From treehouses to yurts, the infantilisation of travel has gone too far
It’s getting harder to tell what’s real and what’s a social media prank. I thought leisure pursuits had reached peak idiocy when Ballie Ballerson happened – part disco, part cocktail bar, part IKEA toddlers’ ball pit. But I didn’t see Karen’s Diner coming, which invites you to “live out your Karen dreams… being waited upon by rude waiters and forced to play a variety of stupid games”.
Mica Young, the manager at the Manchester branch, explained its demographic to the Caterer last summer: “Some people – middle-aged men – are really up for it and they want you to go in hard, and they have a specific person that they want you to bully. But then people come in who just want to try it because they’ve seen it on the internet, so you have to have two completely different approaches.” Wow. Sometimes I don’t feel so bad about younger generations inheriting a doomed planet. Do they deserve anything more?
When it comes to hotels, I have stayed in a variety of places that have clearly been about getting in touch with your inner child. I’ve enjoyed a lot of them. I love the elaborately styled television and movie-themed rooms at the two Roxbury hotels in the Catskills region of New York state, but I was indifferent about St Jerome’s in Melbourne, which amounted to a set of tents on top of a shopping centre that, while in operation (it’s now gone, thank goodness), promised “next-level camping glamour”. As soon as I arrived, I realised none of this was aimed at me and I didn’t like anyone it was aimed at. I have been on maybe three camping trips in my life, and to me, it’s synonymous with profound misery and discomfort. St Jerome’s had real beds, which was something, but the shower block and toilets both involved a walk across the roof. I was there for two nights and felt delighted to be going to a hotel afterwards.
The infantilisation of travel is taking a variety of forms right now. I never want to see a cuddly toy on a hotel bed (available to buy in the lobby gift shop or online, of course), or a life-affirming slogan scrawled in a Sharpie on my bathroom mirror. Seize the day! You’re beautiful! Likewise, I don’t want some sort of macramé mouse or silly sign to hang outside my door to let housekeeping know I don’t want to be disturbed – those three simple words do the trick.
TreeDwellers is a new place to stay in Oxfordshire, with seven different kinds of treehouses (one called B------ Balm, so perhaps they have some awareness of the cynicism they are going to be encountering) that, because you’re closer to the wilderness than you would be in a traditional hotel, will apparently rewire your brain while you stay in them (from £210 a night). “Right now, you are likely to be functioning with beta brain waves,” they claim, “in a state of outwardly focused concentration and high alertness. We’ll help you get back to alpha and theta, where you are more relaxed, creative and receptive to growth.”
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.
