I have vivid memories from childhood of going to friends’ cottages. What I loved most was the feeling of traveling through time. These places were often furnished with old hand-me-down furniture, mismatched dishes and cutlery, and strange little objects picked up from flea markets. Some had no electricity, just a gas stove and a couple of candles. It often took a two- or three-hour drive to get there.
There was something magical about that simplicity. Using the bathroom meant putting on your boots, walking a small path out back with a flashlight, and sitting on a cold wooden seat in the outhouse. I had to adapt to moving through the dark, sometimes afraid of wild animals, guided only by a small lamp — or the stars. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was different. And that difference was what made it feel like a vacation. I experienced something new, something completely outside of my daily routine.
Funny enough, I now work in a resort town, just 1.5 hours from Montreal, surrounded by lakes and mountains. It’s long been a favorite destination for busy city folks. As its popularity grew, old cabins were bought and rebuilt. Lakeside lots became construction sites for luxury properties. What used to be simple cottages gradually turned into fully equipped second homes.
City dwellers brought with them elegant decor, sleek kitchens, widescreen TVs, and all the comforts of modern life. But since the visit only lasted a weekend, there was barely time to unwind. People didn’t wind down — they wined down — and by the time they started to relax, it was already time to sit in traffic again, kids whining in the back seat, bored without Wi-Fi.
Because here’s the thing: it takes stillness and time to appreciate nature and the original spirit of cottage living.
And so, the idea of the cottage faded. What replaced it was the idea of a second home — one that looks and feels exactly like the first. Everything is designed to recreate comfort, not contrast it. And slowly, people began to notice that the magic was gone. Even the cottage started feeling like work: the prep, the guests, the groceries, the cleaning, the need to impress with the view, the marble counters, the pool table, the wine cellar.
I live in a lakeside cottage that my husband inherited from his father. We’re lucky — he would never have had the means to buy such a property today. It’s peaceful and beautiful and it’s our only home. And still, even we feel the need to disconnect. So, like the city folks who come north to find us, we go further north to get away from them.
Last week, we went to Squaw Lake Outfitters, three and a half hours deeper into the wild. To reach our floating cabin, we had to take a boat. There was no electricity, just solar power. No internet. No tourists — at least not during the week and this early in the season. The goal: to fish, to breathe, to disconnect.
It wasn’t fancy. But it was warm, cozy, and profoundly still. Sure, the place could be upgraded. But the owners don’t want more — and neither do the people who go there. That’s the beauty of it.
The couple who run it are trappers who live in harmony with the land. But even they, running an outfitting business, sometimes need a break from wildlife — especially when a group of guys rolls in for a bachelor party. So they retreat even further north, to a stretch of land only they can reach. Most wouldn’t want to go there — no amenities, no easy comforts. But for them, it’s perfect. It’s peace.
It made me think: what is it we’re really seeking when we say we want to “get away”?
Vacation, in its truest form, isn’t about luxury or even rest. It’s about change. About stepping outside the familiar — into different walls, different rhythms, and often, fewer comforts. The original cottage wasn’t meant to replicate home. It was meant to strip things away, to reorient us. To remind us that we’re small and the world is vast.
But most second homes are built for continuity, not contrast. They blur the boundary between retreat and routine until we lose both.
That’s why places like Squaw Lake Outfitters still matter. Their floating cabins don’t offer infinity pools or high-end finishes — and that’s the point. What they offer is something much rarer: the permission to not be reachable. To be somewhere different enough that the body relaxes and the mind follows.
As we rode the little boat across the lake, the wind smelled of pine and possibility. No schedules. No signal. Just us, the water, and a silence so rich it bordered on sacred.
And for a few days, that was enough. More than enough. It reminded me that real luxury might not be about having more — it might be about needing less.
Bonjour ! If this story stirred something in you — a memory, a longing, a quiet knowing — you’re not alone. In a world that often equates more with better, sometimes the most radical thing we can do is need less.
I write about soulful living, place-based wisdom and rethinking what it means to thrive. If that speaks to you, I invite you to follow The Listening Thread, my ongoing reflection on presence, place and the quiet in-between.
