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). It sounded just right for her — a working farm where you could help with all the chores: collecting eggs; feeding lambs and piglets; bringing the cows in for milking. It sounded delightful, and it was. Midway between Dartmoor and Exmoor, not far from the old market town of Tiverton, it’s surrounded by countryside, but well off the tourist trail. My daughter and I spent a weekend there and we had a great time. A calf was born and my daughter named her. We saw her take her first steps.
The next summer we went back with my wife and son and spent a week there, exploring the woods and meadows, pottering around the farm. You can camp or bring a caravan, stay in one of their comfy log cabins, or do B&B in the farmhouse.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in