Peddock’s Island: From City Girl to Camping Queen (in a Yurt!)

Darling, let me set the scene. Imagine a city girl, a creature of high thread counts and even higher expectations, suddenly contemplating… camping. Yes, camping. My darling mother swears I attempted it once in the backyard as a tot, but if there were happy memories, I’ve clearly blocked them out faster than a bad blind date. So, when the idea of a family adventure to Peddock’s Island, complete with a stay in a yurt, was proposed by my idealistic husband, a tiny part of me (the one that secretly loves a challenge) thought, “Why not?” The larger part, however, was already envisioning the nearest five-star hotel.

Let me tell you, packing for this “glamping-lite” experience was unlike any other. Usually, I’m a maestro of the carry-on, but for this, my nerves were practically in a knot. We did leave about 30 minutes later than planned, thanks to my last-minute anxiety checks (did I really bring enough dry shampoo for a night in the wilderness?), but thankfully, we made it to the ferry with a mere ten minutes to spare. And just when I thought we were golden, mechanical issues decided to throw a wrench in our meticulously planned morning.

Forty minutes later, we were finally on a replacement vessel – a fast catamaran, and darling, this was probably the most luxurious part of the entire expedition – a concession stand with actual cocktails and treats! A girl’s gotta have her essentials, even en route to the great outdoors.

Upon arrival, we checked into Yurt 4 at the Ranger Station, right off the dock. And here’s where my city-girl sensibilities hit their first snag: no key. None! Aside from swiping into my Disney World resort with my phone, I’ve never experienced such… open-door policies. My valuables, bless their hearts, just had to trust in the honor system (or perhaps the storm door lock, as I later discovered).

Then came the trek. And when I say trek, I mean a full-on, uphill odyssey. While there’s a shortcut, our trusty cart and carriage necessitated the scenic (read: longer, steeper) route past those eerie, abandoned brick buildings. (Psst, between you and me, I’m fairly certain some of them starred in Shutter Island, but that little tidbit stayed firmly with me, far from the girls’ innocent ears.) I made a silent pact with myself right then and there: if (and that’s a big if) I ever do this again, a serious pre-trip fitness regimen is in order. It’s one thing to carry bags, it’s another to carry two small humans when their tiny legs decide they’re done with exploring.

Our yurt, Yurt 4, was practically on the other side of the camp, which also meant it was a charmingly long walk from the compost toilet. Yes, darlings, compost. No running water, no flush. This was getting real, real fast.

The yurt itself was, shall we say, “rustic chic” in the most basic sense. Two sets of bunk beds, twin over double – thankfully, we’d brought our own sheets to cover the plastic coverings. A large table, two benches, three outlets (a lifeline!), a fan/light combo at the apex, and a lonely lamp we could have plugged in. Outside? A picnic table and a charcoal grill. And the air? Hot, humid, and utterly unforgiving.

Once we’d caught our breath and rehydrated (a true testament to the power of water, not just champagne!), we made the beds and changed into our swimsuits, heading back down the hill to the small, rocky beach. The girls splashed with glee, and even I, usually a staunch adherent to the “toes in, body out” philosophy, waded in further than usual just to escape the relentless heat.

Post-beach, the lure of an actual flushing toilet at the Ranger Station was too strong to resist. But by then, the bugs had emerged, transforming into tiny, buzzing nightmares, and Arielle was already getting a bit antsy. Little Aurora, bless her heart, had missed her nap. Alex checked his phone: 4 PM.

“Should we try to get back up to the yurt, pack up, and make the last ferry?” he asked, pointing to the 5:15 PM departure time listed at the end of the dock.

My inner Holly Golightly, ever the optimist (or perhaps just too stubborn to admit defeat), kicked in. “No,” I declared. “We’re here now.” Two thoughts whirled: we wouldn’t make it, and everyone would be utterly miserable to just miss it, and more importantly, we could do this. We absolutely could.

Back up the hill we trudged to dry off. Aurora, thankfully, drifted off in her carriage, and Arielle succumbed to sleep on the bed. With Alex valiantly battling the grill outside, I just lay there, on the bed, sans cell service, sans book (the one time I didn’t bring one, and the one time I actually had a moment to read!). I was going a bit stir-crazy, to be honest.

