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‘Do you make your wares yourself?’ I ask.
‘Oh, absolutely. No Chinese imports here. You can tell because it’s all wonky. Look at the Gingerbread Man’s legs. See? I’m no perfectionist.’
‘You say that like you’re apologising. I find everything in here absolutely charming.’
‘Aww, thank you! My name’s Rosie, by the way.’
‘Emily. But everyone calls me Emmie.’
‘Then welcome to Starry Cove, Emmie. I live on the edge of Little Kettering but practically spend my life here in Starry Cove. Everyone is so warm and friendly.’
‘I just got here,’ I admit.
Rosie looks up at me as she pours hot water into the humongous mugs and stirs in the hot cocoa.
‘London?’
I nod.
‘Me, too. I’ve been here for two years now, but it’s like I was born here.’
‘Lucky you. This place is so beautiful. It’s like a Christmas fairy tale.’
‘I know, isn’t it? Christmas is a special time here. You do like pumpkin, right?’
‘Like? Love,’ I assure as she cuts a generous piece of the pie and places it on a red ceramic plate with snowflakes on it.
‘Good. I made it myself. My husband says that it’s the best he’s ever tasted. But he doesn’t count because he loves me.’
I take a bite and almost swoon as cinnamon and a hint of ginger wrap themselves around my tongue.
‘Oh my God, this is amazing.’
Rosie laughs. ‘Really? So he wasn’t lying just to make me happy?’
‘Definitely not,’ I assure as I fork another piece into my mouth, my tongue thanking me for such a treat.
We eat and drink as Rosie chatters about the villages that are all ‘strung together like Christmas lights’, which is such an apt image. She tells me about the annual Christmas Day dunk, where everyone rushes into the water in their cossies and tea cosy hats at the stroke of noon, and how everyone complains about it, but every year the number of participants just gets higher and higher.
‘But listen to me. I’ve gone and done it again. I talk a lot. Tell me about yourself – what about you?’
‘Well, I’m staying in Little Kettering at The Old Bell Inn.’
She laughs – a cheerful laugh – and I get the impression that it’s a relatively new thing for her, and that it hasn’t always been this way.
‘The inn is run by my step-daughter, Penny. Her father, Mitchell, used to run it. That’s how we met two years ago this Christmas.’
‘Oh, she’s so lovely!’
‘Thank you. She truly is. So young and already got her head screwed on tight.’
‘So, how did you find yourself here? Were you visiting friends for the hols?’ I ask, chomping on my pie.
She rolls her eyes while she pours me some more hot cocoa.
‘That would have been nice. I was sent by my former company to, let’s say observe and evaluate the inn. And Mitchell, who used to run it. And after a rocky start, we fell in love.’
‘Now that is romantic,’ I say, pointing my fork at her as if I’ve known her forever.
