I’ve never heard Biddy so assertive, and I give an inward cheer.
“So, another question.” I look from Biddy to Dad. “Have you thought about marketing? You need a brand. An image.” My dad and Biddy look back at me helplessly and I feel a sudden tweak of love for them both. This is something I could do for them. I could create a glamping brand.
My mind is already at work. I’m seeing images. Taglines. Photos of fields, lambs, bunting, campfires…Oh God, it could look amazing.
“I’ll make you a leaflet,” I say. “And a website. I’ll create your brand. You just do the practical details. I’ll do the image.”
“Would you, love?” Biddy claps a hand over her mouth. “That would be wonderful!”
“I want to,” I say. “Really, I do.”
And it’s true. Not only do I want to—I can’t wait.
—
I work at it all Christmas. It consumes me. The sun is out again on Christmas Day, and instead of going to church with Dad and Biddy, I rush round the farm, taking endless pictures of fields, cows, random gateposts, whatever I can find. I download generic pictures of yurts, daffodils, fire pits, lambs, and a close-up of a child splashing in a lake which could easily be Fisher’s Lake. I get a shot of Dad’s tractor. I build a makeshift den with sticks, decorate it with the only string of bunting I possess, and get a picture of that. I take a close-up of Biddy’s jam, cunningly styled on an ancient linen tea towel, with some dried lavender sprigs in the foreground. (Biddy makes lavender bags every year too. And chamomile tea.)
Choosing the font takes a while, but in the end I find one which totally speaks to me. It’s cool, retro, a bit rustic but not twee. It’s perfect. I filter the pictures, play around with layout, and then start brainstorming copy.
Demeter’s voice is in my head yet again as I type:
Organic. Authentic. Artisan. Local. Nature. Values. Family. Haven. Space. Simple. Slowdown. Laughter. Freedom. Mud.
No, scrap mud. No mud, no silage, no slaughterhouses, no sheep with gross diseases of the foot. No reality.
Earth. Craft. Ancient. Wagon. Campfire. Slow-cooked. Handmade. Pure. Fresh air. Fresh milk. Fresh, authentic, traditional, organic, local, hand-kneaded, homemade bread. (Gluten-free available.)
By Boxing Day I’ve finalized the brochure, and though I say it myself, it’s mouthwatering. It’s fabulous. I want to come and stay at Ansters Farm.
“What do you think?” I hand over my printed-out draft layouts and wait for Dad and Biddy to comment.
“Goodness!” Biddy peers at the picture of the farmhouse. “Is that us?”
“I Photoshopped it a tiny bit.” I shrug. “It’s what you do.”
“What’s this, anstersfarm?” queries Dad.
“It’s the website I’m going to make for you,” I say. “It’ll take a bit longer to set up, but it’ll have the same vibe.”
Both Dad and Biddy are reading the copy, looking a bit perplexed.
“Organic hammocks,” reads Biddy. “Luxe yurts. Freedom for couples, families, lovers. Be who you want to be.”
“With grass underfoot and the wide sky above, children can be children,” reads Dad. “Well, what else would they be?”
“We mix traditional values with modern comforts in a haven from modern life,” reads Biddy. “Oh, Katie, that does sound good.”
“Forget your stresses as you enjoy our program of rural activities. Corn-dolly-making, tractor rides, stick-whittling…” Dad looks up. “Stick-whittling? For Pete’s sake, love. People don’t come on holiday to whittle sticks.”
“They do! They think whittling sticks is back to nature!”
“I could bake cakes,” volunteers Biddy. “With the children, I mean.”
“As long as it’s a local, authentic Somerset recipe,” I say sternly. “No additives. No chocolate buttons.”
“Weekly stargazing barbecues,” reads Dad, and looks up again. “Who’s doing those?”
“You are,” I tell him. “And you’re doing tractor rides and cow-milking.”
“All about Esme.” Biddy has turned to the back page and is reading aloud.
“Who’s Esme?” demands Dad.
“One of the chickens. You’ll have to name all the animals,” I instruct him. “Every chicken, every cow, every sheep.”
“Katie, love.” Dad looks as though I’ve gone out of my mind. “I think you’re going too far here.”
“You have to!” I insist. “The chicken’s name is crucial. It’s everything, in fact.”
“Esme and her family are part of farm life,” reads Biddy. “Visit their henhouse and collect your very own warm eggs. Then scramble them on the fire pit with our locally sourced hemp oil and wild mushrooms.” She looks up anxiously. “Locally sourced hemp oil?”
“I’ve already found a supplier,” I tell her with satisfaction. “It’s totally the new olive oil.”
“Enjoy with our homemade organic bread and range of award-winning jams.” Biddy flinches. “Award-winning?”
“You’ve won loads of prizes at fairs,” I remind her. “Those are awards, aren’t they?”
“Well.” Biddy turns the printouts over and over, as though digesting them. “It does look wonderful, I must say.”
“We can upload fresher pictures on the website,” I say. “Once you’ve got the yurts and everything. But this is like a sneak preview.”