensibly camping, without a headlamp and a walk in the woods.
We closed the privacy curtains to our rooms and turned off the lights. Through the canvas walls, we heard pleasant campy sounds: our neighbours’ fire crackling and popping, and our neighbour crickets chirping.