Tagged: Mark Colbourne

 

 

Willingworth Farm: Letter Eight

 

July 6th

 

  Ah, that Norfolk countryside, basking beneath a quintessentially English sun… I write these words from a seat at the kitchen table, gazing out at a beatific summer morning. I’m trying to drink the moment in – to frame a photograph in my mind, to burn the image upon my retina. The reasons for this are twofold. Either it will serve as a memory to which I can return no matter where I find myself, or because it will become the very last sight that I see.

  The picture does have its imperfections. Although don’t they all? The most treasured snaps are always soured by an unexpected blemish, an unfortunate angle or focus, a buffoonish relative who blinks as the shutter comes down… Here, for instance, the B362 – a slither of road so slight that it is normally simple enough to overlook – is pushing itself to the fore with a convey of speeding police cars. From this distance, I’m unable to hear the blare of sirens, but their blue flashing lights appear to my eyes like small hypnotic dots. As they gradually draw closer, I’m finding it impossible to look away.

  It seems that, one way or the other, I have very little time left and therefore, my dear reader, you will have to forgive me if this all begins to feel somewhat rushed. Events have finally overtaken me. Now, I always knew that this would happen – although it was an inevitability I tried very hard to ignore. The phone calls, the occasional knocks on the door, the probing questions and intrusive visits, the baffled relatives, the suspicious detectives… The spinning plates which wobbled and crashed to the ground as I ran desperately panting between their poles. Just how long did I think that I could get away with this? I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all. It’s claimed that every murderer actually wants to be caught. Previously I’d have disagreed, but now… now I just don’t know.

  I think about them, you know. All of them. My guests, my visitors. A roll call in my mind of good times and bad; a tumble of faces and feelings. Marcus and Heather, Norman and Margaret, Trevor, Toby and Liz and Sophie and Holly, Steve and Kim, Ian and Cath… and Barbara of course. My first. Forever my first. The one that is replayed in my dreams every night. They all rest in the barn now. Or, at least, for the moment. All too soon, I fear, to be found and disturbed, to be hauled back into the cruelty of this world.

  The police cars are now achingly close. Their rise and fall of their klaxon wail corrupts the air. I wonder why they feel this need to announce themselves? I know they’re coming. They know they’re coming. There’s no one else around… exactly which audience are they playing to? But, if nothing else, it is a signal that this small “blog” of mine must draw to an untimely close. There is an option on the table before me. It is an option that is always there, that is forever with us. It is the ultimate option that we have. This is my last chance. I wonder if I’ll have the courage to take it?

  And so finally, dear reader, I ask you to remember me. I ask you to remember the people that I have written about; all those lives with whom mine has become intertwined. All those people who came to stay here at Willingworth Farm.

 

Yours

 

Peter Edingly

 

 

Willingworth Farm: Letter Seven

 

July 1st

 

Marcus and Heather are “Eco-warriors”. Well, why on earth wouldn’t they be? Although, if I’m to be ever so slightly pernickety about the issue, this was a fact that they failed to disclose during our initial correspondence. Now, I’m not here to throw around direct accusations. I wouldn’t even dare to insinuate that any involved party had been disingenuous… But, well, you’d think there’d be certain things that people would feel obliged to mention, wouldn’t you?

So, totally unprepared for the sight which awaited me, I opened my front door to find a dreadlocked couple in ethnic apparel burdened by military-style canvas hold-alls. Even my now well-honed skills of hospitality momentarily failed me, stricken as I was by the fear that my lovely farm was about to be degraded by some manner of unspeakable freakshow. Eventually, I managed to gather my wherewithal and ushered them inside. It was only then that I noticed an incongruous but resolutely silver cloud. The car they had arrived in, now wonkily parked in the farm courtyard, was a top of the range Land Rover with a plate from only last year. 

“That’s quite the vehicle you’ve got there,” I said with an admiring tone  as they slumped in the hallway and dropped their bags on my tiled floor. Marcus gave a vague and dismissive comment about an unwanted gift from his father before apologetically promising that they only used the car for very occasional journeys. This confession quickly transgressed into a heated rant about the destructive pollution reaped by the motor industry, which Marcus and Heather presented in a well-rehearsed and passionate tandem. Their rhetoric, arguments, statistics and condemnations were reeled out for a full thirty minutes. It was only during a pause for breath that I managed to extend the offer of showing them to their room.

