I was in a shady glade where the ground came blanketed in delicate yellow flowers and birds sung from the trees. At its edge were glimpses of sheep-dotted fields. Though it was a clear day, the air tasted of the water responsible for turning the landscape green. And, at my feet, my son had almost achieved his goal: to start a fire with a magnifying glass and some cotton wool.
My kids, aged 9 and 11, have joined so-called bushcraft experiences before – doing a spot of gentle whittling, searching out newts and picking blackberries. But this session at Penhein, a farm and glampsite in south Wales, was different.
Run by Maxx and his dad, who both come from military backgrounds, it dispensed with (whisper it) wafty nonsense in favour of making actual fires (hence my budding pyromaniac), building actual shelters and toasting homemade campfire bread to finish – all without an iPhone, tablet or Nintendo Switch in sight.
Though the glade looked like a Disney film come to life, this bushcraft session was less Snow White and more Survivor – which appealed wholeheartedly to my nearly-teens. “You need to build your shelter so that you could spend the night in it,” Maxx had urged, as they had earnestly plugged holes in their stick-made huts with moss.
I watched proudly as my daughter moved from magnifying glass to a battery and wire-wool combo in a bid to get her fire going. A mild bout of arson was the least of my worries. Since my children entered the pre-teen era, their screen addictions had ballooned: if my husband or I left the room, a device was immediately turned on. It was becoming habitual and forcing us to hide every remote in the house (and then, when it was our turn to watch TV, immediately forget where we’d put them).
We had reached drastic-measures territory – which is how we’d ended up driving to a place where the Wi-Fi was non-existent, hoping that channelling their inner special forces instincts might finally help us turn a corner.
Penhein’s vast range of activities included plenty of suitably intrepid options: from archery to campfire cookery. However, crucially for me (once a child journalist-in-the-making who, despite not having any devices, preferred to write stories from the comfort of my bedroom rather than ever set foot outdoors), there were some home comforts too.
Inspired by the Alachighs used by Persian nomads, the tents are apartment-sized. They don’t have electricity, but they come with proper beds, ensuite loos and fresh flower arrangements. Some have private shower cabins, while others make use of those in a communal block. There’s a “cheats” kitchen with electricity for those – like me – who need a strong cuppa before even contemplating lighting the morning’s fire (some guests charged their phones here, though we resisted temptation to do the same).
The site is guaranteed to melt the most ardent anti-camper’s heart. Accessed via a bumpy track that cuts across farmland, it’s like a fairy garden come to life. Paths wind between the tents, bordered by seas of blooming wild garlic. When we arrived, a flock of deer was scampering across the neighbouring fields towards a patch of forest that looked like an unruly haircut on the horizon. The air chimed with an orchestra of birds. On our first night, it was so loud that it woke us all at dawn – and so beautiful that no one was grumpy.
Don’t let the prettiness fool you though. Unlike many glampsites, Penhein is set on a working farm. Having spent 20 years in London, the owner Helen Hearn returned to Wales a decade ago to take over the family business, adding the tents and – later – bringing back the sheep that had once been its mainstay.
Around Easter time, they’re one of the key attractions. Guests at Penhein can take part in “lambing live”, joining Helen as she welcomes new arrivals. When I’d told the kids that they might find themselves helping to deliver a lamb, they were horrified.
“No. Absolutely not,” said the 11-year-old. Outdoorsy since birth, she was totally fine with building her own shelter and starting her own fire, but the bloody reality of lambing season seemed a step too far for my city dweller. Things changed the minute we arrived however, when she spotted some of Penhein’s newest arrivals lolloping about in the field beyond the campsite.
On the outskirts of London, we live between a triangle of petting farms where you might be able to stroke a lamb over a fence – but seeing them in the fields with their mothers was a different thing altogether. She was smitten.
A couple of days later, both kids donned borrowed overalls and stepped into the shed where the ewes and lambs that needed extra care were being kept. My daughter looked momentarily terrified, but Helen’s kind but firm approach ensured nobody panicked. She soon had both kids spray-painting numbers on the sides of the lambs as she patiently held them still in their pens.
Next, they held a lamb each and led them outdoors for the first time. They finished up by feeding orphaned lambs, an activity so wholesomely enjoyable that even my husband and I joined in.
Between activities, we took long walks around the farm, running down a hill towards a brook to watch puddles teeming with tadpoles, or listening to the echo of our voices roll lazily around the valley. We puffed up the hill to Penhein’s crumbling stone circle, from where we gazed across the River Severn and spied the sprawl of Bristol.
By our final night, we’d found our stride. The kids took breaks to run wild in the neighbouring field, pushing each other on the rope swing suspended high in a soaring tree – no one thinking about Netflix, WhatsApp or TikTok. And while, realistically, I’m still not sure we could survive for more than a few hours in the great outdoors without Maxx’s guidance, my goodness – we felt free.
Essentials
Amanda Hyde was a guest of Penhein Glamping. Two-night stays cost from £325 for up to five people. A morning or afternoon of bushcraft costs from £35 per child; Lambing Live sessions will restart in 2025, priced at £35 per family (penhein.co.uk).
Three other device-free UK retreats for families
Beachside bliss
The summer crowds of Cornwall seem like a distant dream at the off-grid Old Coach House, a solar-powered seaview cottage set in blissful solitude within a private nature reserve. What it lacks in Wi-Fi it makes up for with a stretch of private beach (accessible with a scramble down a steep path), wildflower meadows and its own labyrinth. Sleeps six, from £1,576 per week.
Clever compromise
It might feel remote at Burnhead Bothies, an off-grid cabin for four on a working farm in North Lanarkshire, but a location around half-an-hour’s drive from Glasgow city centre means teens can mix shops with digital detox. Sleeps four, from £320 for two nights.
Really wild
Pets and music are banned at Sussex’s Secret Campsite, allowing wildlife to flourish. Pitch your own tent or opt for one of the exciting ready-made options – including an orb dangling from the trees that sleeps two adults and a child. Stay in a suspended Tree Tent from £326 for two nights, for two adults and a child.
