Chapter 9 #2
‘Flynn? Jack Flynn?’ The leader had extended his hand without hesitation, seemingly unbothered by Jack’s soil-stained palms. ‘Martin Walsh, Director of Acquisitions for Crest Beverages. These are my colleagues, Stephen Doyle and Richard Murphy.’
They’d smiled with teeth too white and even, their handshakes firm but somehow soft, uncalloused.
Jack remembered noticing their shoes first – posh leather, polished to a high shine, already gathering dust from the orchard paths.
Utterly impractical, like they’d dressed for a boardroom rather than a working farm.
‘We’ve been admirers of Goldenridge for some time,’ Walsh had continued, his Dublin accent polished smooth by education and corporate training. ‘We’d love to take a look at your press house.’
Jack had led them toward the main barn with reluctance, every instinct telling him these men spelled trouble. But his great-uncle Patrick had raised him with manners, and anyway it was sometimes useful to know what the competition was thinking.
‘You’ve stuck to traditional craft methods in an age of industrialization,’ Doyle had observed, notepad already in hand, eyes darting from the copper press to the fermentation tanks. ‘Commendable dedication to craft.’
‘It’s not dedication,’ Jack had replied, bristling at the reduction of generations of knowledge to a marketing buzzword. ‘It’s how you make proper cider. Always has been.’
The men had exchanged glances – a quick, practiced communication that sent unease crawling up Jack’s spine. He’d seen that look before, at agricultural conferences and industry meetings. The look of men who saw tradition as an obstacle to efficiency.
‘Of course,’ Walsh said smoothly. ‘And that approach is precisely what makes Goldenridge so valuable in today’s market.’
They’d walked the orchard rows then, with Walsh casually narrating a vision of the business’s future that made Jack’s stomach clench tighter with each sentence. Words like ‘streamlining production,’ ‘maximizing yield potential,’ and ‘vertical integration’ peppered his speech.
‘These older heritage varieties are certainly … interesting,’ Murphy had commented, examining a Cavan Russet with the detached curiosity one might show a museum artifact.
‘Though the yield ratio must be challenging. Our agronomists have had tremendous success with high-density plantings of more commercially viable cultivars.’
Jack had stopped walking then, turning to face the three men directly. ‘These trees produce exactly what they’re meant to; apples with character, complexity, and history that personifies Goldenridge. Not the waxy, tasteless crap they sell in supermarkets.’
If his bluntness had offended them, they hadn’t shown it. Instead, Walsh had smiled wider, his eyes calculating. ‘Absolutely right. And that’s precisely why Crest is interested in honoring that legacy by bringing such traditional methods to a wider audience.’
Beads of sweat had since formed on the executives’ foreheads, their suit jackets long since removed and draped over arms. Yet they’d persisted, seemingly oblivious to their discomfort in their determination to make their pitch.
When they’d finally settled in the shade of a sycamore, Walsh had pulled out glossy presentation materials from his leather briefcase.
‘We’re prepared to offer what we believe is more than fair market value for the land and the business,’ he said, sliding a document across the rough wooden table.
‘Crest recognizes the unique value proposition Goldenridge represents.’
Jack remembered staring at the figure, the string of numbers momentarily disorienting.
It was more money than he’d ever seen, far more than the orchard could generate in years of perfect harvests.
For one dizzying moment, he’d allowed himself to imagine what accepting might mean – freedom from constant financial worry, from the physical toll of maintaining the orchard pretty much single-handedly, from the endless battle against cheaper competitors.
But most of all, a chance to see what the world outside of Golden Valley might offer.
Until Murphy had started outlining their ‘vision’.
‘We’d maintain the Goldenridge name, of course – the brand equity is substantial, nationally at least. The cider line would be incorporated into our Crest Heritage Collection.
’ He’d flipped through a sleek brochure pointing out other small Irish brands they’d acquired.
‘As for the orchards themselves, we’d likely maintain a showcase section of the heritage varieties for tours and marketing materials, while transitioning the bulk of acreage to more viable cultivars. ’
The momentary temptation had evaporated instantly. ‘You’d rip out trees that have been producing for generations, you mean,’ Jack had stated.
Walsh had smiled his corporate smile. ‘We prefer to think of it as … evolution, Mr Flynn. The market demands consistency and scale. Authenticity is valuable, but it must be balanced with commercial reality.’
‘And the cider press? The traditional methods?’ Jack had asked, already knowing the answer.
‘We’d preserve the antique equipment for demonstration purposes,’ Doyle had answered smoothly. ‘For production volumes, we’d naturally integrate Goldenridge into our main facility in Dublin. State-of-the-art stainless steel, temperature-controlled fermentation, fully automated.’
They’d continued talking, outlining how Goldenridge’s heritage would be preserved even as they dismantled everything that made it what it was.
Jack had barely heard them, rage building behind his sternum with each word.
When they’d finally paused, clearly expecting his gratitude for their generous offer, he’d stood abruptly.
‘I’m not interested. The orchard isn’t for sale.’
Their expressions had shifted then, polished enthusiasm giving way to something harder, more calculating.