Three girls, no wi-fi... Mrs M’s big birthday gamble
I HAD long suspected that Mrs Milton was in denial about the fact that our three daughters were growing up fast. And now I had proof.
For her birthday weekend, my wife booked a three-day glamping holiday – perfect if the girls had still been at an age when sleeping under canvas might have seemed exciting.
But Madeleine is 20, Heloise is 18, and Aurelia almost 15 – they spend half the day in the bathroom and the rest of their time on Facebook.
So was glamping (no electricity or wi-fi) a wise idea? ‘Too late,’ said Mrs M defiantly. ‘It’s done.’
She’d booked a three-day break at Wambrook Farm, near Chard in Somerset, the latest property to join the Feather Down Farm glamping collection.
We would sleep in a tent, cook on an old-style stove, and enjoy a few days without the internet. The girls were unconvinced but they couldn’t complain: it was their mother’s birthday present to herself after all. We were met on arrival by Ed, the farmer, who carted our baggage to our tent in a trailer attached to his quad bike, and then showed us around our temporary new home.
The last time I’d gone camping, I’d awoken with a sore back and aching joints. Fortunately, there was no chance of that happening this time. The ‘tent’ was the height of luxury, with comfortable beds, a well-equipped kitchen, and a shabby-chic living area with a wood-burning stove as the centrepiece. Even the girls were impressed.
Although there was no electricity – a delight, as it transpired, for we ate by candlelight – there was running water and a proper loo.
Best of all was the setting. Wambrook Farm is in the heart of the Blackdown Hills, with magnificent views over meadows and forest. Since I’d never been glamping before, I didn’t know what to expect, but this was glamping on an intimate scale: there were only four other tents in the same field.
On the second day of our stay, Ed gave us a tour of the farm, showing us his cows, two baby pigs and one monumental bull, kept strictly behind bars. ‘He’s rather bad-tempered,’ Ed warned. ‘He got very angry with me one day when I was wearing a luminous yellow vest.’
When Ed moves him to the cow field – which I would have thought would be any bull’s greatest pleasure – they have to use a JCB to stop him from making his escape.
We quickly settled into a relaxed routine: a late breakfast, sightseeing during the day and back for a barbecue in the evening. Mrs M’s birthday meal was a particular triumph. We ate a leg of
lamb stuffed with apricots, cooked to succulent perfection over coals.
The most extraordinary thing about our stay was the absence of complaints from our girls about the lack of comfort.
But that, perhaps, is because there isn’t any lack of comfort. Glamping is for those of us who like to pretend we’ve survived the wild, but have actually been spoiled rotten.
Three nights in a tent sleeping up to six at Wambrook Farm (featherdown.co.uk, 01420 80804) costs from £329.