For my second go at ChatGPT I asked it to write a 500 word story about Christmas set in a Cotswold village pub and including the pub dog and a special gift for one of the customers. It came up with this:

A Cotswold Christmas at The Holly Crown

Snow blanketed the Cotswold village of Bibury, frosting honey-stone cottages and tracing delicate outlines on every leaf and lamppost. Twinkling fairy lights crisscrossed the lane, leading to the heart of the village: The Holly Crown, an old pub with beams thick as tree trunks and a hearth that had warmed generations.

Inside, the scent of mulled wine and roasting chestnuts mingled with woodsmoke. Locals had gathered early, escaping the crisp air and bringing with them laughter, stories, and tins of homemade biscuits. The pub dog, a stocky black-and-tan terrier named Bertie, made his rounds with a jingling collar, accepting ear ruffles and the occasional dropped sausage.

Landlady Gwen, wrapped in a festive red jumper with a snowflake brooch, moved deftly behind the bar. She had run The Holly Crown for twenty years and knew every face, every pint preference, and every Christmas toast.

At the end of the bar sat Tom Penrose, a quiet man in his sixties with kind eyes and weathered hands. A retired postman, Tom had delivered letters through sleet and sun for four decades, and though he rarely said much, everyone greeted him warmly. He nursed a pint of bitter and occasionally offered Bertie a bit of pork crackling from his paper napkin.

Unbeknownst to Tom, the village had been whispering for weeks. Gwen had started it, and soon it spread like holly on a hedge. The idea: a gift. Something proper. Every villager had quietly contributed what they could, slipping coins and folded notes into a red tin behind the bar labeled “For Father Christmas.”

Now, on Christmas Eve, the fire crackled, the carolers outside were halfway through “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”, and Gwen tapped her glass with a spoon.

“Right, quiet down!” she said with a grin. “Before we all get too merry, there’s something we need to do.”

She reached beneath the bar and pulled out a long, narrow box wrapped in gold paper and tied with a green ribbon.

“Tom Penrose, up you come.”

Tom blinked, surprised, as the crowd clapped and parted for him. Bertie trotted beside him like a fuzzy little pageboy.

“We wanted to thank you,” Gwen said, placing the gift in his hands. “For delivering our post in the worst of weathers. For remembering every birthday and checking on old Mrs. Digby when no one else noticed her light hadn’t come on. You’ve given this village decades of kindness. Now, we’re giving something back.”

Tom carefully unwrapped the paper. Inside was a set of high-quality watercolours and a leather-bound sketchbook. He stared, speechless.

“We heard you used to paint,” Gwen added gently. “Thought maybe it was time you started again.”

For a moment, Tom said nothing, his eyes misty. Then he looked around at the faces, at Gwen, and finally at Bertie, who wagged his tail as if he knew everything.

“Thank you,” Tom said quietly. “This… this means more than I can say.” The pub erupted into cheers, and as the fire roared and the night deepened, The Holly Crown glowed with the kind of warmth no hearth alone could offer—a warmth built from friendship, gratitude, and the simple magic of Christmas.

My comments:

Bibury is a real place in Cirencester. I was hoping for a fictional Cotswold place name. How do we know we’re in the Cotswolds? It seems to be the honey-coloured stone.

Bertie is a good dog name. I’m very happy with this.

“Landlady Gwen, wrapped in a festive red jumper.”

Bit impractical to be wrapped in a jumper. I imagine I can see her bra straps. It might have been better if she was just wearing it in the normal pulling it over your head type of way. Although being wrapped makes Gwen feel like a present.

The Holly Crown falls just short of being a convincing real pub name. But I could change this to The Crown or The Holly Bush.

“At the end of the bar sat Tom Penrose, a quiet man in his sixties with kind eyes and weathered hands. A retired postman,”

When I had my first go at getting ChatGPT to create me a Christmas story I had a vicar called Mr Penrose (I would expect the Rev. Penrose but am not an expert on religious matters) and the main character was a post-mistress. Chat GPT seems a bit keen on postal elements and the surname Penrose. I think I’ll test this with a third go at creating a similar sort of story and see if post and Penrose pop up again. The most famous Penrose I can think of is Sir Roger Penrose, whose Penrose tiling is lovely. I wonder if ChatGPT can create tiling this attractive? I wonder if any mention of the Cotswolds will also include honey-coloured stone?

ChatGPT has spelt labelled and carollers wrong, missing the second l both times.

Also, is Tom Penrose carrying pork crackling in his pocket to the pub in a napkin? Or is he buying pork scratchings there and decanting them into a napkin?

In general though, this is a pleasant festive tale. ChatGPT has done as I asked.

Now for the book cover. Unlike on my first go, ChatGPT didn’t check the concept with me before creating the cover. This has resulted in the wrong kind of dog (to tie in with the story, obviously the dog pictured is a lovely dog and not wrong in any other sense). Tom Penrose looks okay, he’s dressed greener then Robin Hood but maybe that’s his fave colour.

I’m going to have a third go at a Christmas story set in the Cotswolds tomorrow.