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I swallowed hard. The draft proposal outlined using the old buildings on our property as farmstay accommodation. The heritage-listed stone cottages near the homestead were sufficiently away from the paddocks, and the new shearing shed could be used for private accommodation.
Rosie had shared industry articles and a research paper about farmstay accommodation with me, too.
I’d archived the proposal after everything with Rosie went bad.
Shit. Our falling out had affected my thinking about my family’s future, and I’d put the farm in more jeopardy because of it.
“The condition of the old cottages and the creamery really isn’t that bad,” Stacey said, mistaking my silence for doubting her judgment. “The cottages at least have septic tanks and plumbing. Wouldn’t take much to get them up to spec for holiday accommodation. My asset register is twelve months old so my building cost estimates are out of date and prices have gone up.”
I nodded at Pete. “Write it down.”
“What do you know about agri-tourism?” Pete asked.
“Did a minor in it at uni.”
He blinked. “You did? I thought you were doing agronomy, like me.”
“I thought you were doing livestock management,” Stacey added.
“I changed my study program in my second year.”Along with adding viticulture subjects too.“Rosie sent me a case study years ago on farms repurposing old buildings for accommodation. I’ve done assignments on how unique heritage structures can be a point of difference in the agri-tourism market.”
I waited for the questions, shock and even outrage that the sheep farmer was studying tourism rather than how to manage his livestock.
But Stacey just shrugged. “I reckon it’s a no-brainer. Caught up with Flo next door and got talking about my asset register and how she could use it as a template to determine if converting the old tobacco kiln into accommodation is worth her while.”
“The tobacco kiln that had that drug bust last year?” Pete asked wide-eyed.
“Nothing like a true crime history to draw tourists and visitors.” Stacey turned to me. “It’s what we want to offer in terms of a farmstay versus what the market demands. We did have the Ballydoon Bandit stay here in the 1800s. Guests would love bushranger history. But, getting the cottages up to spec is going to require a bit of capital upfront and grunt work. The more we do ourselves, the more we save in costs.” She glanced back at the poster paper. “Why didn’t you even have that as an option before I walked in?”
“Think I let my emotions cloud my judgment,” I muttered.
Pete wrote ‘accommodation’ on the poster paper.
“Do you still have your old proposal?” Stacey asked.
I nodded. “I’d love to see your asset register. The one you gave to Flo.”
“Can do. And I can go over my figures while you’re chasing sheep up the mountain.”
“Okay, great. And we can talk about this more when I’m back.”
Stacey smiled. “By the way, Rosie arrived to drop off the cameras. She’ll be over in a sec.” My heart rate instantly spiked. “Why are you making her sleep in a tent when it’s going to snow?”
“I want to get video footage of the wombats,” a voice said outside the door.
Rosie entered my room and lingered by the door as Stacey left, and suddenly, the space felt crowded with the three of us.
Pete burst out laughing and then held up his phone. “Rosie, your timing is impeccable. Look at the memories from Tom’s eighteenth birthday that came up today.”
Pete had a photo of Rosie, Amanda and their friends dressed as Robert Palmer’s band.
The night we’d given in to our desires. The first time we’d slept together.
Rosie glanced my way, her eyes wide. I knew she was thinking the same thing as me.
“I looked so good as Baby Spice,” Pete wistfully sighed, swiping to another photo, oblivious to our silent meltdown. “I remember you had a draft plan for the place back then. You talked about tourism options and partnering with other local businesses.” Pete turned to Rosie. “Like local wineries.”
Rosie looked away from Pete, taking in the suggestions on the poster paper.