Now, I am neither a biased nor bigoted man. Come one, come all, is my motto. However, Marcus and Heather were irritating to the point of distraction. After settling in, it became apparent that the idea of making oneself at home was to be stretched to its most literal definition. Heather insisted on undertaking a full inventory of my kitchen whilst explaining at length the environmental failings of each and every product or ingredient. The living room was transformed into some sort of makeshift storage area for clothes weaved entirely from hemp or garishly emblazoned with tye-dye. The sound of African drumming washed around the corridors, playing at a surprising volume from their mobile “smart” phones. Despite my strict instructions not to light naked flames inside the house, I am convinced that I could smell the rancid pong of incense burning in their room.

Goodness me, it was a long weekend for all the wrong reasons. I was almost elated when they took their leave to wander the fields and commune with nature. These were opportunities I embraced to open the windows and air out the farmhouse. I couldn’t help but worry that if word of this got out I’d be besieged by enquiries from all manner of life’s dropouts and deadbeats. Whilst they may have been relaxing, for me it was a nail biting few days of anxiety and stress.

The final straw fell on Sunday. It was a gorgeous afternoon and the sun beat down with a strength to suggest that it would never dare to set. Heather was in what I refer to as the “back” garden – really just a square of lawn and a few slabs of patio at the rear of the kitchen. Once upon a time, Barbara and I had a table and chairs out there and would enjoy a glass of chilled wine in the early evening. Heather was busy performing some manner of yogic meditation (I’m afraid the precise name for the discipline eludes me). Anyhow, I had been watching her for some time through a slit in the blinds of the utility room window and quietly pondering whether this little venture of mine was actually worth all the trouble, when an absence suddenly dawned: where the hell was Marcus?

I dashed to the back door and raised this question from the step. The guilty expression that fell on Heather’s face revealed a very contrary answer to the one offered by her words. With no small sense of urgency, I returned straight through the house and out the front door, across the yard and into the barn. Well, with a great sense of relief, I found no living soul inside but, as my pulse began to settle, a strange odour tickled at my nostrils. Like a bloodhound, I pursued the scent back out through the door and around the rear side of the barn which is hidden from view. There, slumped amongst some old pallets like a degenerate hobo, was Marcus, puffing away on what a friend once described to me as a jazz cigarette.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I roared. He practically jumped out of his skin and span round to face me. My composure was not all that it could have been and I proceeded to read that young man the riot act. How dare he come into my home and treat it like some kind of junkie doss-house, the over-privileged, work-shy, self-righteous git.

After the initial surprise of being caught red-handed, Marcus quickly calmed – even despite my apoplectic dressing down. He took a long, insouciant draw on his cigarette and blew the smoke high into the air. He had the manner of one who had never had to worry about anything. Marcus had lived a life of indulgence, of licence; for him there had never been the inconvenience of consequences. The look on his face boiled my blood. His proclamation that I should not “worry about it, man” incensed me beyond all reason. There was, I realised, only one course of action that remained.

“Marcus,” I asked. “Would you care to follow me for a moment? There’s something I’d rather like to show you in the barn.”

 

 

Willingworth Farm: Letter Six

 

June 20th

When the song of summer begins to clearly sound, I sincerely believe that Willingworth Farm is the most beautiful place in the world. Obviously, this is a matter in which I am far from bipartisan, but who – having feasted their eyes – would argue against me? The surrounding countryside glistens luminous and reborn. The fields stretch with a daring confidence. The hedgerows bloom beneath the sunshine. Norman and Margaret, in contrast to this youthful vigour, were guests of a more mature standing. The leaves on life’s majestic tree had unquestionably crisped to an autumnal brown. But still, it was an unqualified pleasure to welcome them into my home. 

 No longer wishing to suffer the disadvantages of going “abroad”, Norman and Margaret would tour the country enjoying weekend breaks. Little and often, as Norman confided to me with a rakish wink, a twinkle in his eye undiminished by the years. Well into retirement and with their children having long flown the nest, I failed to see anything wrong in this choice of lifestyle. Although dear Margaret, as I could not help but notice, was slightly  struggling to match Norman’s friskier pace. 

