Page 61 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
I put down the phone. We don’t have to wait too long.
The schoolgirls are the first in line, and this time they’ve brought friends. Twm Bach is there, smiling and chatting on one of the straw bales next to Dad, the pair of them remembering when the cattle market was the place to be and when they were young men growing up, learning, waiting to take over the family farms. But every now and again I see Dad catch Myfanwy’s eye. He’s holding her notebook and taking down more orders for Welsh cakes, bread and bara brith from a steady stream of customers collecting orders.
Jess lets out a bark of excitement as the queue at the lorry grows. The air is full of Christmas cheer, with the smell of wood burning on the barbecue, and people standing round it with cups of tea and Evie handing out more of Myfanwy’s Welsh cakes to waiting customers.
‘Let Jess out of the truck, Owen,’ I suggest. ‘She’s welcome to lunch too.’
The queue grows and by the end of lunchtime, when the kids have gone back to school, some teachers too, the mother-and-toddler group, and some white-van drivers who have heard about us on social media have left, we’re sold out.
‘That’s the last potato.’
‘And the last of the cawl,’ I say to Mae.
We turn to each other and high-five.
‘That was brilliant,’ says Evie. ‘I’d better get off to my next client. But I’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘We’ll have to make more for tomorrow,’ I say to Mae.
She smiles and nods. ‘Same time, same place?’
‘Think I’ll add shepherd’s pie to the menu. We have plenty of hogget. I could do shepherd’s pies in foil parcels, like little boats.’
‘Good idea!’ says Mae. ‘I’ll add sour cream to my menu and maybe sliced mushrooms.’
‘I’m thinking of doing a hogget curry at some point. A real winter warmer.’
‘Good idea!’ Mae agrees.
And the ideas, like our enthusiasm for the lorry, keep coming.
At home, with the fire lit, Llew out on the quad bike checking the ewes and their feed, I experiment with ashepherd’s pie recipe, carrots and onions, browning the meat. I season it, stir in some flour, add stock and Worcestershire sauce, then top it with a thick layer of buttery mash and slide it into the oven.
By the time it’s ready, Llew is back, showered and changed, and Dad has found a bottle of red wine he’s been keeping for a special occasion.
‘And this is a special occasion. It was wonderful to be back at the cattle mart today,’ he says. ‘Proper community. Haven’t seen that many people since … since it closed down. It felt like a celebration,’ he says, as he pulls the cork from the bottle. At the same time I take the shepherd’s pie from the oven. Golden crispy mashed potato on the top, with dark brown peaks, the gravy bubbling up at the edges, giving us a hint of the soft, seasoned meat and vegetables below.
I take it to the table, where Llew is pouring the wine. ‘That looks fantastic!’ he says. ‘Honestly, you could serve hot meals if you ran a B-and-B.’
‘But is it a goer for the cattle lorry? We’ve got under three weeks until Christmas to get people out and mixing with friends and family. Is this going to pull them in?’
‘Well, it’s got me hooked. Shall I take a picture for your socials?’ says Llew.
I start to serve, dipping the big spoon into the crunchy crust, scooping it with the dark brown gravy onto a plate and handing it to Dad.
‘The reason they made shepherd’s pie like this was because no one knew when a shepherd would be in, so the potato kept the pie filling hot for whenever they were ready to eat,’ says Dad, tucking in. ‘Well, that’s what my mother told me.’
I put another plate in front of Llew, the aroma of savoury pie rushing up to greet us.
As we sit and eat in the kitchen, there is nowhere I’d rather be … and no one I’d rather be with.
I put my fork into the potato, with golden crunchy bits, and a sprinkling of cheese, then dive into the meat.
‘It’s just like your nan’s,’ says Dad. ‘You didn’t need to follow a recipe, just remember what you loved about it. How it made you feel. That’s all we can do in life, isn’t it? Follow our instincts. Go with what’s in our hearts.’
I couldn’t agree more. The rich gravy sits with the sweet carrots and caramelized onions and clings to the buttery mash. It’s just how I remember it in this kitchen when my grandparents were still here.
‘This is …’
