“We’ll miss you!” exclaims the mum, who is in a stripy top, just like her children, and clutching the lavender cushion she made yesterday. “We’ll miss all of you! Farmer Mick, and Biddy, and Katie, you’re an angel….” She seizes me in a sudden hug, and I hug her back, because they are a lovely family, and I know she means it.
I’m Katie here, to everyone. Of course I am. I’d never even try to be Cat. Not only am I Katie, but I’m a version of Katie even I don’t quite recognize sometimes. My London accent has gone. No point trying to sound urban here. It was always a bit of a strain, and the glampers don’t want to hear London; they want to hear Somerset. Thick, creamy Zummerzet, the way I was brought up.
My bangs have gone too. The hairstyle was so bloody needy, and it never felt like me. It’s not even feasible now that I’m not straightening my hair every day. I’m giving it a rest from heat treatments, which means the sleek chignon is gone and I’m back to my trademark Katie Brenner natural curls, tumbling down my back, tousled by the breeze. Nor am I bothering with flicky liquid eyeliner and three coats of mascara these days. And I’ve put my “city” glasses away in a drawer. You couldn’t exactly say I have a “look” anymore, but I’m so busy, I don’t care. My face is fuller too—all those delicious dinners—and tanned from the sun. A dusting of freckles has even appeared on my nose. I don’t look like me.
Well, maybe I look like a different me.
“What a beautiful family,” intones Steve, as the triplets climb into the SUV. “Family of little angels, they are. Little angels from heaven.”
I shoot a furious glare at Steve. He’s totally overdoing it and if he’s not careful, they’ll think he’s mocking them.
But the mum’s eyes glow even more, and the dad feels in his pocket.
“Ah. Now…here you are. Many thanks.” He hands Steve a note and I roll my eyes. It’ll only encourage him. Steve practically bows as the doors clunk shut, and we all wave as the car heads off down the drive.
That’s the last family of the week. All the yurts are now vacated.
There’s a short silence between us all, as though we’re contemplating this momentous fact. Then Biddy turns to me, claps her hands together in a businesslike way, and says, “Right.”
And it begins.
The thing about turnaround day is, it’s fine, as long as you don’t stop even for a moment. Biddy and I grab our cleaning things from the pantry and tackle the first two yurts. After half an hour, Denise from the village arrives, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m never totally sure that Denise is going to turn up.
While Denise takes over the cleaning, Biddy and I move on to preparing and styling the yurts. Fresh flowers in vases. Fresh supplies in the hamper. Fresh soap, fresh lavender sprigs, fresh WELCOME TO ANSTERS FARM card on the bed, each one handwritten:
To Nick, Susie, Ivo, and Archie.
To James and Rita.
To Chloe and Henry.
Chloe and Henry are James and Rita’s children, but they’re teenagers, so they’re in their own yurt. We don’t often get teens, and I hope there’s enough for them to do.
To Giles, Cleo, Harrison, Harley, and Hamish, plus Gus the dog!
This week is half term. In fact, last week was half term too—the schools seem to be picking different weeks this year because there’s an extra bank holiday this Friday. Which is great for us: double the bookings. So we’re crammed full of families, with cots and trundle beds everywhere. As I’m laying out blankets, I quickly check on my phone: Harley’s a girl. Right. Some of these trendy names, you really can’t be sure.
To Dominic and Poppy.
Divorced dad with his daughter. He mentioned that twice while he was booking over the phone. He said he wanted quality time with his little girl, and his ex keeps her too cooped up, in his opinion, and she needed more outdoor play, and he didn’t agree with a lot of his ex’s decisions….You could hear his pain. It was sad.
The glampers often do phone up, even though you can do it all online. They’ll say it was to check some detail, but I think they want to be sure that the place really does exist and we don’t sound like ax murderers, before they put down a deposit. Which, you know. Fair enough.
To Gerald and Nina.
Gerald and Nina are the grandparents of one of the families. I love it when multigenerational families come to stay.
Finally all the yurts are ready. Biddy’s laying up tea in the kitchen—we always offer this when the glampers arrive. Good hearty pots of tea, with her own scones and Ansters Farm jam. (Available to buy.)
Our kitchen really isn’t up to much—the cupboards are crummy MDF and the counters are Formica. It’s not like the “rustic” kitchens you find in London, with their Agas and larders and thickly hewn oak surfaces from Plain English. But we do have original flagstones, and we spread a linen cloth on the table and hang bunting everywhere and…Well. It does.
I’m walking back to the kitchen when Dad falls into step beside me.
“All set?” he says.
“Yes, it’s looking good,” I grin at him and touch the scarf round his neck. “Nice bandanna, Farmer Mick. Oh, and I meant to tell you, the showers got a special mention in one of the feedback forms. It said, Very good, for a glamping venue.”
“They’re very good for any venue,” retorts Dad, in a mock-grumbly voice, but I can tell he’s pleased. “That reminds me,” he adds lightly. “I saw something might interest you. Howells Mill, down in Little Blandon. It’s been converted into flats.”