Two hours from Manchester, the path opened up and there it was, a handsome wooden cabin tucked into the hillside, dark-stained and unhurried, its wide deck pointing out over a valley with nothing between us and the horizon.
L’s first proper trip. Three months old, Poppy in tow, and what felt like three months of accumulated kit somehow crammed into the boot of the car. We had half-planned Bosnia, but summer heat, lots of driving, border delays and a newborn didn’t quite add up. Yorkshire, though, was a different conversation. We love it there. Yorkshire said: come, slow down, sit by the fire.
By some miracle we got the timings right. Feeds, naps, dog logistics, the lot. We left Manchester just after baby class, with the cityscapes softening to countryside the further we drove. Endless green fields, bursts of vivid yellow rapeseed, and impossibly small lambs scattered across the hillsides. Spring had properly arrived.
Grassington and an unexpected film set
Our first stop was Grassington, a place we’d long wanted to visit after watching All Creatures Great and Small.
It felt smaller and less recognisable than we expected, proof of just how powerful television sets and editing can be, but it was tranquil and full of character all the same. We stopped at The Devonshire (The Drovers Arms to any All Creatures fan) for food and drinks before continuing on towards the cabin.
The drive from Grassington to the farm was an experience in itself. Reservoirs appeared between sweeping hillsides, roads twisted through valleys, and every corner seemed to reveal another postcard view. Then came one of those moments that catches you completely off guard.
We were stopped at temporary traffic lights on a narrow road, beside us there were trailers, production vehicles, and then, unmistakably, Siegfried’s green Rover sitting on a recovery truck on the opposite side. As the lights changed and we carried on, we could see film crews scattered across the hillsides above us.
By complete coincidence, we’d driven straight into a day’s filming in what we can only assume was for the show.
The walk to the cabin
The farm hosting us had four cabins in total, each hidden separately within the hillside woodland landscape. In front of the parking spaces sat a row of wheelbarrows for ferrying luggage down the hill. That was the first sign this wasn’t going to be your standard holiday accommodation. An email accompanied the wheelbarrow, with a set of instructions, and something that felt more like the start of a treasure hunt than a holiday check-in.
I strapped L into the sling, piled as much as possible onto the pram, and we set off.
Across a field.
Down a hill.
Through a gate.
Into the woods.
And there, sitting under the canopy at the edge of the treeline, was our cabin.
Dark timber, wide deck, full-height windows, and through them, an uninterrupted view across the valley below. No roads. No noise. Just farmland, birdsong, and open sky.
The cabin itself struck the right balance between rustic and luxurious. Outside was a large deck with chairs, a small table, and the copper bath positioned perfectly to soak in the view. Inside, everything was compact but thoughtfully designed: a small kitchen with a stove and fridge, a bathroom with shower and toilet, and at the far end, our king-sized bed.
Between them sat a dining table for two, positioned directly against the full-height windows looking out across the valley. Even before unpacking, it was obvious where mornings would be spent.
The heating had been left on for our arrival, making the cabin instantly cosy and welcoming against the cool Yorkshire air.
While Jas got herself and L settled, I headed back for the remaining bags before turning my attention to the most important task of the evening:
Getting the fire going.
Soon enough, I was sitting outside with a glass of red wine in hand and a cheeseboard assembled (yes, I’d packed cheese knives) while the valley slowly darkened around us.
As sunset disappeared, the soundscape changed with it. Birds became louder and more animated, before eventually giving way to the occasional call of owls somewhere deeper in the woods.
It was peaceful in a way modern life rarely allows.
Off-grid… mostly
Just because we were off-grid didn’t mean I was banned from being a geek.
Earlier that week my Reachy Mini robot had finally arrived (after a ninety-day wait) and yes I had packed it! After getting L down for the night, there was no better time to start building it.
Jas laughed immediately.
I knew you’d start building that tonight.
And honestly, she was right.
So there I sat at the cabin table, wine finished, the fire crackling outside and Jas’s reading lamp the only other light in the room, building a tiny robot in the middle of the Yorkshire countryside. The instructions were impeccably clear, almost like Lego, and the build quality instantly impressed me. The deeper dive will land in its own post; for now it sits here as a strange little collision between technology and stillness.
Meanwhile, Poppy never quite settled in the same way we did. Despite the huge lead the cabin came with and all the space in the world, she spent the evenings with one ear tuned to the treeline, half convinced the owls had opinions about dogs. The walks, though, were a different story.
There was a quiet sense throughout the trip that we genuinely needed this. Alongside it, an excitement that we were doing this together for the first time with L.
Our first proper little adventure as a family.
Bolton Abbey and the stepping stones
Thursday brought another beautiful day and a trip to Bolton Abbey.
Before heading into the grounds, we stopped at a nearby hotel and bar, perfect timing for a feed and change for L before setting off properly.
The weather behaved. Bright and just overcast enough without being too hot, the kind of day that makes walking feel effortless.
We made our way towards the famous stepping stones and paused for a while beside the river while I decided whether or not I actually wanted to cross them carrying L in the sling.
Eventually, I committed.
And I’m very glad I did.
The river was low, the stones completely dry, and after the first couple of steps we found our rhythm.
Left foot.
Right foot.
Pause.
Breathe.
Repeat.
My heart was pounding the entire time.
But we made it across, perfectly.
Poppy, for her part, came into her own out here. After one evening at the cabin with one ear tuned to the treeline, she finally found her rhythm, nose down, tail up, completely in her element the moment we were out in the open.
The rest of the walk was equally enjoyable. Some of the climbs were steep, but the paths were manageable throughout, and the cooler air made it a perfect day for all of us, Poppy included.
On the drive back we stopped to charge the EV up while collecting groceries from a local shop and butchers. I’d worried beforehand that EV charging in such a remote area might become awkward, but in reality we managed the entire trip comfortably with a single small top-up charge.
Back at the cabin I got the fire roaring again while we opened a bottle of Chapel Down bubbles we’d brought back from Kent the year before.
The valley slowly transitioned into its evening colours. The fire crackled away beside us. The golden sunset bathed the landscape in warm light, and we cooked onions, sausages, and burgers on the pit. Once L was asleep and Jas had settled down with her book, I took full advantage of the wilderness around us and disappeared off for a bath under the evening sky.
A slow goodbye
Friday morning. The sun came up over the valley and straight through the cabin windows, filling the whole place with a warm, low, unhurried light. We packed up slowly and surprisingly efficiently before timing breakfast and cafetière coffee to perfection.
Returning everything to the car somehow felt far easier than the journey down.
Perhaps because by then the cabin already felt familiar.
And before leaving, I had one final little moment I’ve come to expect whenever I’m somewhere peaceful outdoors.
A robin appeared nearby, hopping comfortably close as if to say hello.
I always stop for robins.
They appear in the moments where life briefly slows down enough to notice them. Small windows where you stop being in a hurry.
Two nights. One cabin. One robin.
L won’t remember any of it. I’ll remember all of it.