This is Frances Brand’s memoir about moving from Yorkshire to take on a smallholding in Shropshire, opening up the house as a B&B. From the start there are intimations that her husband will suffer from some terrible disease. But unlike Raynor Winn’s The Salt Path, Brand’s book is unable to provide an inspiring message and I have mixed feelings about the book. This is my honest review after receiving a free digital ARC via NetGalley.

North Hill is the name of the farm. It’s only introduced as an aside during a section on the weather (“it’s not called North Hill for nothing”), but the farm’s name is never formally introduced, though there are frequent references to Red Kite, a cottage added later. Only almost halfway through the book does the author give a clear mention of North Hill, when discussing building extra rooms. Even then, I wasn’t absolutely certain that she wasn’t referring to the hill itself.

The introduction of the characters is extremely confusing as they are named as if we already know who they are. I think Beck is her husband (later confirmed), but she doesn’t specify at the start. I’m just guessing because she mentioned one of the couple was a journalist, the other a pharmacist, so when she says he’d sold his pharmacies in Bradford, I put two and two together. But Pat? No idea. I know authors are supposed to show not tell, but some things need to be introduced clearly. Later chapters are far clearer, though there is still a tendency to jump from some lovely description of wildlife or countryside into an anecdote about guests. In fact, I have the distinct feeling that this is a reworking of previously written essays to add in more stories about the B&B, making it very disjointed.

Unfortunately I find the author’s litany of complaints about other people really rather irritating. Unlike Peter Mayle’s tales of adapting to the unreliable and eccentric workmen who renovated their house in Provence, told with great affection and humour, Frances Brand’s stories seem to come from a feeling of sustained anger and grudge-holding. How else am I to view a story about a lodger who (how many years ago?) was being helpful by cleaning out the fridge, but only incurred her hosts’ wrath by throwing away their favourite overripe (and out of date) cheeses? It seems petty and vindictive; the sort of story that might be funny talking to said lodger at a future date, repeated every year perhaps, but otherwise best forgotten.

It’s not just that first lodger she complains about. There are the blockheaded building firms that send drivers in articulated lorries up their steep lane in spite of warnings. There are the inconsiderate B&B guests who (pre-internet) view their room, dare to use two towels (the cheek of it!), then leave for a less remote hotel. Or the honeymooning couple who checked out immediately because it wasn’t what they’d expected, so the hosts felt obliged not to charge them. This was donkey’s years ago; does it still rankle so much? Perhaps their advert should have managed expectations better.

Perhaps the reason that this irritates me so much is because I can’t rid myself of the idea that these people are posh people complaining about putting up with the things everyone has to deal with. After all, the first building they have to renovate is a stall for their stallion who has been put out to stud. For some reason he can’t share the barn with their two other horses (geldings). Not sure what he had to do in the summer? Apparently they managed to go away in the summer, leading to an unfortunate incident with some pigeons. Growing up in a seaside resort where both my parents grew up in guesthouses, as friends’ parents still did, I am somewhat flabbergasted that they went away and left someone else in charge. People who run holiday accommodation usually can’t get away until after the season has finished. She later addresses this when she mentions that they are lucky to have people they trust to stand in for them, however.

For some reason, the anecdotes about B&B guests don’t entirely click with me. I think it’s because most people just did one thing that irritated Brand: they left a mess, complained about a doggy smell, had allergie or left unexpectedly. I think it would have been better to consolidate these anecdotes into one or two chapters. Some could be described more to give a better feeling for just how annoying it was. For instance, an old colonel “left a peculiar mess in the fridge” could have been described more vividly, otherwise the story falls flat. It’s also somewhat disturbing to discover that most of these anecdotes can be traced back to negative comments on North Farm’s TripAdvisor reviews, which explains the author’s less than affectionate attitude to her guests. Fortunately there are people who do become repeat visitors or whose activities she reports on more favourably.

Another issue I have with the book is the way it flits from one subject to the next from paragraph to paragraph. For instance, one chapter starts describing building work which disturbed newts. This leads to a digression about toads and spiders, before hopping back to building work and the beauty of the beams. A brief pause and we have anecdotes about a couple of visitors. It’s all interesting enough, but I’d prefer a more logical flow. I’m renowned for going off on a tangent, but I don’t expect a book to do so in quite the same way. I think the anecdotes are often triggered by word association or the sort of stories you tell a visitor as you stand looking at a particular room or spot in the garden. Perhaps this doesn’t work so well if you’re not actually there, or maybe just adding connecting phrases like ‘that reminds me about the time that’ or ‘speaking of mushrooms…”. There are also very many typos and omitted words in my ebook, so I hope these will be removed before printing (no, too late!).

For anyone who is at all squeamish about animals being killed in one way or another, this may not be the book for you. The author explains that death is part of the natural world and also part of traditional country life. Hence some of her stories involve poultry killed by foxes and polecats, the deaths of lambs and pheasant shooting parties. That doesn’t mean that unnecessary animal cruelty is condoned. One amusing incident involves attempts to evict a mouse nesting in the grate, ignored by the resident cats. She is also scathing about city types who come down for the shoot but are unwilling to take their share of the pheasants. In one moving tale, the vet has to (efficiently, with absolutely no trauma) despatch an aged horse. Such a contrast to the harrowing tale in Cheryl Strayed’s Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail. Nevertheless, the abrupt switch to a description of farming operations going on across the valley seems inappropriate; this would have been a good place for a short elegy about her horse, Cloud Nine. It feels heartless, even for a livestock owner who has to deal with the harsh realities. But then we return to how Cloud is buried, in the fields he loved.

There were also several occasions where unusual farming terms are used without full explanation. One is a word connected with the horses where most people would call it a box or stall. Another relates to guinea fowl chicks which she calls ‘gleany chicks’, a word I have certainly never heard before so had to look up.

Occasionally, an anecdote is simply mystifying: in a story about a visitor to the pub, why did the landlord show no sign of recognition and why was the mixed grill a poor choice, once it was located in the freezer? It’s like a joke without the punchline. There’s one mystery about a prospective guest that I think I can explain to the author. She says she had an enquiry from a woman who was under the impression that they had a fully furnished treehouse for rent. This can undoubtedly be solved by visiting the Facebook page of North Hill Farm, a glamping site in Chorleywood near London.

The best part of the book for me was the author’s description of the countryside and particularly the birds. It occurs to me that the classic image of swallows lined up on phone lines is specifically British; here in the Netherlands, at least, phone cables are underground. I do see birds perching on fence posts. She obviously enjoys living in her beautiful surroundings, but as an advert for her B&B and a memorial to her husband, it falls short.

I am in a better place for having read this book. Well told memoir of struggles and triumphs, of life and love, health and crippling disease, and persevering with love and the support of good friends and animals. From the beginning of a new lifestyle and great joy this book is a testament to the life in the country and the joys of working together with the land and the animals that make life so much more fun. Don't miss out on what this book can do for you.
I requested and received a free temporary uncorrected proof copy from BooksGoSocial via NetGalley. Thank you!
#BackOfBeyond by Frances Brand with #HowardWatersArtist #NetGalley @BooksGoSocial @IBPA
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