Their days were a blend of short walks and brief visits to nearby areas of interest. They would return to the farm at regular intervals to allow Margaret the chance to rest. I decided to provide them with an afternoon tea. Although this was an extra not included in the original price of their bed and board, it felt as if my renumeration was simply the opportunity to watch this wonderful couple sit in the window of the kitchen, looking out across the world, comfortably sharing a snack and the private vocabulary that had built between them over a lifetime. Seeing this, it was only natural that my thoughts should turn to Barbara. If she had stayed, would our future have been comparable? Would our dotage have been blessed by a similar, gentle intimacy? I like to imagine that it would.

 On the morning of their second day, I discovered Margaret in the living room. She was alone and sitting, silent and still, in the armchair. As I walked through the door, the realisation of her statuesque presence actually caused me some surprise. I softly spoke her name. There seemed something ever so slightly peculiar in her demeanour, as if she were lost in a trance. She didn’t respond to my first prompt and so I ventured forth again. It was only on my third attempt that I finally broke through. She looked up towards me as if slightly shocked before her features tightened into a flustered embarrassment. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” she said all too quickly. “I think I lost myself for a few seconds there.”

The moment had a profound effect upon me. I’d paid witness to something that had either passed Norman by or – for reasons of his own – he had chosen to ignore. I feared it to be the latter, and this placed me in a rather awkward position. Should I have said something to Norman? Would that have been an act of intrusion or merely correct? I could see that his wife was suffering. Perhaps a cold facing of the facts was exactly what the man required? And sometimes sobering sentiments are more agreeably considered when presented by one who sits outside the immediate family circle… But no, the shackles of courtesy by which we British are forever bound held me in check. Instead, I kept my counsel and watched as they tootled away in their car that afternoon for a few hours in Belminster.

 On the final night of their stay, I offered them dinner. Margaret insisted on nothing too substantial. Sadly, I suspect this lack of appetite had little to do with either modesty or manners. Norman, however, failed to notice his wife pushing her food ineffectually around her plate. Instead, his inquisitive mind kept me busy with constant questions about the surrounding area. I must admit that, despite my concern for Margaret and the near constant interruption of phone calls asking for people who were no longer here, it was a stimulating discussion which I greatly enjoyed.

 Eventually, even Norman could no longer turn a blind eye to how tired his wife had become. It was still relatively early, but hand in hand they retired to make the long walk upstairs. I was left to clear the plates and wash up. My mind was coloured by thoughts of a morbid shade; mortality, decay, a love that endures despite all that life inevitably becomes… Standing at the foot of the stairs and staring up into the darkness, I wondered whether it was possible that there are indeed times when the cruelest acts can also show the greatest kindness?

 

Willingworth Farm: Letter Five

 

June 6th

 

The past few days have proffered something of a fresh experience. My first single male has been hosted – and not, it has to be said, by design.

On Friday, Trevor arrived at my door. A little earlier than anticipated (if you’ll forgive me a moment of pedantry) and conspicuously alone. Somewhat taken aback and peering quizzically over his shoulder, I began to question whether my recollection of accepting a booking for a Trevor and Harriet had not simply been the imaging of a senior moment. Laughing heartily and pushing past me into the hallway, Trevor explained that Harriet had decided literally at the last moment not to accompany him on his personal pilgrimage to follow in Sebald’s footsteps. I hadn’t the faintest idea what the man was wittering on about.

So there we were, Trevor and myself – an unlikely couple to say the least. Each morning he would venture out with a little brown rucksack on his back and ankles bolstered by chunky walking boots. For the first time since commencing this usually enjoyable sideline, I felt as if someone was intruding in my home. Ridiculous, I know, as he was openly invited through a standard commercial agreement, but Trevor had a peculiar ability to set one ill at ease. He made constant jokes where humour was notable only by its absence and, in the deafening silence which invariably followed these egregious bon mots, would fill the void with the sound of his own laughter. This, I’m afraid, I can compare only to the honking of a riled goose. He also revelled in the irritating habit of turning up whenever one was least expecting him.

A for instance: on the second day of his stay I was mixing concrete in the barn. Now, the barn – as I had explicitly detailed during the induction and house tour through which my guests are meticulously guided upon their arrival – was absolutely, one hundred per cent off limits. Also, I had watched Trevor leave the farm right after breakfast. Supplemented by his fleece, a Thermos of Bovril and some self-made sandwiches unattractively wrapped in sweaty clingfilm, he had bidden me good morning with yet another inane quip: “I’m off to find out what the North Sea”. I had, quite naturally, anticipated that he would be gone for the remainder of the day and accordingly began to tackle the tasks I had planned. Trevor, however, was nothing if not full of surprises.

