The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea

If only I’d stuck to cake making.

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A Tour of Daisy Hill Farm: Do cows eat cake?

First things first. Please don’t look at what I’m wearing or I might just die of shame.

‘You can’t go out in a flimsy little thing like that to see a farm,’ Rafe says, pointing to my thickest warmest fur-lined winter parka, as I arrive in the yard the next day. ‘I’ll find you a Barbour.’

The way he says the B word, he makes it resonate, as if it’s full of spiritual significance, and then he rushes off to the house. ‘Great,’ I say, remembering the short almost on-trend jacket Immie lent me on Sunday. Except what he brings back isn’t anything related to that at all. It might go by the same name, but it’s definitely not the same species. Somewhere along the line it’s mutated, which is why I’m currently doing an impression of a yurt on legs.

‘Thanks.’ I’m not wanting to sound ungrateful, but a marquee would have fitted better. Although I have to admit there’s something immediately addictive about the smell of the wax oiled fabric.

If news on the style front is disastrous, as long as you ignore that we are not travelling by car, we are not even travelling by Landy, we are actually travelling by tractor – and that is the kind with four wheels all approximately the size of the London eye, where you practically need a ladder to get on board – the rest is better.

An hour later, my brain is popping with information on feed prices and milk quotas, not to mention every fun fact there is to know about organic farming methods, past and present. What’s more mind boggling still, it seems that Rafe’s family collect land and farms at approximately the same rate I collect Kate Moss dresses from eBay. But on the plus side I’ve discovered that the way to soften up Rafe is by talking cows not cake. We’re standing in a drafty barn, but the good part is there’s bouncy yellow straw on the floor, and we’re watching some very cute black and white calves with wobbly legs, skittering around.

‘The last time I saw straw like this was in a nativity play when I was at infant school.’ This is the extent of my conversation on the subject of straw, I just hope the man appreciates it.

‘Come over here …’ Rafe’s voice is low.

A calf is sticking its nose through the railings, and is nuzzling his hand.

‘If you put your finger in its mouth, it’ll suck,’ he says.

I shudder, and not in a good way. ‘Thanks, but I don’t think so.’

‘You might find you like it. People do …’ Rafe is rubbing the calf, tickling the tufty hair between its ears

Cow slobber? I steal myself, and creep towards them. The next thing, there’s a slimy wet nose pushing against the palm of my hand.

‘Oh my.’ Waxed jackets were obviously designed with slobber in mind. I’m just totally relieved this isn’t happening to the front of my best parka.

‘Not so bad is it?’ Rafe’s letting out the nearest thing to a laugh I’ve heard, but then I realise he’s talking to the calf, not to me.

‘Awww … his eyes are blue … and look at his lashes …’ I might sound besotted, but it’s always the eyes that get you with babies. According to Immie we’re biologically programmed to react to them, and kick into care and protect mode.

‘Here.’ Rafe takes my hand and gently guides my fingers into the calf’s mouth.

Its tongue is raspy and sticky, warm on my hand. As it begins to suck I let out a gasp.

‘We don’t do this too often, or they give up drinking from the bucket,’ he says. ‘But it’s a good way of making the humans less nervous.’

How the hell did his voice get this chocolatey without eating any brownies?

‘You might want to visit at tea time, they knock you over to get to their milk.’ His lips twitch into a semi smile. ‘Not all farming is this cosy, but it’s a good place to start.’

Everything I had to say about weddings has gone. Which is a pity, because while Rafe is all relaxed and chatty, it might be an ideal opportunity to run a few things past him.

‘Daisy Hill Farm needs a website you know.’ I blurt out the first item from my list of priorities as it pops into my head.

A second calf is sniffing now, and before I know, Rafe grasps my other hand, and what do you know, I’ve got two calves sucking on my fingers.

‘Set one up then.’ He says not even bothering to look in my direction. Blunt as that.

‘Me?’ Now I’m warmer and out of the wind, I can smell a hint of delicious aftershave wafting up from the corduroy collar of my borrowed coat. I try to block out that it might be his.

‘You’re the one that wanted the job. It’s down to you. Do whatever you have to.’

‘Great.’ This should be easy, so why is he making it sound hard?

‘One condition –’ this time he does look at me, and it’s almost a glare. ‘– don’t bother me with it, because I don’t want to know.’

‘Right.’ So what about the other hundred items on my list that all need answers?

‘If that’s clear, when you can bear to drag yourself away, I’ll take you to see the wedding field.’

I’m strangely reluctant to detach myself from the snuffly noses, but I do. Slowly.

After a long goodbye, he hands me a towel, which is good because I’ve never known slime like it. I’m still wiping my hands on the back of my jeans as the barn door clangs shut behind us.

‘As for your contract, Wedding Coordinator doesn’t adequately describe the responsibility you’ll be taking here. You won’t just be planning, you’ll be the one everyone turns to on the day. The one in total charge. In other words, it’s your head on the block.’ He’s ushering me towards the tractor, and shouting over the roar of the wind. ‘You’d better change your job title to Events Manager.’

Immie was so right when she said this guy has no idea.

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A Tour of Daisy Hill Farm Continued: Red boots and spring rain

‘So if you were having a birthday cake, I think either a tractor, or a cow would suit you.’ I’m musing here. Allocating cake designs to people? It’s a thing I like to do as soon as I get to know a little about someone. Even if they are blowing hot and cold.

We’re bowling along rutted tracks back to the main farm, and to be honest there’s simply no space left in my head for another fact about cows or sheep or fertilizer or slurry. Slurry? It’s the most disgusting thing out. Take it from me, you DO NOT want to know details. And don’t write me off as an air head, but my brain is officially rammed. There’s enough agricultural information in there to last at least two lifetimes, which is why I decided I have to fill the space as we drive back to the farm with a conversation about normal stuff.

‘Why the hell would I want a birthday cake?’ Rafe sends me another of his disbelieving sideways glances. I’ve noticed he resorts to these a lot when it’s me doing the talking not him.

I’m torn between frustration at him being so unreceptive, and a horrible pang of sympathy for someone who obviously hasn’t blown out any candles in a very long time. How can a guy be so out of touch with the fun side of life?

‘When did you last have one?’ This is less rude than it sounds, I’m only trying to keep the conversation on topic. And asking questions will save me from what Immie calls my nervous splurging.

‘How do I know? Probably when I was about five.’

Probably not true at all. Isn’t it a typical guy thing to dismiss what doesn’t interest them?

‘My mum made the most awesome birthday cakes,’ I say. It’s out before I can stop myself, because usually I’d rather not talk about my mum, especially not with strangers, so I move on swiftly. ‘For my fifth birthday I had the most amazing merry-go-round cake, with prancing horses and barley sugar twists holding up the roof.’ Growing up in a kitchen with the table covered in icing bowls and piping bags definitely rubbed off on me, but there’s no point sharing that with a cake hater.

‘So I grew up with cows and tractors, you grew up with cake. That explains a lot.’ He gives a sarcastic laugh. ‘It’s always the kids who have easy childhoods who grow up to be annoyingly happy adults.’

Two side swipes in one breath. I doubt that my mum bringing me up on her own counted as easy for her, not that I’m going to tell Rafe that. My dad died when I was too young to remember, we never had much money or owned a home, but my mum made up for it in every other way. Our home might have been tiny, but it was filled with warmth and love and colour. If those digs were meant to shut me up, I’m not letting him get away with it.