In springtime in our family, we always have the same old argument: where should we go on our summer holiday (I know, I know — we should have booked it months ago). Every year I make the same suggestion, and every year I’m shouted down. ‘Let’s go back to West Middlewick Farm,’ I say, more in hope than expectation. ‘No! There’s nothing to do there!’ reply my wife and teenage children. ‘But that’s exactly why I like it,’ I protest, before we go and book an overpriced villa in Spain or Italy.
This year, however, I’m feeling a bit more optimistic. The exchange rate is rotten, the British weather is balmy (hurrah for global warming) and the prospect of doing nothing on a farm in Devon is looking increasingly attractive, even to two jaded teenagers more accustomed to the Costa Brava.
I first came across West Middlewick Farm six years ago, when my daughter wanted to be a farmer (these days, there’s nothing she’d like to do less).
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