What happens in the wooden hut?

Booked last summer, it turns out I knew what I was doing and relaxing trip exactly what I needed

I hadn’t planned on needing it this much. I had just wrapped a long week of interviews, edits and one too many emails and was already dreaming about getting away from Limassol.

Not far, just far enough to forget about inboxes and reminders. I’d been here before. I rented one of the wooden cabins last year and stayed two nights. It had been a strange kind of weekend, half recharging, half watching families around me build tents with enviable teamwork.

This time, though, I came alone.

I had booked it a year ago without much thinking or planning. Just a note in my calendar and a quiet promise to myself: come back. And I did.

I packed a book, two kaftans and the old straw bag that still smells faintly of seaweed and sunscreen from last summer. I drove past Polis in silence, turned off my phone somewhere around Latchi, and followed the signs to Aphrodite Eco Camping, a licensed, locally run eco-campground tucked into the Natura 2000-protected Akamas Peninsula, just above the Baths of Aphrodite.

It has been built by people who care about keeping things simple, sustainable and family-friendly. Not too polished. Just enough.

When I arrived, they asked if I wanted the same wooden house again.

The cabin was just as I remembered it. Simple, clean, with a creaky porch and a quiet fan that barely kept up with the June heat. But it didn’t matter. Outside, there were carob trees, the faint sound of cicadas, and the kind of stillness that made you forget about the concept of time.

That first evening, I sat alone on the wooden steps, watching a little boy try to feed a goat a Pringle. The goat looked unimpressed.

His father laughed, called out something in Russian, and the boy wandered off in search of lizards instead. Meanwhile, behind them, two girls were playing with giant hula hoops near the small outdoor bar, where a man had asked for a mojito in Greek and was now stirring a frappe like it was exactly what he’d wanted all along.

The staff were kind, practical, and unbothered by everything.

Around me were Germans, Italians, Greek Cypriots, Russians and a scattering of solo travellers like myself. Most were sunburnt in charming ways, men with red shoulders, kids with peeling noses, and all of them seemed content to stay exactly where they were.

As for the facilities, the toilets, bathrooms, and shared washing machines were spotless. Cleaner than most hotels I’ve stayed at. Everyone respected the space. No loud music, no late-night drama.

The sea, as always, was the real reason I had returned. Just a short walk down a sandy path and then a steeper climb down between rocks and branches. No music, no umbrellas, just turquoise silence and the occasional splash from a brave diver.

I swam for what felt like hours. The water here doesn’t just cool you, it resets you.

Later that evening, back at the little restaurant, I ordered a salad and pork chop. Nothing fancy. The food was modest but satisfying.

There’s a small cafeteria too, more of a beach bar, really, where people linger over iced coffees and beers. The menu had a bit of everything: pork chops, grilled chicken, gyros, Greek salad, fries, dips, pasta for the kids, and ice cream for everyone else.

Nothing overthought, just food that tastes better because you’re barefoot.

In some corners of the campsite, there are designated barbecue areas, simple but well-maintained, where people gather in the evenings to roast marshmallows, grill corn, or prepare late-night souvlaki over glowing coals.

One group had brought music and were softly playing it on a portable speaker, while a woman next to them carefully turned chicken skewers with a hair clip.

Someone else had a watermelon chilling in a bucket of seawater. It all felt natural, uncoordinated, but somehow perfectly in place.

And then came the outdoor cinema. Friday night was Karate Kid. Saturday was The Smurfs. The screen was stretched between two wooden poles, the chairs were wooden and mismatched, and someone had brought popcorn in a giant paper bag.

But there, in the middle of the Akamas forest, watching Daniel-san wax on and wax off, or hearing Papa Smurf deliver lines I hadn’t heard in decades, I suddenly felt like I was eight again. It reminded me of the summers when happiness was a folding chair and mosquito spray, when movies didn’t need Dolby sound or reclining seats. Just a screen, a breeze, and the faint scent of pine.

That night was quiet. Not silent, just quiet in the way only nature can be. Crickets, a distant laugh, the soft hum of someone charging a power bank at the communal outlet.

I lay on the bed with the window open, the fan turning lazily next to me, and thought about absolutely nothing. The next morning came gently.

I woke up early, barefoot again, coffee in one hand, toast in the other, and wandered down to the edge of the cliff. A couple were doing yoga near the rocks. A dog barked, half-heartedly. The same goat from the day before trotted by, suspicious of my toast. It was the kind of morning that doesn’t need an Instagram post.

The kind of place where no one cares what time you woke up or whether you’ve answered your texts. Here, you don’t need a reason to do nothing.

You just have to be present. And for once, that was enough.