Chapter 23
The next morning, it’s twenty-two days until Christmas.
I’m up and feeding the sheep as dawn breaks, a beautiful bright morning as the sun creeps up in the sky, leaving long streaks of pinks and baby blues, like watercolours on a page.
I photograph it on my phone, then video my rounds with the sheep, hens and dogs for social media.
Dewi is chasing fallen frozen leaves and the three hens, reluctant to get out of bed, are slowly venturing into the yard.
I show the field where the ewes are and introduce Bertie and Harriet: she turns her back to the camera and farts.
I head back to the welcoming glow of lights in the farmhouse kitchen. Llew is there, taking up lots of space while making a pot of tea for us all and putting it on the table. This house seems to expand to the number of people in it. It feels full and busy, like it did when Gramps and Nan were here.
‘I’m going to make bread, like Myfanwy’s, to take to the café, to go with the cawl,’ I say.
‘I can help,’ he says, coming to stand beside me in front of the window. It’s starting to get properly light over the cold and frosty yard, as I start to make the sourdough. He’s wearing an old rugby shirt instead of a shirt and tie.
‘What?’ He smiles, and I smile back, excited, even though I’ve just resigned from my job and checked out of my life as I know it.
I have no idea what I’m going to do but I’ll have to work something out.
Other hotels will take me, I’m sure, perhaps nearer to Dad.
Not in the town itself though, there are no other big hotels close to here, otherwise Llew Griffiths wouldn’t be standing here next to me.
‘You look … different,’ I say.
‘It’s the weekend,’ he says. ‘I don’t always wear a shirt and tie. Now, show me what to do.’ He looks at the sourdough starter. ‘I have a feeling I’m going to be good at this.’
I hesitate. I have to remember this was the man trying to buy our land. He’s just staying here, like a B-and-B guest, I remind myself. But helping with sourdough can’t hurt, can’t it? ‘Okay, you can start with this and I’ll make the cawl.’
‘This is one of the nicest B-and-B’s I’ve stayed in,’ says Llew. ‘Did you give any thought to my idea? About doing more of it?’
‘Not if we’ve got solar panels on the fields.’ I bite my tongue.
He nods. ‘Look, take your time thinking about it. You’ve got until the end of the year to decide.
A few more weeks.’ He looks at Dad as he comes down the stairs, dressed.
‘Discuss it between the pair of you. I know it’s a big decision.
’ He looks out of the window. ‘But, honestly, this place could really do well as a B-and-B, if you were looking for other ways of making money. But I promise I won’t hassle you.
I’ll let you come to your own decision. If I haven’t heard from you by the end of the year, I’ll know you’ve found a different solution.
I promise I’ll be happy for you. I won’t interfere at all. ’
I look at Dad, who doesn’t look back at me, and I know what he’s thinking.
He still doesn’t want to influence me in any way.
He doesn’t want me to feel tied to this place, like Mum before she got her air-hostess job, met her new man and found her wings.
I just have to prove to him that this is where I want to be …
if that is what I want. I know it’s right for now, but what about the future?
I gaze out at the cold, frosty morning. I just have to prove to him I can make the farm work for both of us …
I look at my phone and the images I’ve just taken. ‘Dad, remember the Advent calendar we had?’
He laughs. ‘Full of sheep and donkeys. Took you on a journey to Bethlehem. The story of the young couple. Every year you’d stick down the doors and open it the next year, enjoying the story all over again.
Nowadays it’s all chocolates and face creams,’ he says.
‘Not sharing a story like it used to be.’
I stare at him.
‘What?’ he says.
‘That’s it!’ I say.
‘What is?’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about the Instagram posts I put up, how people liked what they saw.
But maybe what we need to do is tell the story of Hollybush Farm.
Christmas at Hollybush Farm. Like an Advent calendar, I’ll post about something every day that makes up a part of this place.
’ My brain is whirring. ‘It’s the lead-up to Christmas, and the food everyone will be cooking and eating on Christmas Day. ’
‘It is.’ He nods, letting me talk as I pace around on the flagstone floor. Llew is watching me too.
‘Look,’ I say, holding out my phone and showing him the pictures and videos I’ve taken that morning.
