Read Appleby Farm for Free Online Page A

air here was stuffed with extra oxygen. Whatever it was I slept like a log and it was nine o’clock when I climbed out of my single bed the next morning and pulled the curtain aside.
    I’d like to say that a soft blue sky gave me a perfect view all the way down the valley to Lake Windermere from my bedroom window. Sadly, that was not the case. The rain had begun hammering it down by the time Auntie Sue and I had gone to bed after our catch-up, and although it had stopped now, the sky was bulging with fat low clouds that seemed to hover over the landscape, barely skimming the tops of trees and distant scattered rooftops.
    Ten minutes later, I’d showered, dressed, scooped my hair up into a ponytail and was helping myself to tea from a blue-glazed teapot I’d found sitting on the Aga. There was no one about, so I slipped into my coat and wellies and took my mug outside.
    I meandered down the mossy path at the front of the farmhouse, through the little cottage garden blooming with spring flowers and out through the gate.
    Phwoar
! I grinned to myself. What a pong! How had that unmistakeable farmyard aroma sneaked past me last night? I sipped at my tea, crossed the cobbled yard pitted with puddles and took a good, long look around me to remind myself of the farm’s layout. Most of the buildings faced on to the yard: the old three-storey farmhouse, a stout sort of building made from weathered dove-grey stone, was at the heart of the farm. A couple of barns stood on one side of the house and Auntie Sue’s veggie patch and orchard on the other. The cowsheds, the milking parlour and the old dairy opposite were built of the same stone as the farmhouse and I walked slowly past them, noticing the holes in the slate roofs. Yet despite the farm buildings’ slightly tumbledown appearance, there was an irresistible charm to the old place and it warmed my heart to be back.
    I paused next to the old dog kennel that had been in the yard for as long as I could remember and peered into the small field beyond, which was fenced off for the chickens. Thirty or so plump brown hens wandered around, pecking purposefully at the grass. A scruffy wooden mobile henhouse complete with windows, a ramp and pitched roof stood in the centre and behind it, a pair of wellington-clad feet were just visible between its wheels.
    ‘Hello, Auntie Sue! How’s Uncle Arthur today?’
    ‘Morning, love!’ Auntie Sue’s head popped out from behind the nesting boxes. ‘He’s sulking in his office because I wouldn’t let him come outside.’
    ‘Oh dear.’ I pulled a face. The ground floor of the farmhouse had a dining room that no one ever used and a small office where Uncle Arthur liked to spend as little time as possible. But then he didn’t like being inside much, full stop.
    My aunt held out a wicker basket. ‘Guess what’s for breakfast?’
    ‘Fresh eggs! Yum. Would you like me to cook? I can boil them, but my poaching needs work.’
    And then some. I was actually a terrible cook. My scones regularly lulled people into thinking I was a whizz in the kitchen. The truth was sadly quite different. But what I lacked in skill, I made up for in enthusiasm, which had to count for something.
    ‘Not today,’ Auntie Sue replied diplomatically. ‘Anyway, we had ours hours ago.’
    So much for me coming to help; I was more like a lazy guest. That would have to change.
    ‘You should have woken me,’ I said, feeling rather sheepish. ‘Never mind, I’ll get straight on with some chores.’
    She flapped a hand at me and looked down at her watch. ‘Has that dog turned up yet?’
    I turned to see Madge ambling slowly towards me.
    ‘She’s here now,’ I replied.
    ‘Watch this,’ Auntie Sue chuckled.
    The old dog flopped down in front of the kennel and, as if she’d rehearsed it, an escaped hen waddled past Madge and into the kennel, clucked noisily and reappeared almost straight away. The dog, with sudden stealth, sprang to her paws, stuck her head in the