For my second go with Microsoft Copilot I decided to ask 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. I have asked ChatGPT to do this previously and it was quite successful.
Copilot: Certainly! Here’s a charming Christmas story set in a Cotswold village pub:
A Christmas Tail at The Golden Hare
The Golden Hare sat snug in the heart of the Cotswolds, its honey-stone walls glowing under the twinkle of Christmas lights. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of mulled wine and the crackle of a log fire, where Rupert, the pub’s beloved Labrador, lay sprawled across the hearth, his golden fur reflecting the flickering flames.
It was Christmas Eve, and the regulars had gathered as they did every year. Old Tom, the shepherd, nursed a pint near the fireplace, his weathered hands wrapped around the glass for warmth. Mary, the baker, had brought a basket of spiced biscuits, and the vicar, always partial to a good story, was deep in conversation with two visitors who had stumbled upon the pub while wandering the frost-bitten lanes.
Rupert lifted his head, ears twitching, as the door creaked open. In walked Henry, a quiet man in his sixties who had been a fixture at The Golden Hare for years but rarely spoke of himself. He always sat in the same corner, a modest pint before him, lost in his own thoughts.
But tonight, something was different. As Henry settled into his usual spot, Rupert rose, trotting over with an expectant wag. In his mouth, he carried a parcel wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with red twine. He dropped it at Henry’s feet.
The pub fell silent.
Henry stared at the parcel. “What’s this?” he murmured, glancing at the landlord, Jim, who stood behind the bar with a knowing smile.
Jim cleared his throat. “Henry, it’s from all of us. We know you don’t talk much about your past, but Christmas isn’t a time to be alone.”
Henry hesitated, then carefully untied the twine and peeled away the paper. Inside was a beautifully framed photograph—a black-and-white image of a young couple standing by The Golden Hare decades ago, smiling in the glow of festive lanterns.
Henry’s breath hitched. His fingers traced the edges of the frame. “This… this was taken the year we moved here,” he whispered, eyes misting. “My wife, Margaret… she loved this place.”
Jim nodded. “We thought you might like to have a piece of those memories back.”
Henry swallowed hard, looking around at the familiar faces—people who had known him in quiet companionship for years, even without words.
Rupert nuzzled against Henry’s knee, tail thumping softly.
Henry exhaled a shaky breath, lifting his glass. “To The Golden Hare,” he said, his voice stronger now. “And to good friends.”
The pub erupted in cheers, Rupert barked his approval, and the warmth of the season settled over them all, lingering like the glow of the fire and the quiet joy of shared history.
Copilot: I hope you like this story! Let me know if you’d like any tweaks.
My comments: This is good, I like Rupert the Labrador. The pub name is quite convincing too. Let’s see if we can get a good book cover.
There’s no text on the book cover. I’ll ask it to fix this.
I don’t think Copilot has blood Cyrillic font.
So I can’t have a blood drippy font. This is not a deal breaker. My main concern is where did Rupert go?
For my fourth go at generating a Cotswolds Christmas story using ChatGPT I stayed in Honeywick, specified British English and added a phone shop.
A Honeywick Christmas Miracle by ChatGPT
The frosty breath of winter lay like icing sugar over the thatched roofs of Honeywick, a sleepy village nestled among the rolling hills of the Cotswolds. Christmas Eve had arrived, and the narrow high street was aglow with fairy lights, their reflections shimmering in puddles left by an early morning drizzle. The scent of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts wafted from the market stalls in the square, where villagers bustled about in scarves and woolly hats.
At the very end of the street stood a curious little shop painted bright teal, its gold-lettered sign reading Honeywick Phones & Repairs – Est. 1993. Inside, surrounded by shelves of phone cases and tangled charging cables, stood Nora Pembroke, the shop’s owner and only employee. At sixty-two, Nora had run the shop since her husband passed, and while business had slowed in recent years, she took pride in keeping the place tidy and warm.
At half-past three, as the last customer left with a newly mended screen, Nora sighed and flipped the sign to Closed. She was just about to lock up when the door burst open with a gust of cold air and a flurry of snowflakes.
“Mrs Pembroke! Wait!”
It was Charlie Wilkes, the vicar’s son, barely sixteen and red-faced from running.
“My phone—it’s dead, and I need it. Please. It’s urgent.”
Nora blinked. “Urgent? On Christmas Eve?”
He nodded furiously. “I’ve sent a message, but I don’t know if it went through, and now it won’t turn back on. I need to know. Please.”
Intrigued, Nora took the phone. It was an older model, battered and full of fingerprints. She set to work in the back room, humming a carol while she replaced the battery with a spare.
Fifteen minutes later, the screen blinked to life. One new text message.
“Here you are, love,” she said, handing it back.
Charlie’s eyes darted across the screen. His mouth fell open.
“She said yes!” he shouted, startling Nora. “She’s coming! She’s really coming!”
“Who is?” Nora asked, bemused.
“Amelia! She moved to Bath last summer. I told her I’d wait. I asked if she’d come to the carol service tonight, and she said yes!”
He grinned, then impulsively hugged her. “You saved Christmas!”
After he left, Nora chuckled and returned to her tea. She didn’t expect anyone else. But at five past five, the bell chimed again.
It was her daughter, Emma, with her two little boys.
“You’re early!” Nora gasped.
