Chapter Fifteen
Ren
I’d barely stepped out of the shower block, hair still dripping, when Lydia pounced, and not in the way I would have liked.
‘Jesus—’ I flinched, clutching my toiletry bag to my chest.
I was fully dressed, thankfully. Or maybe that was a shame – because part of me wouldn’t have minded wiping that friendly smile off Lydia’s face and replacing it with something more interesting.
She’d been all light and cheerful since we came down from Snowdon yesterday. Like whatever knot had been inside her had finally unravelled. And I loved that. Of course I did. I wanted her happy.
But there was a part of me – a very loud, obnoxious, selfish part of me – that missed that… charge. I wouldn’t have minded her catching me shirtless again, like in the Peaks. That glazed expression, the way her eyes had trailed across my tattoos. I swear I could still feel her eyes on me.
Friends, Lawrence.
She’s your friend.
Lydia was grinning like a maniac and I knew this look.
It used to mean trouble. Like when we were 12 and she convinced me we could build a rope swing across the canal, or when we were 15, when she said we could bribe our way into a sixth-former’s party as long as we had the half-drunk bottle of Campari from Sandra and Brian’s garage.
Spoiler, we weren’t let in. That look was rare. But, God, I’d missed it.
‘Relax,’ she said, practically vibrating with excitement. She was wearing a bright pink set – leggings and a crop top – and I made a quiet, desperate promise not to look at her arse today. ‘I’m not trying to steal your hair wax. We’re skiving off today.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Skiving?’
‘Yep,’ she said, hitting the ‘P’ as if it was a punchline. ‘Mandy approved it.’
I glanced over her shoulder to where the ladies were gathered around a picnic bench, sipping tea from enamel mugs and pretending not to stare at us.
Interesting. Mandy approved it. And now she was watching us as if she was betting on a horse race.
I’d bet that she was texting Sandra with updates right now.
‘Surprise field trip,’ Lydia said, brandishing her keys and heading for the adjacent carpark. ‘Come on.’
‘My hair’s wet,’ I said, in a weak little protest.
Because the truth was I felt off balance.
I’d made peace with the idea of being just friends at the top of that bloody mountain yesterday.
I’d thought I could handle it. Having Lydia as a friend was better than nothing, of course.
But being near her again, with her smiling at me like that.
Well, it felt as if someone had yanked the ground out from under me.
You know why, you arse.
Lydia rolled her eyes. ‘You and your hair. Dry it in the car. We’re going to be late!’
She trotted to the car and I had no choice but to follow, dumbfounded, and trying not to notice how peachy her bum looked.
I climbed in, still slightly damp and confused. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
About 30 minutes and several winding Snowdonia roads later, the satnav chirped, and Lydia turned down a gravel path marked by a carved slate sign: Glynmere Farm.
Despite the isolated location, the path broke into a carpark full of families with SUVs and couples strolling hand in hand.
She pulled into the carpark and came to a stop.
She turned to me, an expectant smile on her face. ‘I wanted to show you that your idea for Everly Heath Farm isn’t mad. Places are making this work, and Glynmere Farm is just one of them. We’re meeting Bethan and Gareth, the couple who’ve run this place for thirty years.’
I followed her eyeline to find a couple waiting at the entrance. A woman in a yellow fleece and wellies, and a tall man with grey-streaked hair, wearing a gilet.
I looked around at the bustling farm, busy with families and couples, even on a weekday. I was… speechless.
‘You’re making me nervous.’ Lydia gave a stuttered laugh.
I stared at her. ‘You did this… for me?’
The words barely made it past my throat.
Not even my own brother believed in me – not really.
Yet this woman sitting in front of me – who could barely say my name a couple of weeks ago – went out of her way to bring me here.
To a shining, beautiful, and real example of what I wanted to make happen.
A farm converted into a bustling, lively place full of people, laughter, and food and drink.
I hadn’t felt this seen by someone… well, ever.
And now I was speechless, like some fumbling idiot, trying to form the words of what this meant to me – and, of course, coming up blank.
Lydia rambled, ‘If it’s too much, we can go. But I thought maybe, maybe, you needed a reminder. And someone to speak to who has actually done it, you know? If you don’t want to, we can go. But… we have a tour booked and they’re waiting.’
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold back the bright, shining feeling spilling from my chest straight towards the woman beside me. If I looked at her right now, I might say something I couldn’t take back. Something that didn’t belong in the little friendship-shaped box we had agreed on.