“And what are you up to in here?” His nasal whine even managed to overpower the motorised churn of the concrete mixer. I switched off the machine, failing to disguise my fluster.

“Trevor!” I barked. “What are you doing back? What are you doing in here?”

His initial announcement had been made from the doorway of the barn. Somehow, he seemed to translate my astonishment as a bizarre invitation to step across the threshold and pursue a more intimate discourse. “Well, I’ve had myself a good old morning in the fields. Only so much coast you can walk along, isn’t there? Thought I’d pop back here and see what my favourite landlord was up to.”

“I’ve a great deal to do, actually,” I seethed. “And I did tell you that the barn was private. There’s a lot of work going on in here.”  

“Oh yes, I can see that. You’re just about as busy as a bee, aren’t you?”

“And with all the tools and things, it’s not particularly safe.”

“No, I imagine it’s not. Not safe at all.”

A moment of rather uncomfortable silence passed. I was absolutely flabbergasted that the man wouldn’t seem to take the hint and leave.

“You’ve been getting a lot of phone calls,” he said, seemingly apropos of nothing. I begged his pardon and he continued. “I’ve heard you. There seems to be a lot of wrong numbers. People asking for a different farm. Asking for people who aren’t even here.”

“Yes. And what of it?” I waved my hands to dismiss the notion. “There must be a mix up somewhere. Lines get crossed. It happens in this part of the country. We’re not in the big city now, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that,” he said, somewhat gnomically, before commencing a study of my concreting technique with an intrigued eye. “You’re tucked away from everything here, aren’t you? All by yourself. All secluded.” 

And then, without a further word of elaboration, he span on his heels and returned to the farmhouse, leaving me alone with my concrete and thoughts.

Later, I was in the kitchen preparing to dine. Trevor had not enquired about an evening meal and I had no desire to extend an invitation. No, I was perfectly satisfied with my own company, thank you very much. Trevor, however, had other ideas. Intruding upon my supper, he crept into the room and took the seat opposite me. No excuse me; no do you mind. The man had the manners of a swine.

“That’s a good deal of work you’ve got going on in that barn,” he said, picking up precisely where our earlier conversation had fallen away, as if the time elapsed had been mere seconds rather than hours. The room was illuminated only by the lamp in the corner and the left hand side of his face fell beneath shadow. I asked what he meant. “The concreting, the digging… I imagine that you barely have a moment to yourself.”

I explained that repairs were required. Foundations. Reinforcements. Running a farm was a constant war of maintenance. 

“Harriet’s expecting me back home tomorrow,” he continued with a quite bizarre swerve of discourse.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Just that I’ll be missed. That’s all.” 

With that enigmatic declaration, Trevor rose from the table, tucked in his chair and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. In the subsequent silence, I became aware of the suddenly deafening sound of my own breathing. I sat and wondered exactly what on earth I was going to do with him. Trevor, oh Trevor… Precisely the sort of guest whose moment of checking out could not have arrived too soon, but what methods lay at the proprietor’s disposal to expedite that magnificent moment to the fore?

 

Willingworth Farm: Letter Four

 

May 29th

 

Some guests give you a good feeling from the word go. I’m not entirely sure why: an intangible magic that no entrepreneur has ever been able to bottle. A sixth sense, perhaps, that the hotelier(!) naturally develops. Well, I was only halfway through reading the first sentence of the first email that I received from Toby and Liz when my heart began to swell with exactly that sensation.

The couple were seeking a long weekend far from the beaten track and, my word, could they have chosen a more perfect place? A professional couple of good standing and appearance, they were the very personification of the market that I had been hoping Willingworth Farm would attract. They arrived at precisely the time stipulated and, with wide open arms, I swept them into my home. Toby, Liz, and their two young daughters, Sophie and Holly.

Children! Well, I must admit to a strange stirring of emotions as I watched the girls run in the yard, heeding my stern warning not to stray into the barn with an obedience that was a credit to their upbringing. They chased each other around, bubbling with life as their parents unloaded their luggage from the car. They were the first children I had welcomed as guests. They were, in fact, the first children who had ever set their tiny feet upon the soil of Willingworth Farm. Barbara and I had never been parentally blessed, and we never seemed to extend the hand of hospitality to those very distant relatives who were. My former wife was not, if I’m to be brazenly honest, what one would have described as the maternal type. Looking back now, I suppose this was one of the elements that gradually instigated our separation and, as I watched young Sophie and Holly pursue each other in giddy, giggling circles of bouncing blonde curls, I realised that it was certainly one of my regrets.

