While there isn’t always an upside to idly scrolling on Instagram way past your bedtime, on one particular night of my life, reaching for my phone became one of my best ever decisions. For there, in my Instagram feed, was a meme. Caption: “The perfect holiday doesn’t exist...” Image: A screengrab of an Airbnb listing with Shetland pony, peering over a stable door next to a bed – “sleepover with miniature horse Basil”.
Never have my scrolling fingers moved so fast as I switched apps to Airbnb and searched to see if the listing was real. And, after a little detective work, there it was. I had found the holy grail of mini-breaks with mini people in tow and mini horses as roommates. 'Basils Barn' was real, rave reviewed and… booked up for the entire summer.
Never one to be beaten when a tiny pony encounter is at stake, I flicked through the calendar, month by month, until at last I found a slot the next August. A year away. But still! Two nights available, for our little family of four to take an adventure to Nottinghamshire, a part of England we’d never been before, to stay with a pony – a dream I’d had since I was a child, lost in books like Jill has Two Ponies, where girls + horses would always = the best adventures.
Unsure of what to pack – would the barn be cold? Did we really need to take a scented candle like one review suggested to mask the smell of ponies? What kind of food supplies could the kitchen handle? – we squeeze almost everything we own into the car and a year after that fateful night of Basil discovery, we set off on our journey.
On arrival, we drive through the little village of Thurgaton, with its pub, phone box library, hairdressers and not a lot else, and head up the private road to Basil’s Barn, an offshoot of a grand manor house and a priory, the former of which is also available on Airbnb, as is one more gatehouse with another pony in the field outside.
“I’ve always loved animals,” says the Airbnb host, Brittany Sparham. “Over the years, we’ve seemed to collect quite a few that we’ve rescued and cared for. We wondered how we could work and incorporate the animals into our everyday life and Basil's Barn was born. Every day we come down the driveway and pinch ourselves that this is our reality.”
I can fully understand why. Behind the barn doors is a space even more magical than the listing implies. Less rustic than we feared, and more carefully imagined interiors, antique doll houses and rocking horses, baskets of blankets and bunk beds decked with bunting, vintage rugs covering the stone floors and fairy lights adding a glow to the outdoor courtyard, which is set up ready for marshmallow toasting.
The kitchen has a camping hob, toaster and kettle, so the kids staple holiday meals of pasta and beans on toast are covered, while the bathroom is where things feel a little more rustic, and possibly not one for an arachnophobe. But still, the water is hot, the toilet is clean, the soap is fancy, and for us, it’s perfect.
Once we’ve squealed a bit while looking around our new digs, we notice that the main event is missing. Basil is MIA. That’s all part of the plan it turns out. Brittany texts to say she’ll be there in ten minutes. She wants my girls, Raffy, then 6, and Flora, 3, to help her get him in from the field. Off we all trot, wellies and dungarees on and headcollar in hand, feeling like part of a bygone Shirley Hughes world, to collect our roommate, Basil.
We find him in the field, with his best friend, a Fresian horse called Pandora, and bring him in to settle in his stable, right next to our room. The girls brush him and give him his supper under Brittany’s watchful eye, then hop back over the stable door to have theirs, sat watching him – turns out some things are still better than an iPad, thank god, as there is no WiFi – and grinning from ear to ear. We read the book they’d especially chosen to bring with us, the gorgeous Hello, Horse, by Vivian French and Catherine Rayner, while Basil listens in, his head over the stable door, and I truly feel like my kids are, for a short window of time, living a life better than any story.
When it’s time for bed, we keep the stable door open for the girls, and once they’re asleep, move into the courtyard and sit under the stars to play Scrabble by candleight, before we sneak back into the bedroom we’re sharing with the girls, saying goodnight to Basil and quietly closing his door to give him, and us, some peace.
It’s definitely not quiet, with a pony in the next door room, and a mere rustic stable door between us, but for us, it is the nicest kind of noise. As London dwellers, being woken up by a gentle whickering through the wall, or a steady munch of some hay, is far superior to the full body blow of a screeching urban fox that is our usual wake up call. And most importantly, Basil does not wake the kids. I always knew I would like him.
The smell is certainly horsey, but I suppose, if you are not partial to the smell of a stable, perhaps this was not ever going to be the mini-break for you. It is neither offensive, nor overwhelming, and it does not permeate our clothes like some over-odoured hotel rooms I have stayed in. It just exists, to remind you that you are living in a magical world where there is a small horse mere centimetres away, before becoming something your nose forgets to notice.
The next day, once the girls have given Basil breakfast and a brush, turned him out in his paddock and mucked out his stable (that part is optional, but inexplicably delighted the girls way more than tidying their rooms ever has), we walk round the grounds. There is a tyre swing, hand made to look like a horse, trees to climb, grassy banks to roll down and streams to hop across. It is heaven.
We head into Southwell, the nearest town, with the benefits of a cathedral – Southwell Minster – and a National Trust property, as well as the usual lovely market town independent shops and cafes. We buy a picnic lunch to eat in the cathedral grounds, before we head back. Friends from not too far away come to see us for the afternoon, and while the kids play in the field by Basil, we grown ups sit on deckchairs and enjoy the peace.
Once all four kids have helped to get Basil in his stable for the night, we walk up to the Red Lion, a cavernous pub, surprisingly buzzy for such a small village. The children’s menu features the usual goujons and burger fare, but according to the most vocal of our small critics, it is “deeelliiiccioussss”, and the plates are clean – my beef and ale pie is equally well received.
We bid our friends farewell and wander back to Basil, where another night of beautifully stirring sleep awaits. While cosying up with a pony might not be the dream for some people, for me and my family, it was the stuff memories truly are made of. We’ll go back many times, but for now, the framed photos of Basil in each girl’s bedroom and the stories we tell about the time our housemate was a pony will be just enough to keep us going.
Basils Barn is available to book on Airbnb here.