Finally, I met her gaze. ‘No one’s ever done anything like this for me. No one’s ever taken the time to help me dream bigger. To… believe in me.’
She shrugged, her blue eyes shining, ‘Well, their loss.’
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I followed her towards the couple, my heart pounding.
‘Now, it’s not easy, you know. It’s hard work, especially at the beginning,’ Gareth said, his voice low and melodic as we walked through the busy farm, dodging kids with candyfloss. ‘Days like today can take their toll. It’s market day.’
‘But we take Mondays off.’ Bethan chided her husband. ‘Stop scaring the boy, Gareth. We’re here to help.’
Gareth had greeted us with a firm handshake and an assessing look, while Bethan’s face was smile-lined as she hugged Lydia like an old friend and welcomed us to the farm.
We followed them under the wooden archway and Gareth led us down a gravel path to the left with the determination of someone who has toiled the earth all his life.
The path opened into a walled courtyard flanked by food huts and market stalls, all buzzing with energy.
The scent of roasting meat, sweet waffles, and something floral hung thick in the air.
‘Market days are Wednesdays and Sundays,’ Bethan said. ‘We bring in local vendors from across the valley.’
Families wove past us – toddlers with ice cream, couples holding paper cups of cider. A group of teens hovered near a hut selling Welsh rarebit toasties.
Gareth led us down the main stretch with the determination of someone who’d done this walk a thousand times.
He nodded at every other person we passed.
Bethan explained how they rotated stalls, partnered with small producers, and occasionally hosted themed weekends and a midsummer cider festival that apparently got ‘a bit lively’ last year.
I could believe it. The place had that kind of buzz – somewhere between wholesome and slightly chaotic.
Helpful wooden signs pointed to places to visit. FARM SHOP & CAFE, HORSE STABLES, PLAY AREA. The list went on and on.
Everywhere we walked was full of energy – food, drink, laughter.
‘This place is alive,’ I muttered without meaning to.
Lydia nudged me. ‘Exactly.’
I gazed at the rolling fields stretched out ahead of the farm, dotted with sheep grazing on the dewy grass, their thick coats making them look like fluffy clouds settled on the hillside.
Beyond the pastures, a dense cluster of ancient oak and pine trees framed the land, leading up to the rolling hills in the distance.
Gareth brought us to a stop before a wooden gate.
‘This is the heart of Glynmere. Started as a working sheep farm but we had to adapt. Land alone doesn’t pay the bills these days. So my brilliant wife decided we should open the farm to the public. Twenty-nine years ago now.’
‘He thought I was mad when I suggested it. But he came around eventually. With some persuading.’ Bethan smiled, gazing at her husband, who glanced down.
Lydia nudged my elbow.
‘He’s blushing,’ she whispered under her breath, making me chuckle.
‘The Farm Shop started first, using the products from the sheep and bees and sourcing from other farms who were interested.’
‘Are those yours then?’ I asked, nodding to the sheep grazing in the field.
‘Yes,’ Gareth replied. ‘I’ll always have sheep on this farm until I die. It was what my father did and his before that. As much as the diversifying of the business was needed, we think it’s best to stick to our roots.’
Ren faltered now. ‘I’d be buying a derelict farm. It’s not a family tradition or anything.’
Gareth clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Then you create your own roots.’
We moved on, towards the cafe and farm shop – a converted stone barn, softened with ivy and hanging flower baskets.
‘Right,’ Gareth grunted. ‘Let’s get this over with before Bethan forces you to taste-test everything in the bleeding shop.’
‘Hey,’ Bethan nudged her husband. ‘This shop paid for your new tractor. So shut it.’
Bethan came alive when we walked into the shop, pointing out all the relationships she had built with local farms and vendors. Inside, the air was warm and rich with the smell of coffee and freshly baked bread.
‘Everything here’s either made on site or comes from someone we know by name,’ Bethan said proudly. ‘The honey’s ours, the jam’s from my neighbour Rhian, and the mead’s brewed just up the road.’
She opened up jars, giving us tastes of the preserves – strawberry, raspberry, and lemon. All of the tastes danced on my tongue, tart and sweet.
I loaded up my basket, earning a small smile from Bethan. We squeezed past a display with red dragons and alpacas.
‘The tourists love these,’ Bethan said. ‘Even if they are a little overpriced.’
I grabbed two and shoved them into my basket, earning a giggle from Lydia.
‘What?’ I said innocently. ‘Abi will love this.’