As a family, I do not believe they could have been more sublime. Liz was the quintessential mother hen, swinging into action with barely a pause for breath: organising all, calming quarrels, answering queries, seeking out misplaced items of dolls’ paraphernalia… Her duties were infinite and she juggled them with an efficiency I could only observe in awe. And then the girls – well, perfect to a fault! What angels! I fell in love the very second they burst from the car. Finally, of course, there was Toby. Well, what can I say about Toby? Toby, I can confirm, was Toby.

Naturally, I allowed my new guests time to settle in, but the familial mood was so infectious that I couldn’t help but be ensnared. Before too long we were all in the kitchen with some home cooking and a game of Cluedo. Holly claimed the honours that evening, correctly fingering Colonel Mustard in the Study with a candlestick. The victory, it must be said, was not achieved without a generous measure of paternal assistance, but there were few objections to this negligible flexing of the rules. Holly, I reminded myself, was still very young. And, whatever age you might be, it’s not always easy to figure out just who the murderer is.

The next day they went to the coast. The farm settled with an eerie calm. How odd it was, I contemplated, that after only a single day in their company I had become hopelessly attuned to their rhythm and force. In their absence, the house felt deserted. The rooms ached with vacancy, the hallways groaned in desolation. I must admit that I plodded through my chores that day with an air of the despondent. I kept myself busy – digging in the barn and paying a brief visit to the local scrap metal agent – but even these activities failed to encourage a swift passing of time. When the family returned, I was delighted, and ushered them around the kitchen table for a substantial evening meal.

That night it started raining – a downpour which refused to relent. The following morning Liz reviewed the grey skies and torrential misery to conclude that the day would see them housebound. Needless to say, I was absolutely delighted, and threw myself into action to ensure that the hours trapped inside Willingworth Farm would be those that lived long in the memory. The girls spent an hour drawing at the kitchen table as Liz, Toby and I enjoyed coffee. Eventually, I relented to their probing enquiries and agreed to tell them a little of my story. I talked about Barbara. I talked about how we had bought this farm and how we had made a home here. I talked about how she was no longer with me.

After lunch, I initiated a house-wide game of hide and seek. The girls shrieked with delight as I pursued them through the hall and up the stairs. The excited pant of their breathing would inevitably give them away as they attempted to hide beneath beds or in wardrobes. Their parents only managed to a savour a little of our fun, having both taken to the living room sofa for an afternoon nap. “You won’t escape me,” I whispered as I stalked through the bedrooms. “You’ll never escape me”.

So – Toby and Liz and the girls. What a family. What a weekend.

 

Willingworth Farm: Letter Three

 

May 15th

 

From the rear window of the kitchen at Willingworth Farm, one is rendered practically breathless by the view which presents itself. Miles, I would estimate, of rolling, pristine countryside. The land stretching to the horizon with the characteristic planarian spread of Norfolk. Fields chequered in an earthy palate of greens, browns and yellows; the harsh boundaries of criss-crossing hedgerows surrounding the single grey slither of road that ploughs from my drive all the way back to the B362. I remember when my wife and I would sit in that spot, gazing out upon the world as the seasons changed and accordingly charged its display. Happy memories, and it was therefore with a great swell of warmth that I entered the room this morning to find the latest recipients of my bed and board, Kim and Steve, sipping freshly brewed coffee in a pose identical to the one which Barbara and I would once upon a time have held.

Steve is in finance. Up to his neck, apparently. He revealed this to me within seconds of walking through the door. Working in The City, he confided, was not for the faint of heart. By all accounts it was a visceral conflation of teeth and claws, of dogs eating dogs, of backs being washed or scratched or stabbed on a seemingly indiscriminate basis. Kim – obviously no stranger to this monologue – failed to mask a dismissive chuckle which, I noted with my own wry smile, stole the wind somewhat from Steve’s billowing sails. Kim, however, had quite the contrary vocation to her partner’s. I was greatly impressed by her account of volunteering for various charities: the soup kitchens, the refuge centres, the fundraising and campaign management. What a dedicated, compassionate and resourceful woman! It was apparent there and then that the long weekend ahead would offer the chance for some stimulating conversation.

