When the British Isles utter their final glorious gasp, a suitable ritual is needed to mark this momentous event. Mine is devouring an ice cream that’s vast, ludicrously creamy and delicately perfumed with rose geranium.
And as I lick - slowly to make it last - I imbibe the view: a huge Atlantic sea scribbled with the jagged teeth of the Western Rocks and behind, a crimson sun that’s slowly sinking behind the horizon.
I’m at Troytown Farm at the tip of the one-mile-long island of St. Agnes, England’s last hurrah before it tumbles into the ocean for good. Next stop west Newfoundland. Troytown is literally the end of the road.
Wandering through the boulder-studded fields above the farm, I meet the providers of the rich milk that’s the base of my ice cream: 11 cows, a mix of Jersey and Guernsey (for creaminess) and Jersey-Friesian crosses (for quantity). Sam Hicks, whose family runs the farm, introduces them: Gem, Daisy, Snowdrop… Unlike industrial milkers which are often exhausted by the age of three, Troytown’s keep going until around 12, so are very much part of the family. Sam or his father Tim milk them two by two in the tiny parlour, then carry the milk in stainless steel pails a few steps down the track to the dairy where it’s churned into ice cream. In winter, milking reduces to once a day, then drops off altogether before the cows calve in early summer.
As I descend to the sandy beaches below, passing rogue Soleil d’Or narcissi whose yellow heads nod in the breeze, I see the place where much of the ice cream is destined: a campsite strung along the turf above the shore. From Easter until September, it’s buzzing with families who come here for a taste of the wild.
Troytown is the perfect circular business, with farm feeding campsite and campsite feeding farm and family. But it’s not just about economics, says Sam. “Families holidaying here love seeing where their milk and ice cream comes from - our cows - and we give them an experience they never forget.”
But if you fancy joining the happy campers, you’ll need to get in quick. From January onwards, the phone is red hot with people booking pitches. “People often reserve a year ahead, so it can be hard to get in,” says Sam. “We hate turning people away, but we don’t have water or power supplies to grow any bigger.”
Getting to this point has been quite a journey. The Hicks family has lived on St. Agnes for as long as anyone can remember. Tim Hicks was raised at Westward Farm in the heart of the island, then left to join the Navy. When, in 1982, the lease of Duchy-owned Troytown Farm became available, Tim, now married with two toddlers (one of them Sam), snapped it up. With it came a no-frills campsite, there since the sixties.
Like most other farms on St. Agnes, Tim grew narcissi and early potatoes in the island’s handkerchief-sized fields, sheltered from the winds by towering hedges of pittosporum. Like other farms too, he kept two house cows, Eve and Ivy, to keep the family in milk. There was no mains electricity to power a milking parlour, so he took a stool to the cows in the field and milked them by hand.
With time, islanders found keeping a cow hard work so started asking Tim for milk. He increased his herd to three, and with the arrival of electricity in 1985, started milking them by machine in a makeshift parlour, the same one he uses today.
In 2003, the family’s fortunes changed. The market for flowers was wilting, picking them was punishing work, and it was hard to find time to lift the bulbs in the summer when the campsite was busy. Tim and Sue decided to focus on their dairy, supplying not only the locals through a daily milk round (as they still do) but now exporting to neighbouring islands too.
Working from the farmhouse kitchen, Sue also made clotted cream and butter, the latter (made out of the cream) beaten into pats with wooden Scotch hands then imprinted with moulds inherited from Tim’s mother. When I visit, Sue demonstrates the printing of sunshine-coloured butter with the image of a cow to make the perfect ‘cow pat.’ Temperature is key, she says. “If it’s too cold, the butter cracks, but if it’s too warm, it’s just a sticky mess.”
Making clotted cream is an equally tricky art, it seems. Raw cream is gently ‘cooked’ until a crust has formed, then left in the fridge for a day or two to set. But how hard it sets depends on the breed of cow and time of year. “The Friesians’ milk is watery compared to the Jerseys’,” says Sue. “And in winter, the milk is much thinner than in summer when the grass is lush.”
As their children left the island to study and work, Tim and Sue continued to juggle cows, campsite and two holiday lets, and a few potatoes. Then, in 2006, came a bombshell: Sam, and his new wife Laura, announced they wanted to return to the island to live. “St. Agnes was an itch that just wouldn’t go away,” smiles Sam.
But how would the farm support the couple and their young family? “We knew we had to add value to our dairy products, so it was either ice cream or cheese,” says Sam. The Hicks plumped for ice cream and converted the old flower tying shed into a state-of-the art micro-dairy. Troytown now has over 40 flavours, with vanilla the bestseller. The most local is its rose geranium, flavoured with essential oil produced from plants grown at Tim’s old family home, Westward Farm. Equally delicious is the salted caramel, using seasalt from St. Martin’s. I might just have to try that one too. Little wonder they say Troytown farms happiness.
Image credit: adjbrown.com
