Why We Do This
I don't know how many hours I spend on my phone. I genuinely don't want to know.
Largely it's for the business. But not entirely. Like a lot of people, I doom scroll. I see it in Gwilym. I see it in my daughter. And I see it in the café where I work, parents and children both on their phones, Peppa Pig playing so nobody kicks off. I've done it myself, so I say this without any judgement whatsoever.
But I notice it. And it breaks my heart a little.
During COVID, Gwilym and I worked on the smallholding together. All the uncertainty, all the weight of that period, still pressing down on us. But being outside, doing physical things, being connected to the land and to each other, took the worst sting out of it. I felt emotionally strong in a way I hadn't expected. Grounded, somehow, despite everything.
It wasn't one specific moment. It was a build up. And I only really noticed it when normal life resumed and that feeling quietly disappeared.
That's what Copper & Holly is about, if I'm honest with myself.
We love the hustle of having people here. The kids holding a chicken for the first time, feeling the coarse wool of a sheep, helping a family find their perfect Christmas tree. Gwilym and I are both sociable people and making a positive difference to somebody's day genuinely fills us up.
But it's more than that.
At the height of the big barn, I used to see women come in during the Christmas season. Busy women, holding everything together for everyone else, who hadn't stopped long enough to feel anything for themselves. One woman, early thirties, came in as a quick stop on the way to pick up a child. She walked around the barn, came to the counter with tears in her eyes, and said thank you. It's the first time in years I've felt Christmassy.
That story isn't isolated. I heard versions of it every single year. And every single year, my heart was full.
That's still what we're trying to do. Just in a different shape now.
We want people to step away from the pressure of it all. To connect with their kids, with the environment, with themselves. To remember that this isn't just for the children. It's for them too.
The cook shops never felt quite right, if I'm honest.
I was encouraging people to buy things and replace things, when I'm the complete opposite. I buy quality, I keep things until they break, and I treasure what I have. I realise now that closing those shops was freeing.
What we do now aligns with what we actually believe. The fudge is made here. The experiences happen here. The Christmas pieces we sell are things we'd choose ourselves, heirloom items with a little story attached. Something that comes out of a box each December with a smile and a memory of the day you came to Pontybat.
Just like it does at my home.
Away from the business, we try to live in a way that feels right to us. We don't like waste, especially when it comes to food, water, and natural resources. We'd rather shop locally than online, and for years we boycotted supermarkets completely. Life has made that harder as the years have gone on, and we're not perfect. But the intention is still there.
The dream, if we're being honest, is a cabin in the woods. Off grid. Free from the weight of the 'rat race'. We're not there yet, but every decision we make on the smallholding is a small step in that direction.
We're still very much in the middle of figuring it all out. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn't feel like work. It feels like a life we're genuinely building.
If any of this resonates, I think you'll feel right at home here.
Annabelle x