Thought I’d share a quick review of the Airbnb yurt I rented in Greystones, County Wicklow. While it was a sleepless night, I’m still incredibly grateful and excited to be here. After I arrived, I took a long walk on the beach and found a few pieces of sea glass—and a blissful sense of peace and calm. This is my idea of heaven.

Now buckle up, because the yurt experience was… something else. Bonus points, though: the Guinness stew at the pub connected to the yurt commune was absolutely delicious, and the Irish coffee hit just right after my beach walk…

The idea of glamping in a yurt sounded adorable and whimsical—like Pinterest come to life. In reality? It was more like camping with a side of regret.

I only made it through one of the two nights I booked, and honestly, that was a small miracle.

Let’s start with the bathrooms. They were fine—if you don’t mind air-drying your hair like you’re in a shampoo commercial set in 1850. No outlets, so I had to curl my hair in the yurt using a hot iron and my iPhone camera as a mirror. That’s not rustic charm—that’s a cry for help.

Also, the bathrooms were approximately three counties away. Midnight pee trips became outdoor survival challenges. By the time I got there and back, I was wide awake and freezing. I’d have gladly traded it all for a tiny plastic bucket in the yurt. Silver lining: it wasn’t raining.

Noise? Constant. The train doesn’t stop at midnight, as noted in the ad—and neither do its shrieking brakes and blaring horns. If you thought you’d drift off peacefully, bless your optimistic little heart. (At 1:27 a.m., the train woke me up…and it started back up at 5:30 a.m.) You’ll also hear everything from neighboring yurts, late-night glass dumping by bar staff, and—my personal favorite—a guy next door belching like he was training for competitive burping. That said, he did say “bless you” when I sneezed, so… manners?

The bathroom was so cold I half expected to see my breath and meet Elsa from Frozen in the stall. As for the yurt, the “heater” was a sad little oil-filled radiator that managed to warm about a six-inch radius. The only place that felt remotely cozy was under the heated blanket, which I now consider my emotional support item.

Pro tip: pack light. Like, backpack-light. You’ll be hauling your gear over decorative ankle-breaking pebbles—wheeled luggage is a one-way ticket to rage.

One last note: even with the lights off, it stays weirdly bright inside the yurt due to exterior lighting, which made sleep difficult—on top of the trains, burping, and chirping birds who apparently start their morning concert at 4 a.m.

In conclusion: it looked cute online. But in real life? It’s roughing it with good branding. I wanted “whimsical escape,” and instead I got “cold, loud, and slightly burp-scented.” This glamper has officially hung up her fairy lights. That’s all for now… as I head off to find quieter accommodations—with a power outlet near a mirror.