That farm stall is a dream.
An idea tossed around for years before it became real.
A farm stall for a farm bought and paid for by my great great grandfather (William) who worked it for years for a wealthy landowner called David Berry, paid his rent regularly, then rode his horse to the auction to bid on his own farm. He got it. That day it became ours too.
They were always dairy farmers, these family men of mine. Something I never intended to do because it looked like such hard work, not like piping eyeballs onto pig cupcakes at midnight, what a doddle.
A farm stall that has a logo with my Dad in the middle of it, picking coffee (which I think he's doing in his sleep right now – it's coffee picking time) and hens, bees, pigs and a Holstein. (Although when we go looking for a house cow I think it will be a Jersey. These hills have a long history of Holsteins.) If I'd thought about it I would have pre-emptively included Indian Runner ducks. Very top of my Christmas list.
Today we took our own free range pork, fennel and sage sausages to the market (and sold out by 10am.) Today it felt like we were finally a farm stall, not just a biscuit stall hoping to be a farm stall.
Adam put the supers onto the beehives. Next up: honey! Wild blackberry jam! Farm house quiche!
It was hard work getting to the market today but we did well and it's 8.15pm and the entire family is asleep apart from me and I'm thinking red wine and a movie.
Cheers to you, William.
I'm so unbelievably grateful to you.