‘That’s the story I should be telling, the life of a farmer in the days before Christmas.
The chores on the farm, the work involved every day to make sure that food is produced in this country.
How hard it is, but also, how much it means to us and …
what happens if we cover farmland in solar panels. ’
I look at Llew and then at Dad, whose smile is getting broader. ‘Take them on a journey. The twelve days before Christmas in a farmer’s life!’
‘Exactly! Show people how important it is to keep farming going through the cold and dark times. How it affects small businesses.’
‘Like the café?’
‘Yes. And how providing the potatoes makes a difference to you, and to how we eat.’ I’m suddenly very buoyed up.
‘It’s an excellent idea.’ Llew beams.
‘Instead of going away from the farm, leaving here to tell people why they should be buying local produce, I should bring people here and show them what we do. I’ll take my phone, put together a reel and do a voiceover to tell people what I’m up to. Christmas at Hollybush Farm.’
I gather up my bag and head to the feed shed.
After I’ve put together a reel, with a voiceover, and posted it to music, I add links in my bio to Myfanwy for Welsh cakes and sourdough, and to the farm, for winter vegetables and hogget.
I sit, replying to people’s questions and comments from the feed shed, and plan all the things I can film and post over the next couple of weeks.
By mid-morning I’m ready to go into town.
I nip back to the farmhouse to collect Dad.
The Social Shepherdess has a purpose, a plan, a story to tell, including Gramps’s field, the vegetable plot, moving the sheep with the dogs and why we move them regularly, testing the ewes for multiple pregnancies and upping their feed when we know which are carrying more than one lamb, Bertie and Harriet and their unbreakable bond, and mending the headlight on the quad bike with the help of YouTube.
How you just have to dive in and have a go.
I have someone to tell why it means so much that we remember where our food comes from and how it’s produced.
I want people to see the work that goes on here, but also the fun, and the passion that goes into making sure everything is done to the highest standard.
It’s sunny but still cold and the frost has barely thawed as we leave the farmhouse and the dogs settle in the porch.
‘Careful, Dad,’ I say, as we walk across the yard, carrying the cawl I made last night after dispatching them all to bed and the freshly made bread.
‘Yes, yes, no need for fuss,’ he says, but I can tell he’s somewhat tentative on his feet.
Movement from the field where I put the sheep this morning catches my eye. It’s the sheep, the ewes, running and swinging and swirling like a murmuration of swifts, baaing loudly, calling to each other. They seem to be running from something. And then I see it.
‘It’s her! That woman again, and her dogs! They’re in the field! With the ewes!’ I point and shout. ‘Hey!’
‘Ah, our new neighbour,’ says Dad. His face darkens. ‘Deborah something or other. Staying here, renting and working from home for the month; normally lives in her other home in Cardiff. Works for an upmarket estate agents there apparently.’
‘I’ll go, Dad. You wait here. Oi!’ I shout, but she’s too far away to hear me.
I set off across the yard. ‘Oi!’ I shout again, surprising myself at the volume.
It’s not something I’d usually be shouting.
Everything is done by email and in meetings, calm and organized.
But I’m furious, just reacting to the moment. It’s not planned, or measured.
‘Hey! Get your dogs on a lead!’ I yell, and point. But she’s either not listening or ignoring me, just marching through the field. The dogs are running amok. ‘It’s not a playground for your pets!’ I shout. ‘Get your dogs!’
I won’t reach her in time, so I do the only thing I can do and film her as I shout again for her to put her dogs on the lead and run down the drive. But I don’t make it to her. She’s gone and finally the dogs follow her.
I’m puce with rage. How dare she let the dogs scare the ewes like that? This is the farm’s livelihood. It’s Dad’s income, and possibly mine if I stay on. I can’t think what to do. Except this!
I lift up my phone. I start to tell anyone who will listen about the dogs that have just cavorted through the flock and the complete disregard of the owner, hoping I’ve got some signal down here, closer to the road and Gramps’s field.
‘These animals are the farm’s livelihood.
They do not deserve to be treated like playthings for pets.
’ I’m ranting but I’m so angry. ‘Keep your dogs on a lead if you can’t control them, or if there’s livestock around,’ I finish, push my phone back into my pocket and stomp back to the Land Rover.