Rural inn.
Emily and Brian returned to the village where they both grew up after their divorces left them single. As soon as they met at Emilys parents house in the hamlet of Willowbrook, an old spark ignitedmemories of schoolyard friendship flared, and they decided to spend the rest of their lives together, right here on home soil.
Their parents welcomed the news with open arms. Brians family owned a spacious farmhousekeep it tidy, dont be lazy, his mother would say. Both were fifty, their children grown, their own parents still spry, and the only business the village needed was farming.
They agreed to raise goats. That meant building a larger shelter and leasing pasture, but Brian was determined, and Emily could not have been happier. The grandparents pitched in with money and labour, and before long the modest herd was thriving. Work was hard, and soon a neighbouring couple in their forties began to help: the women tended the milking, the kids and the young goats, while the men grazed the herd, monitored health, kept the pens clean and logged the feed.
Albert, Brians father, acted as the farms caretaker, looking after the machine shed where a relic tractor, a mower and a handful of toolschainsaws, a woodworking bench, various bits of equipmentstill lingered from the old collective farm. Mary, the matriarch, despite being in her seventies, still cooked for the growing number of workers and hired hands who gathered for lunch each day.
The oncesilent village filled again with the bleating of goats, the crow of roosters and the clucking of hensthe soundtrack of the farm. The oldest resident, Agnes Whitfield, one day appeared at Emilys door and asked to be taken in.
Excuse me, dear? Emily asked, bewildered. Youre still on your feet, full of life
My dear, my daughter lives in the city and keeps calling, but Ive always postponed. Now the village is buzzing and the farm is thriving, so Ill stay. I can contribute part of my pension for food, but I want to be among people. Your inn smells wonderfultheres nothing like it on the street. I barely cook for myself any more. Ill just help out a little, I promise, and I wont be a burden.
Of course, for Gods sake, we wont tire you out, Mrs. Whitfield. Come into our kitchen, Emily replied.
From then on, Agnes joined the midday meals, always impeccably dressed. Her old woollen dress was ironed to perfection, a crisp white knitted collar perched on her shoulders, a silver broochhalf its stones missingglinting beneath. She wore polished black shoes, not the usual clogs. The kitchen maid, Mary, gasped, Where did this ladyofthehouse come from?
Emily, with a sympathetic glance at her motherinlaw, gestured, Come in, youll be comfortable here.
Agnes had taught literature at the village school during the old days and ran the tiny local library for decades when the village still had a school, a club and a shop. At first she was so thrilled by the camaraderie that she ate very little, constantly fixing her collar, examining the crockery, the dishes, the kitchen, and the people around her.
Eat, eat, Mrs. Whitfield, and then well talk while we wash up. Could you give us a hand? Mary smiled.
After lunch, as everyone hurried back to work, Mary seated Agnes at the table, slipped an apron over her, and asked her to dry the plates right there so she wouldnt get exhausted.
Thus the work went on. One day Agnes arrived with a bundle.
Here, she said, unveiling new curtains for the windows, theyve been stored away for years; Im giving them to the inn.
The curtains freshened the dining room. Later, the elderly lady donated some of her own china, which she had only used on holidays.
What need we have those in the sideboard? Ive kept them all my life. Here, every day feels like a feast.
Emilys parents helped with the big cleanups, which proved invaluable. The custodians organised regular sweeps of the dining room, the new cheesemaking room, and even tended the vegetable beds.
What impressed everyone most was Agness relentless enthusiasm. She raided her trunks for everything: tablecloths, napkins, handwoven colourful runners to lay across the long benches.
This beauty belongs in a museum! Emily exclaimed. Well only sit on it, not display it.
Meanwhile the farm began to turn a profit. Every Sunday Brian and Albert drove to the market in the nearby town, where regular customers had already formed.
Thanks to Agnes and Mary, the inn transformed. They decided to commission sturdy wooden tables and benches in a rustic style. Agnes contributed her embroidery, lace, towels, clogs, wooden bowls, and pots. The inn became almost a museum room. Locals dug up old coaliron irons, samovars, tea kettles, copper pots and even wooden spinning wheels with spindles from the lofts.
Now we truly have a village inn, Emily said at a communal lunch. I think city folk would love to dine here, dont you think?
Everyone approved. Mary and Agnes crafted a special menu: leek and potato soup, mushroom broth, smoked fish, ovenbaked stew with meat and potatoes, cabbage rolls, dumplings baked in earthenware, sauerkraut with cranberries, panfried pork chops with barley, and pies filled with cabbage and other homely fare from Willowbrook.
The hamlet lay close to the main road, and without any advertising, travellers from the city heard of the warm hospitality and began to visit, leaving voluntary contributions to support the farm and the village. The owners asked only that guests give what they can.
Agness pies, made from her treasured recipes, were in highest demand. She would recount, eyes glistening, how her mother baked bread and pies every day, sharing the old customs with anyone who would listen.
Word of Willowbrooks revival spread across the county. When the flow of guests grew, they added a second wing with a traditional open hearth, bright windows and a charming porch, its doorframes carved exactly like those on Agness own cottage.
In the original wing they created a display room, collecting artefacts from surrounding villages. Together with teachers from the local primary school, Agnes curated an exhibition of everyday objects, photographs, medals awarded to villagers for service in the Great War, and postwar achievements.
What a grand thing weve done, Agnes told the neighbours, now I can pass peacefully.
Not so fast, Emily and Brian laughed, who else will give tours to our guests? We need you!
And so they live as a closeknit team, more a family than a business, with the elders of Willowbrook and the younger residents alike. The village does not expand as quickly as anyone wishes, but thanks to the visitors there are always lively conversations, smiles and a sense of belonging. It all began with one simple desireto work the land and make a home.
