They said don’t do it. You’ll hate people on your land. GET ORFFF. They said it would ruin the whole premise of this secret island. You dream of sanctuary and then once you get it, you are going to have loads of people, dropping litter, not shutting gates, dogs chasing sheep…yep, I have to say, it worried me too.
But my burning ambition to build something significant, something that had a design ethos, grew stronger, so strong that it overcame the logic of my friends and that little voice chirping in my head.
18 months on, building the Nap and now having a holiday business is one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done.
You see it’s more than money, it’s that sense of achievement of doing something totally out of your comfort zone. Having the confidence to back yourself. Against all odds. My god, those winter afternoons up the roof, painstakingly putting each cedar shingle on, as the hale spat at my raw face and the spirit level shot off the roof always landing in the deepest, biggest slodge of mud puddle.
I find after we have cleaned and prepared the Nap for our next set of guests, that huge sense of pride, it always look so welcoming, the lighting a warm glow of cosy, the fire flickering, the copper kitchen twinkling, the deep sofa cosseting. I am left just wanting to stay, crack open a beer and turn on some banging tunes.
But no, off I trot down the hill, to welcome our next set of guests. And now we come on to the most surprising bit of all. Our guests. I can honestly say we love having you, you get what it is we’re trying to do. You want calm, peace, a double dose of serenity, as you gaze over the Taw Valley, fine Tempranillo in hand, birds twittering as the sun sets…you appreciate it, you come away reset and rebooted, so thank you, for making it better than we could have dreamt of.
