Staycation: Finding serenity in our own backyard (5 photos)

Our economy and cost of living ain’t what it used to be. What once was a culture of all-inclusive jaunts to points south has noticeably turned into making the best of our surroundings. What can we do locally, nearby and without the cost of air travel to get outside our mundane day-today routine and, as it were, vacate?

Enter: Staycation.

A lifetime fan of the English language, the debaucherous creation of words like this does anger me, but Staycation, to Stay-cate, seems to smack a calmer chord.

Mostly because it speaks to my financial situation and, sure, it’s, like, totes cute.

Toiling away at that 9-5 to save up for that big “one day” trip is an amazing dream; but why not make small adventures a reality.

Urban Dictionary – that-there dictionary for the whipper-snappers – loosely defines “Staycation” as a vacation spent in one's home country rather than abroad, or one spent at home and involving day trips to local attractions. (Actually, it said something about ‘crashing on your buddy’s couch,’ but the writer in me needed more words. A thousand apologies).

Recently I participated in such an adventure.

A road trip fan and in need of beyond-city-limits tranquility, myself and fellow traveller, joined by our two four-legged children, searched and found a delightful cabin in the woods. Part Airbnb hunt, part happenstance lucky find, this glamping experience was the product of a gentleman who lived in Belleisle, New Brunswick. 

With a neighbour no less than a kilometre from his front door, I laughed with understanding when he said this cabin was built at the “request” of his wife.

What any Seinfeld fan would dub the “serenity now” cabin, served a dual purpose of providing alone time for her, and what I assume to be a nice dog house to which to send him. Regardless of its original intention, the owner decided to post its availability online and was shocked by the response.

For fear of losing its off-the-beaten-path appeal, I’ll say little more than we found the posting on a camping website, similar to Airbnb, but for those happy with a more rustic adventure.

With directions texted to me the morning of our departure, they all but told us to veer right at the local fruit stand and shimmy 10 paces down the dirt road.

Suffice to say we wanted rustic, and that’s what we got.

Though my sense of direction famously leaves much to be desired, I was given the task of making sure we didn’t get lost down a dirt road without cell reception.

Adamant that I hadn’t once again guided us astray, the increasingly narrowing path, clearly now only used by ATVs, was probably going to lead to a dead end or right into a Steven King novel. Back tracking out of the woods and into cell reception, the “oh, I forgot to tell you
to go left” directions beeped into my messages and, alas, we were righted.

Arriving at the main house – a charming home surrounded by homemade gardens and a collection of true farmer man toys – we were greeted by the owner, his wife and their four-legged fur child.

Told to grab our stuff and follow him, we headed about 500 feet into his backyard. A right. A well-marked left. We came upon our utopian cabin.

Just over half the size of a shipping container, our home for the night included a tiny entryway with a table fit for two. 

To your left were small built-in shelves that displayed homemade jams, honey, some spices and a few snacks. Under a small window there sat a propane-powered hotplate. The centre piece of the cabin was a small and modified wood burning stove, which we learned the hard way offers a fine line between heating the cabin and burning it down. 

Tucked just beyond the stove, beyond a small half-wall, was the bedroom. A double bed took over the back wall under a slanted roof; made that way to keep in as much heat as possible, keep the snow from piling up and, as we were told, it looked really nice. 

Small shelves framed the bed that displayed a collection of books and candles. Given that we had only planned a one-night-stay, and it was the middle of October, we were thankful but not interested in the outdoor shower; a beefed up camel pack readied with water at the slip of a switch. 

What we did appreciate was the outhouse. Matching in its esthetic, this country-style commode was the cleanest of its kind. Its walls smelled of the fresh cedar used to construct it and safe for the somewhat creepy midnight walk to-and-from, rounded out the experience well.

The day was spent walking the grounds and watching the dogs sprint among the trees.

Dinner was a candle-lit charcuterie board made up of discount crackers, soon to be on sale deli meats and, “oh, let’s get the good” cheese.

The morning sun rose over the treeline and warmed the cabin like nature’s alarm clock.

Wrestling with wanting to stay but having to return to jobs, children, responsibilities, we enjoyed our morning slowly. Collecting the dogs and cleaning up, we headed back to the main house, back to the car, back by the local fruit stand, down the dirt road and to the highway.

No airport needed. No single-serving friend. Baggage claim chaos avoided. But memories still made.

I smugly concur; there’s something to this Staycation’ing.