
Hearth
A cast-iron stove in the middle of the room. It heats the cabin, the water and the coffee.
One cabin on a mountain meadow, where the road ends and the fog stays below you. Thirty-five minutes on foot from everything.
far from the city.
above the fog.
Two hours from the city, then a forest road, then a path. By the time you reach the door, the noise you brought has nowhere to go.
Above the noise.
Below the stars.
Every stage of the way up has its own altitude, and each one takes something off your shoulders. The last one is ours, and it is written on the door.


A cast-iron stove in the middle of the room. It heats the cabin, the water and the coffee.

One wall is glass and faces the ridge. It is the only screen in the house.

Two bedrooms under the roof. Wool, linen, blackout shutters, no clocks.

Two winters of beech stacked by the door. You split the kindling, we split the rest.
We chose a meadow you can walk to, not one you need a helicopter for. Everything you might need in a hurry is within the hour.
We carry your bags up by quad. You carry nothing but the view.
−4°C · 06:40
From your first message to the first night by the stove. We keep it simple, because the point of this place is not to think about logistics.
“On the second morning we stopped checking our phones. Not because there was no signal, but because the window was better.”
Iryna & Taras · February
“I came for the view and stayed for the stove. I have never slept like that in a city.”
Mykola · October
Tell us roughly when, and how many of you. We’ll tell you which nights the meadow is free.
Three short steps, two minutes.
We reply within a day. No prepayment to ask.