They claimed they had come to Willingworth Farm to “wind down”. I wasn’t at all convinced that this would prove itself a serviceable ambition. The very second that Steve had prised the wireless network key from my lips, he practically barricaded himself in their bedroom with a spread of laptops, tablet computers and phones. Kim seemed to accept this behaviour with the nature of one well accustomed to it and spent the majority of the weekend walking the local area by herself. I offered – on more than one occasion – to provide her with company, although each time she demurely declined. As I watched her from my bedroom window, it occurred to me that I had inadvertently taken a ringside seat to a marriage falling apart. A dilemma arose: should I try to offer advice from the benefit of my own experience? I had, after all, been in a very similar position. I could have comforted or counselled; I could have offered a shoulder upon which to cry. But where should the host draw the line? The privacy of a guest is paramount, and there are moments when all one can do is look on from a distance.

That evening, I heard them arguing in their room. Not that I was listening, but Willingworth Farm is an old building with thin walls and echoing corridors. Occasionally, there are things which just cannot be ignored, no matter how hard the individual in question believes that they should try. The row was constructed from all the usual wrangles – that he worked too much, that she had no grasp of the real world, that he was absent from the relationship, that she was unrealistic and demanding… And so on and, indeed, so forth. The collapse of their relationship was in no way unique, but this didn’t diminish their pain nor lessen their suffering. I retired to my bedroom, bare feet stepping softly back along the hallway in darkness, to contemplate this quandary alone.

The next morning at breakfast, Steve and Kim were pleasant enough, but this comportment felt like a curtain behind which I had already peaked. I cooked and gave them the low down on Belminster, suggesting that perhaps they should pay a visit to the town. Steve, however, was adamant that he’d need to put in a few hours at the computer. As I cleared away the plates, he returned – true to form – to the bedroom, while Kim donned her fleece and took to the fields. For a while, I followed her progress. First from the kitchen, then round into the living room, and then from the bathroom window – which I had to race upstairs and open – for one last angled view afforded only as I perched with tiptoes on the toilet seat. They’d be with me for one more day, but it felt as if they hadn’t been here at all. Not really. It was to my great regret that, for this particular pair, Willingworth Farm had failed to cast its spell.

Kim didn’t return until late afternoon while Steve’s appearances were short and sporadic. He would emerge from his room to indulge in the coffee and sandwiches of which I maintained a ready supply, only to disappear again the moment the plate or mug was clasped in his hurried hand. It was the strangest situation. That evening, I prepared supper for the three of us, but the conversation around the table was sluggish at best. Not even my celebrated tale of when Mr Gister, the owner of the farm four miles away, got his foot caught in a drain managed to raise spirits. Eventually, they went – quite reluctantly, I suppose – to bed. I remained in the kitchen and pondered their situation, considering what mercy I could possibly bring. As guests they were not the slightest trouble, and yet they were obviously so very troubled themselves. It made me realise that it would be impossible to completely understand precisely who I was welcoming through my door. I would never fully appreciate the secrets folded inside their luggage. I would never be privy to the complications they would carry to their bedroom, the complexities they would unpack into my wardrobes and drawers, the character they would sweat into my sheets.

 

 

Willingworth Farm: Letter Two

 

April 29th

 

It was an utter joy to welcome Ian and Catherine (“Cath” to her friends!) across my threshold. As they absorbed the secluded, rural location, both of my guests were effervescent with the novelty of finding themselves off the beaten track. Urban and urbane they may have been, but they took to the Willingworth pace of life with complete aplomb. Polite, courteous and quiet, I could not have wished for a more agreeable couple to present themselves as my inaugural guests. Cath was particularly fascinated by the guided walking tours I offered around the surrounding country miles, and was all but spellbound as I waxed lyrical regarding the local produce from which the foundation of our meals were formed. On the first evening, she remained with me in the kitchen for over three hours, totally captivated as I exposed a scintillating spread of meats, vegetables, cheeses, chutneys, breads and wines. Poor old Ian was very much left to his own devices that night, I’m afraid! And I do not think it was merely my imagination when, as I insisted on preparing a full English breakfast the following morning, there seemed to be an undercurrent of green-eyed envy within the room.

