Aller Dorset

Driving into the depths of the Dorset countryside down winding lanes with ancient oak-tree awnings, there were a few interesting moments when – distracted by the sudden appearance of a jaw-dropping view in a gap between the hedges – I found myself veering dangerously close to said hedge on the other side of the road. This is old, old England, a world away from city life, and it is very beautiful. ‘Dorset’s a bit different y’see,’ says the old man in the farm shop the next day, ‘on account of there being no motorways, keeps it quiet.’ And judging by my time at Aller, I’d entirely concur. I hardly saw another soul, though that was intentional, since my chief aim was a brief retreat from a busy family life and business back at home. And if retreat is what you seek, this is the place. Pitching up at dusk, I piled my belongings into a wheelbarrow thoughtfully provided at the car-parking area, and trundled down the path in the newly planted orchard to my hut-from-home. It was on a slight hill above the lake beyond, where the resident swans were conducting a flypast to herald my arrival. 

Each hut at Aller is clad simply, with black painted boards, French doors and a view of the lake. This unassuming exterior belies the colour and comfort that awaits within. Decorated by co-owner Cat in a gloriously popping palette of pinks and greens, it’s a contemporary take on cabin chic and just as stylish as you’d expect from an ex-Gucci PR who suddenly found herself in the depths of the countryside on her husband’s family farm. The concept is clever, too – much of what you see can be purchased during your stay (I’d happily have gone home with Aller’s candy-striped glasses in my case). Waiting on the table in my hut was a basket of welcome treats: freshly baked sourdough, local butter, homemade granola, and a striped bag of marshmallows with a ribbon-wrapped set of sticks to toast them on, ready for the fire pit later. Anything else you might need can be ordered from the in-hut menu – the co-owner Ant soon dropped round a delicious chilled bottle of rosé that I summoned for my stay. 

It’s mid-October, and so as dusk turns to dark, I flip on the fairy lights outside and stoke up the tiny woodturning stove inside. For dinner tonight, it’s a very short walk to the village pub for a bite to eat before retiring early, ahead of my yoga session by the lake the following morning. 

Waking up after a silent night to a glittering day, I scoff Cat’s delicious granola with a cup of coffee on the terrace outside and wait, basking in the unseasonably warm rays, for the yoga teacher Aimee to arrive. Neither of us can quite believe our luck as we roll out mats side by side in the sunshine and she guides us through a glorious and gentle hour of yoga, interrupted only by the twittering, honks and wing beats of the various visitors to the lake. After another coffee with Aimee, who I could happily have chatted to all day, I venture out for a few supplies and a visit to Milton Abbas – it’s unmissable, she tells me. She’s not wrong. The drive alone is worth it, taking in a sweeping hilltop view of the abbey and its Capability Brown-designed grounds, before fetching up in the most absurdly idyllic thatched village. It is no more than one street, flanked on either side by identical picturesque cottages, with one pub and a post office, where I stocked up on postcards and jelly beans for the kids. Next stop was the idiosyncratic farm shop on the village outskirts, from whence you can take a scenic walk into the woods above the abbey and find a little old chapel hidden there. 

This part of England is rich in attractions, and there’s a long list of suggested itineraries for trips to the Jurassic Coast and other local beauty spots, which I am sure would be well worth the effort. For me though, the beauty of Aller is in not doing very much at all, beyond enjoying this lovely spot. A walk into the surrounding countryside is an easy win, best rewarded by an afternoon soak in the alfresco bath tub that complements each hut. There’s also a chic and well-stocked honesty bar, and I found a game of Bananagrams tucked away in a drawer. A lovely extra Aller offers its guests is dinner kits, to cook for yourself on your fire pit. Attempting to barbecue my lobster tail and steak over the flames was an adventure, though it would have been considerably improved by the presence of anyone with even the most rudimentary culinary skills.

The following morning closely echoed the first, but this time it was a therapist called Annabelle who arrived for a heavenly hour of reflexology from the comfort of my bed, with its ringside view of the lake. Annabelle and Aimee both live locally and can be booked for in-hut treatments; I couldn’t recommend either more highly. The rest of my day is spent reading, writing and walking, with the obligatory afternoon bubble bath, before a supper of fire-pit leftovers and the last of the rosé. A baby hare and its mother hop past the terrace twice, quite unfussed. The next day I head home, completely rested and restored. Aller is the kind of place where days can feel more like weeks, and though I could happily have stayed longer, its work was already done.