‘If you’re willing to put the work in. You’ve got a good six weeks to prepare for the Christmas rush. It won’t be easy, but if you get out there and shear the trees and dig up the weeds, you could be ready to open to the public in December – assuming you’re planning to run it as a choose-your-own tree farm?’

‘As opposed to what?’

‘There’s a Christmas market in Elffield. It’s a wee craft market all year round, but in September, it becomes a gorgeous Christmas market. Villagers gather there to sell their local produce, and there are people selling handmade gifts, crafts, and festive food and drink. It’s a real hub for the local community, and it’s popular with tourists too. Evergreene used to cut the trees himself and take them there to sell. When he was older and the work got too much for him, he opened Peppermint Branches up as a cut-your-own farm, but I’d never trust people to walk around my farm unattended with sharp blades. Choose-your-own is great, but you need staff on hand to do the cutting.’

‘What do you do with your pumpkins?’

‘I do both. I have a stall at the Christmas market so I’m there every morning from September onwards, and then in October, I open as a pick-your-own pumpkin patch. No one needs sharp weapons to pick a pumpkin, and I’ve invested in good fences to keep people out of the growing areas I don’t want them stamping across, so you can generally leave people to their own devices. It’s different to letting people run around a tree farm with saws. Evergreene had all kinds of trouble with it – people would start cutting one down and find it too difficult, or their kid would run off and find one they liked better, and he’d have a load of half-cut trees, and I mean with damaged trunks, not drunk.’

I once again start giggling at the mental image of drunken trees swaying in the wind, and he laughs too. ‘The funny part is that I know exactly what you’re thinking, and I knew you were going to think it as soon as I said that.’

‘Well, I don’t know what trees get up to in their spare time, do I?’ I try to compose myself. I’ve already cried in front of him tonight, I can’t start a giggling fit too. ‘They could be right old lushes for all I know, off down the pub every night to get blootered.’

‘They do that leaping sprint on the way and the wobbly crawl on the way back. Haven’t you ever been to a Christmas tree farm at night? They all disappear down the local and stumble home in the early hours, and by the time you get up, they’re all leaning over groaning and there are pine needles thrown up everywhere.’