Still, to Ian’s credit, this bitter feeling never rose to the surface and that meal was as pleasant as any I care to remember. They announced their desire to spend the day in Belminster, the nearest town. A little shopping, some sight-seeing, a wander through the lanes and a skim around the picturesque church. Well, away they duly went. I watched their car motor from the drive and along the road until it disappeared from view. For whatever reason, I then stayed in the same position until I saw it return. A speck, initially, in the distance. A glint of metal reflecting the setting sun. They were coming back, I thought. Coming back to the farm. Coming back to me.

Ian and Cath had already eaten, but I insisted upon preparing a spot of light supper. Throwing together some cold cuts and salad, I inferred from their silence that they wished me to join them. Wearied by the day’s exertion, they were in no mood to talk themselves and so I took a seat at the table, ready to earn my keep by playing host. Veering towards the convivial, I expounded a little on the history of Belminster – an anecdotal approach which served to focus a much appreciated lens on the sights they had earlier enjoyed. After a glass or two of wine, they gradually began to reciprocate and conversation naturally turned towards the personal. We chatted about their jobs and their home and, as we grew more comfortable in each other’s company, it seemed that my guests were finally ready to air the questions they had been longing to ask me.

Was I married? It was Cath who spoke. A sip of wine following the upward inflection of that final syllable; an ambiguous look in her eye. Well, I simply shook my head. Not any more, I told them. No, not any more.

The following day, they snuck out at the crack of dawn. As I hadn’t had the chance to even ask about their plans,  I busied myself with the toil of maintaining a tidy home. The farm, after all, does not look after itself! The hours crawled by and I was clearing up from my solitary evening meal before they eventually returned. They crept through the front door like a pair of skulking teenagers as, readily performing my part of the prudish parent, I pounced into the hallway. 

“And where have you two been?” I intoned with high humour. Ian and Cath pulled appropriately guilty faces before we all fell about laughing.

And so it was the final morning. I served up a hearty breakfast as Ian and Cath announced their intention to indulge a farewell stroll around the fields before leaving for home. It was such a glorious spring day that I could hardly blame them. Off they went, and I watched for a while from the kitchen window until they disappeared around the side of the barn and were lost from my line of sight. And so that was that – my first experience of opening up my doors. All in all, as I stood in the bedroom and considered their packed cases, I thought of how lucky I was to have started my venture with such wonderful people. How impossible it then seemed that I would ever again be blessed with a couple more deserving of my hospitality.

 

 

Willingworth Farm: Letter One

 

A Welcome to Willingworth Farm’s Blog

June 30th

 

Recently, and after much searching of the soul, I decided to open the doors here at Willingworth Farm to the paying public. Employing the convenience of a popular holiday rental platform, I began to engage with prospective guests via the medium of the World Wide Web. My home was announced as a retreat amongst the splendour of the Norfolk countryside. A sanctuary where the weary would be welcomed, where the fatigued could recuperate in both body and soul. Without wishing to boast, it came as no surprise when the venture proved itself an immediate success! Visitors would arrive, practically crushed beneath the weight of the daily grind, only to find themselves a few days later floating in a serene stupor. Some of my guests – God bless their souls! – even found a return to the real world a daunting impossibility.

It has been, to say the least, an eye-opening endeavour. The carousel of life which would appear, bag in hand, on my doorstep has never failed to surprise, stimulate or delight. It was an equally novel undertaking to ingratiate myself with the peculiar etiquette of the internet. Initially, I was somewhat bemused and a trifle affronted by the rental service’s imposing demand that the guests should pen reviews of yours truly whilst, concurrently, I jotted down my own critique of them. The ratings, the feedback, the recommendations, the likes and the references… Those odd and time-consuming waters into which we are all forced to digitally wade.

However, it was not long before this element of the process became something that I began to cherish. Not, I assure you, because of the opportunity to whinge or complain, nor even praise and flatter. Rather, it was the facility to build a record of those who had stayed with me that stirred my appreciation. An electronic log; an online book of remembrance. Sadly, the limitations of character and space enforced by the website review system were a trifle restrictive for my tastes. Therefore, I decided to grasp the nettle. With a leap of faith and any number of stumbling technological false starts, here we find ourselves at the beginning of my very own blog! And so, I welcome you, oh dear and gentle reader, to my modest little corner of the information highway; to my own brief and commemorative record of those who came to stay at Willingworth Farm.

 

Yours

Peter Edingly