When the girls woke, around 6 PM, Arielle delivered the punchline: “I want to go home.” Oh, darling, the honesty of children!

“We’re here for the night now,” I explained, trying to sound more confident than I felt. We had dinner, a valiant but ultimately doomed attempt at Jiffy Pop over the open coals (Alex, bless his heart, truly tried!), and then the saving grace: s’mores. A classic camping treat, and frankly, the highlight for everyone.

By this point, it was well past 8 PM, practically the witching hour for Aurora. So, by necessity, it was lights out. I snuggled with Aurora, Alex with Arielle, just to ensure no one rolled off the bottom bunk beds.

But “lights out” didn’t mean “sleep.” The heat, the mugginess, the sheer stickiness of it all was oppressive. And then, the constant drone of planes from Logan Airport, sounding as if they were performing touch-and-go landings directly on our yurt roof. A sound not nearly as apparent during the day.

At midnight, a truly urgent call of nature arrived. I whispered to Alex, who, bless his sleepy heart, offered to accompany me. “No!” I hissed, “What if the girls wake up and we’re not here? They’ll wander out of the yurt!” So, armed with a trusty Maglite, I bravely (or perhaps foolishly) ventured across the campsite in pitch darkness. Halfway there, a beam of light cut through the black, and I froze, convinced I was about to be accosted by a nocturnal creature. Nanoseconds later, I realized it was just another poor soul with a headlamp on. We didn’t exchange pleasantries. I used the “facilities” faster than I ever have in my life and high-tailed it back to the yurt. (And for those wondering about the lack of a key? It locks from the inside with a storm door. Leave the heirloom jewels at home, darlings.)

The next morning, breakfast was served al fresco at the picnic table – Alex, the true hero, had brought pre-made breakfast sandwiches that he heated up. Our grand plans to explore more of the fort were swiftly sidetracked when Aurora, in a moment of utter drama, took a literal nose-dive off the yurt step.

A nasty bruise immediately blossomed on the bridge of her nose. My inner mom-panic kicked in, and a quick call to the pediatrician provided some comforting tips (ice, Tylenol – which I, ever prepared, had brought – and watch for concussion signs) and an appointment for the following day. (Good news, darlings, it was just a bruise, thankfully not broken, and it’s healing beautifully! But definitely not the grand finale we envisioned.)

We packed everything up, trudging back to the Ranger Station not just to check out, but for the girls to receive their Junior Ranger Certifications. Remember how we didn’t get a key? Well, we did get adorable activity booklets for the girls, with tasks tailored to their ages, culminating in a precious swearing-in ceremony. Utterly adorable.

Finally, we made our way down the dock to the ferry. We were incredibly fortunate to meet a lovely photographer named Hannah, just arriving for her own Peddock’s adventure, who snapped a family photo for us. While it’s certainly not my most polished moment, I’m immensely proud of our (my!) accomplishment, and I have a sneaking suspicion this one might just make it onto the holiday card. We boarded the boat back to the mainland, and stepping into the air-conditioned ferry terminal felt like pure bliss (a rare feeling for me, as I usually despise being too cold!). Within ten minutes of loading up the car, both girls were out cold in the backseat, and to be perfectly honest, I was feeling it too. Thank goodness Alex was driving!

So, there you have it, darling. My transformation from city girl to (a very particular kind of) camping queen, all in the confines of a yurt on Peddock’s Island. Was it glamorous? Not in the traditional sense. Was it an adventure? Absolutely. And did I learn a thing or two? You bet your Manolos I did! But would I do it again? Uhhhh … that’s to be seen.

For all my tips on what to pack for a truly chic camping experience (because even in a yurt, a girl needs her essentials!), check out my Peddock’s Island Packing Guide.

And for the unvarnished, uncensored truth of my first-ever camping confessions, complete with all the sweaty, buggy, and surprisingly poignant moments, head over to my Substack for my Unfiltered Yurt Diaries: A First-Time Camper’s Confessions from Peddock’s Island. Trust me, you won’t want to miss it.

Until our next adventure, always remember to live beautifully, even if it’s in a yurt!