Trying to Name What We’ve Made

For a long time, we’ve struggled to know where to place ourselves.

Not physically — we’re very grounded in the hills at Blackhill Farm — but in the wider world of travel and hospitality. In conversations, in listings, in search bars and Instagram tags. In the small but important ways people discover places like ours. Most often, we end up using the word glamping. And yet, every time we do, it gives us pause.

A Word That Means Many Things

Glamping has become a broad and generous term, and in many ways that’s a good thing. It has opened doors. It’s allowed people to imagine staying close to nature without sacrificing comfort. But it has also come to mean many very different things.

For some, glamping is about affordability and novelty — bell tents dressed with bunting and neon lights, communal spaces buzzing late into the evening, a sense of fun and festivity. For others, it’s about stripping back entirely — off‑grid living, compost loos, self‑reliance, and a deep, intentional closeness to the elements.

We admire that whole spectrum.

But we’ve slowly realised that if you’re looking for a budget bell tent with a few decorative flourishes — Kaya probably isn’t what you’re searching for. And calling ourselves glamping sometimes feels like we’re quietly setting the wrong expectation.

What we offer is slower. More contained. More inward.

Designed for Immersion

Kaya was designed around immersion and ease. Around the idea that you don’t visit the landscape — you live inside it for a while. Our cabins and yurts are permanent, carefully placed, and deliberately minimal. Not to impress, but to recede. The architecture is quiet. The materials are natural. The views are uninterrupted. From the moment you arrive, nature isn’t something you step out to experience — it’s already there, waiting.

And yet… what do you call that?

On Instagram, you need a tag. On booking platforms, you need a category. In conversation, you need a word that helps people find you.

That’s where the uncertainty crept in.

Discovering a New Language

We started coming across the term landscape hotel — and it stopped us in our tracks.

Here was a phrase that spoke about design‑led places where architecture exists in dialogue with the land. Where buildings are shaped by their surroundings, not imposed upon them. Where comfort comes from light, proportion, warmth, and stillness rather than excess or spectacle.

It resonated deeply.

But then came the doubt.

Landscape hotels often sound grander. More permanent. More architectural in the traditional sense. And while our buildings are intentionally rooted and enduring, Kaya doesn’t feel like a hotel in the way that word is usually understood. There’s no lobby. No front desk. No choreography of service. You arrive, unlock the door, and settle in. It feels more like being trusted than being hosted.

Where We’ve Found Ourselves Stuck

Kaya was shaped around immersion and ease. Around staying in one place rather than passing through it. Our cabins and yurts are permanent, carefully positioned, and intentionally designed — not to shout, but to sit comfortably within the landscape.

The interiors are warm, tactile, and considered. Decorative, yes — but always in service of calm, balance, and connection rather than distraction. When we came across the term landscape hotel, it stopped us short. It articulated something we’d struggled to name: places where architecture and design exist to frame the environment, not compete with it. Where comfort comes from light, proportion, materiality, and stillness.

But the word hotel still gives us pause. Kaya isn’t formal or serviced in that way. There’s no lobby or choreography — just the sense of being trusted to arrive, settle in, and let the landscape lead.

Glamping, at its best, opens people up to the outdoors.Landscape hotels, at their best, invite the outdoors in.

Somewhere in Between

Perhaps what we’re circling is the space between those two ideas. Maybe there’s room for a softer definition. Or a new one altogether. Or maybe the word landscape is right — not because it tells you exactly what to expect, but because it points to what matters most.

What we do know is this: we’re less concerned with fitting neatly into a category than with making sure the right people find us. People who are looking for quiet rather than buzz. For immersion rather than distraction. For a place where design supports stillness, and the land is allowed to lead.

We’re still working out the language — and perhaps we always will be.

But if you arrive at Kaya and feel your shoulders drop, your breathing slow, and your attention gently widen to the hills beyond the window, then the name matters a little less.

Whatever you call it, this is a place shaped by the landscape.

A place of ease.

A place to come home to — for a while.