Grandparent-and-Grandkid Glamping: The One-on-One Trip

The moment that changed everything

It was 47°F and drizzling. My dad—never a camper, a man who considers a hotel without room service “roughing it”—stood under the awning of a canvas yurt in Vermont, holding a flashlight while my seven-year-old daughter, Lily, tried to start a fire with wet kindling. She was determined. He was patient. And I was crying behind my phone camera, pretending to check the weather.

This was day two of our first grandparent-grandchild glamping trip. The plan was simple: one-on-one time for my dad and Lily, with me as chauffeur, cook, and cheerleader. I had booked a yurt in southern Vermont—close enough to home that we could bail if things went south, but remote enough that it felt like an adventure. The rain wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was the fact that I’d forgotten matches.

Why glamping, not camping

Let me be clear: my dad does not camp. He grew up in New York City, spent his career in an office, and his idea of nature is a Central Park bench. When I first floated the idea of a grandparent-grandchild trip, he said, “Just the two of us? In the woods?” He was not enthusiastic.

But glamping was the bridge. A yurt with a real bed, a wood stove, and electricity gave him enough comfort to say yes. It wasn’t roughing it—it was “roughing it with a duvet.” For Lily, it was a magical fort. For my dad, it was a way to connect without the distractions of screens or schedules.

I chose a yurt because it felt special—round, canvas, warm from the stove—but not intimidating. If he’d seen a tent, he probably would have turned around. The cabins we passed on the way in looked too rustic. The domes down the road were too futuristic. The yurt was just right: familiar enough to be comfortable, unusual enough to spark curiosity.

The first mistake: forgetting matches

We arrived at 3 p.m., unloaded the car, and immediately hit a snag. I had packed everything—sleeping bags, pillows, snacks, a first-aid kit, a pack of cards—but I forgot matches for the wood stove. It was 50°F and dropping. My dad looked at me. Lily looked at my dad. I said, “We’ll figure it out.”

And we did. We walked to the property’s common area and found a box of long matches left by a previous guest. My dad taught Lily how to strike one safely (she was terrible at first, but he didn’t laugh). Then he taught her to crumple newspaper, lay kindling, light the fire. She was so proud. He was so patient. I was just grateful for the warmth.

That mistake became the first ritual of the trip: every evening, they built the fire together. It was their thing. I stayed out of it. This is the first tip I’d give anyone planning a grandparent-grandchild trip: let them struggle a little. Don’t fix everything. The friction is where the bonding happens.

The rhythm of the days

We had no agenda. Mornings were slow: coffee (my dad), hot chocolate (Lily), and a shared muffin. Then we’d hike a short trail to a stream where they skipped rocks. My dad showed her how to find flat stones; she showed him how to splash him. He pretended to be annoyed. He wasn’t.

Afternoons were for hammock reading and card games. My dad taught Lily gin rummy, and she taught him “War.” They played for M&Ms. She always won. He always let her.

Evenings were for cooking over the fire—foil-wrapped potatoes, hot dogs, s’mores. One night we tried to cook a pizza in a cast-iron skillet. It burned on the bottom and was raw on top. We ate it anyway, laughing. My dad said it was the best pizza he’d ever had. Lily agreed.

The unplanned adventure

On the third day, we discovered a mossy rock on the edge of the property. Lily decided it was a “fairy house.” She spent an hour decorating it with acorns and leaves while my dad sat on a log, watching. He didn’t check his phone once. He just watched. At one point, he said to me, “She’s so creative. She gets that from your mother.” I almost cried again.

That rock became their spot. Every day, they’d visit it, add something new, and take a photo. Lily insisted on posing with her hand on my dad’s shoulder. He obliged. The photos are now my screensaver.

Two bespoke tips you won’t find in a listicle

1. Create a “third thing” they both own. A project, a ritual, a joke—something that belongs only to them. For my dad and Lily, it was the fairy house and the fire-building. For you, it could be a shared journal, a nightly constellation hunt, or a secret handshake. The trip becomes about that thing, not about you. It gives them a private language.

2. Plan a “grace period” for grumpiness. The first six hours can be rough. My dad was tired, Lily was overexcited, and I was stressed about the matches. Instead of pushing through, I declared a “quiet hour”—no talking, just reading or napping. It reset everyone. Grandparents and kids both need to decompress after travel. Don’t schedule anything for arrival day.

The night that sealed it

Our last night, it dropped to 35°F. The wood stove was roaring, but the yurt was still chilly. Lily was tucked into her sleeping bag, and my dad sat on the edge of her bed, telling her a story about his own childhood—how he used to catch fireflies in a jar in his grandmother’s backyard. She listened, wide-eyed. Then she said, “Papa, you were a kid?” He laughed. “Yes, sweetheart, a long time ago.”

She asked him to teach her to catch fireflies. He promised he would, next summer. She made him pinky-swear. He did.

That moment—the story, the promise, the pinky swear—was the whole trip. It wasn’t about the yurt or the fire or the hiking. It was about them, alone, together, building a relationship that didn’t need me as a translator.

What I learned

I was nervous about this trip. What if they didn’t get along? What if my dad got bored? What if Lily missed Wi-Fi? None of that happened. Glamping gave them a neutral, beautiful space—a canvas for their own adventure. They returned home closer than ever. My dad now calls Lily every week to talk about their next trip. They’re already planning a safari tent in Florida for spring break.

If you’re considering a grandparent-grandchild trip, do it. Choose glamping. Forget something on purpose. Let them build the fire. And don’t forget to take pictures. Because one day, you’ll look at them and realize: this was the trip that bonded them. And you got to witness it.