We’ve also invested in good Wi-Fi. Not just good-for-the-country, really good. It gets beamed straight to us from a mast twenty miles away. It costs a bit and Dad was against it, but I know London people. They say they want to get away from it all, but when you tell them there’s a Wi-Fi code they nearly collapse in relief. And luckily we have phone signal at the house—although not in the fields or the woods. If they want to call the office from the middle of a hike, too bad.

Meanwhile, Dad’s created a bike trail through the fields, and a mini adventure playground, and a gypsy caravan where children can go and play if it rains. At night we light lanterns along the paths of the yurt village, and it honestly looks like fairyland.

“Farmer Mick!” I can hear excited shrieks coming from the path up to the woods. “Farmer Mick!”

This is the biggest revelation of all: Dad.

I thought Dad was going to be the problem. I thought he wasn’t going to take it seriously. So I sat him down the week before the first guests arrived, and I said: “Listen, Dad, you have to be nice to the glampers. This is serious. It’s Biddy’s money. It’s your future. Everything depends on your being charming and helping the glampers and making life easy for them. OK? If they want to climb trees, help them climb trees. If they want to milk the cows, let them. And don’t call them townies.”

“I wouldn’t!” Dad replied defensively.

“Yes, you would. And be especially nice to the children,” I added as a parting shot.

Dad was very quiet for the rest of the day. At the time, I worried I’d offended him. But now I realize: He was thinking. He was creating a role for himself. And just as Biddy has blown me away with her ideas, Dad’s blown me away with basically turning into a completely different human being.

“Farmer Mick! More tricks!”

Dad appears round the corner of the shower barn, accompanied by the three-year-old triplets who have been staying this week. There are two boys and a girl, and they’re super-sweet, all dressed in little Scandinavian stripy tops.

Dad, meanwhile, is in his “Farmer Mick” outfit. He’s taken to wearing a bright checked shirt with a straw hat, and he practically says “Oo-aarh” every other sentence. He’s walking along, juggling three beanbags very badly, but the children don’t care.

“Who wants to ride in the pickup?” he asks, and the children all shout excitedly, “Me! Me!”

“Who wants to see Agnes the cow?”

“Me!”

It’s not Agnes the cow, it’s Agnes the bantam hen, but I’m not going to correct him. I mean, whatever.

“Who’s having the best holiday of their life?” He winks at me.

“Meeee!” The children’s shouts are deafening.

“Let’s sing our song now!” Dad launches into a lusty tune. “Ansters Farm, Ansters Farm, best place to be…Ansters Farm, Ansters Farm, never want to leave…Who wants a Somerset toffee?”

“Meeeee!”

Honestly, he’s like some sort of children’s party entertainer. And he’s not stupid: Every other minute he tells the children they’re having the best holiday of their lives. It’s basically brainwashing. All the little ones leave the place actually weeping because they’re going to miss Farmer Mick, and we’ve had a load of re-bookings already.

What with him amusing the children, and Biddy making pots of jam the whole time, plus all the grown-up pursuits too, I do worry they’re going to burn out. But every time I say that to Dad or Biddy, they just laugh and come up with some new idea, like offering hay-baling lessons. During the week we’ve got a whole activity program called Somerset Skills. There’s willow-weaving, woodcraft, foraging—and the guests love it.

So, basically, the glamping site has started off as a roaring success. But whether they can make an actual profit…

Sometimes, just the thought of how much money Biddy’s thrown into this venture gives me a gnawing feeling inside. She won’t tell me exactly how much she’s invested—but it’s a lot. And that’s money that could have been put aside for her old age.

Anyway. There’s no point fretting about it. All I can do is help them turn this place into a profitable business. Which means, for starters, that “Farmer Mick” has to stop doling out free Somerset toffees, because: 1. He goes through boxes a day. 2. He eats half of them himself. 3. One of the parents has already complained about her child being given evil sugary treats.

The parents of the triplets appear from their yurt, followed by Steve Logan, who’s carrying their luggage for them. Steve helps us out on Saturdays, which are our turnaround days. And although he’s incredibly annoying, he’s also annoyingly useful. His hands are so huge, he can shift about three holdalls at once, and he always puts on this ridiculous deferential air, in the hope of tips.

“You mind how you go, sir,” he’s saying now, as he loads their SUV. “You look after yourselves now, sir. You have a safe trip, now. Lovely family. You should be very proud. We’ll miss you.”

“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.