Stan And His Turbines

In the rolling hills of Cornwall, where the sheep were more opinionated than the locals, lived Stan Trelldyke — a farmer with a flair for innovation, or as his neighbours called it, sheer audacity.

Stan’s farm was a patchwork of hedgerows, turnips, and the occasional rogue cow that had developed a worrying fondness for his vegetable patch. But what truly set Stan apart were the towering wind turbines that loomed over his land like giant, overzealous sentinels, their blades spinning with a kind of nervous energy that suggested they knew something you didn’t.

Now, Stan had a plan.

He’d noticed the steady trickle of tourists, drawn by the promise of rugged views and the salty tang of the sea. But what they really needed, he thought, was a way to cool their chips and dry their soggy hiking gear.

And so, Trelldyke’s Turbine Tours was born.

“Cool your chips!” he’d bellow from the roadside, waving a hand-painted sign that looked like it had been designed by a blindfolded toddler on a trampoline.
“Dry your clothes! Only a fiver!”

At first, tourists were sceptical. But Stan’s enthusiasm was infectious.

“You see, my friends,” he’d say, sweeping an arm toward the turbines, “these beauties generate enough wind to blow the socks off a sheep! And if you’re lucky, you might even glimpse my prize-winning turnips!”

Soon, a makeshift booth appeared at the foot of the turbines: a rickety table, a kettle of unknown origin, and a tray of chips that looked like they’d retired early. For a nominal fee, visitors could stand beneath the spinning blades and hold their chips aloft like crisped offerings to the gods of renewable energy.

“Feel that breeze!” Stan would shout, as the wind ripped through their hair, launching hats into hedges and once dislodging a pair of sunglasses that are, presumably, still airborne.

Hikers also began arriving — drenched, desperate, and mildly confused.

“Hang your kit on the line!” Stan would say, pointing to a clothesline strung between two poles and pegged with items that looked suspiciously nautical.

And it worked. The wind whipped through the garments like a caffeinated tumble dryer, leaving damp walkers stunned and slightly wind-battered.

“I’ve never felt so refreshed,” one said, shaking his socks triumphantly.
“The steam nearly cleared my sinuses,” said another, eyes watering with joy and airborne grit.

Word spread. The legend of Trelldyke’s Turbine Tours took root.

By midsummer, Stan had introduced Windy Wednesdays, where — for an extra pound — you got a complimentary cup of tea with your chip-cooling experience. Business boomed.

But not everyone was pleased.

The local council, having caught wind (so to speak) of Stan’s unconventional enterprise, paid him a visit.

“Mr. Trelldyke,” said the official, adjusting his clipboard like it was a loaded weapon, “we have concerns about your… unconventional business practices.”

“Unconventional?” said Stan, eyes wide with mock innocence. “I’m just providing a service! Besides, it’s not every day you can dry your knickers while enjoying a side of chips!”

The official spluttered.

“This is a serious matter.”

“Of course it is,” Stan replied, twinkle in his eye. “But really, who wouldn’t want to cool their chips in the Cornish breeze? It’s practically a rite of passage!”

In the end, the council relented. Stan’s peculiar venture had become something of a local treasure — eccentric, unnecessary, and entirely beloved.

And so, Stan Trelldyke continued to thrive — a Cornish innovator powered by wind, chips, and just the right amount of nonsense.