Emma smiled. “Got your message. The one you sent this morning—‘Come if you can. It’s been too long.’ We thought… well, it’s Christmas.”
Nora blinked back tears. She hadn’t realised it had gone through. “I didn’t think you’d see it.”
The boys ran to her, and she knelt to hug them tightly.
Outside, the snow fell thick and silent, blanketing Honeywick in a gentle hush. Inside the phone shop, laughter rang out, warm as a hearth, and the flickering lights in the window danced like stars.
That night, every pew in the church was filled. And as the choir sang O Come All Ye Faithful, Nora caught Charlie’s eye and winked.
A Honeywick Christmas miracle, indeed.
My comments:
The first paragraph is great scene setting.
When Honeywick Phones & Repairs – Est. 1993 began texting was in its infancy, there is a great BBC news article about this, which includes the date of 3rd December 1992 as the first text message sent. I could make this story longer by blending fiction and reality and adding some information about this.
“surrounded by shelves of phone cases and tangled charging cables, stood Nora Pembroke, the shop’s owner and only employee.”
It’s quite impractical a shop having only one employee but does explain why the charging cables are tangled. Nora simply doesn’t have the time to untangle them.
She hadn’t realised it had gone through.
The above refers to a text message that Nora, a woman who has worked in a phone shop since 1993, sent to her daughter. It seems unlikely that Nora would use an unreliable phone or mobile provider. However, it’s not possible to know that an SMS message has been delivered and signal in the Cotswolds can be patchy.
And now my favourite bit, generating the book cover. It occured to me that maybe I don’t need to describe the cover, maybe I can just continue the dialogue with ChatGPT so I tried this.
The first thing I notice about this image is that the people in it are making odd expressions with their faces. They look a bit like Tony Blair smiling on a Christmas card. The second thing I notice is that the phone shop was established in 1903 which is inconsistent with the date in the story.
I decided to be polite and thank ChatGPT. It has written four stories and designed four covers for me.
I’ve specified that the Cotswold village should be fictional for my third go. I am wondering if I’ll get a honey-coloured stone description, a Penrose and a postal element.
A Christmas Gift in Honeywick
Nestled in the frosty folds of the Cotswold hills, the village of Honeywick looked like something from a snow globe. Stone cottages lined the cobbled lanes, their honey-colored walls dusted with snow. Fairy lights twinkled in every window, and the scent of mulled cider and pine boughs wafted through the air.
Among the villagers was twelve-year-old Elsie Harrow, who lived with her grandmother, Maud, above the Honeywick Stationery & Books shop. Maud had run the shop for nearly forty years, and though she claimed her bones were “too old for counters and Christmas queues,” she still opened the doors every day, even on Christmas Eve.
Elsie adored the shop. She especially loved the smell — a comforting blend of paper, ink, and old leather. But the shop’s most beloved resident wasn’t Maud or even Elsie — it was Pickle, a sleek grey cat with an imperious attitude and a habit of curling up on the warmest notebook display.
That Christmas Eve, Honeywick was bustling. Children queued for gingerbread at the bakery, and the bell above the stationery shop chimed constantly as villagers popped in for last-minute cards and ribbons. Elsie manned the wrapping station, humming carols while Pickle lounged beside her, twitching his tail each time the ribbon curled.
Around midday, a boy Elsie didn’t recognize came in. He looked about her age, bundled in a coat that had clearly seen better winters. His name was Tom, he said, recently moved to Honeywick with his dad, who’d taken a job at the local garage.
Tom wandered the shop slowly, his eyes wide as he examined the shelves. Eventually, he stopped at the notebook table, where Pickle yawned and stretched before hopping into his lap as if he’d chosen a new favorite human.
“This one’s special,” Elsie said, pointing to a dark blue notebook with gold-embossed stars. “It’s made by a local artist — the paper’s hand-stitched and the cover’s painted with real indigo.”
Tom ran his fingers over it with reverence, but shook his head. “It’s beautiful, but I don’t have enough. I just wanted to find something for my dad. He used to write stories when Mum was around. I thought maybe…”
Before Elsie could answer, Maud appeared behind the counter, eyes twinkling. “That notebook’s half price today,” she said firmly. “Christmas special.”
Tom hesitated, then beamed, pulling out a few carefully folded notes. He thanked them shyly and left with Pickle trotting after him as far as the door before returning to his sunspot.
That night, after the shop closed and the village square echoed with the last notes of the carolers, Elsie found something beneath the tiny tree in their flat. A square parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with blue string.
Inside was a notebook — pale green, embossed with her initials. Tucked inside the front cover was a note in Maud’s careful handwriting: “For your stories. The world needs them.”
Elsie looked at Pickle, who blinked back approvingly. She ran her hand over the cover, heart full. Outside, snow began to fall again, soft and slow, as Honeywick settled into a Christmas night wrapped in peace and promise.
My comments:
Things I notice are that we have honey-coloured again and we have US English spelling. The village name of Honeywick is charming. I can imagine Winnie-the-Pooh visiting but I won’t include him in future generated stories for copyright reasons.
This extract: “Maud had run the shop for nearly forty years, and though she claimed her bones were “too old for counters and Christmas queues,” she still opened the doors every day, even on Christmas Eve.”
Taken with Evelyn the aged post-mistress from the first story I generated, this makes me worry about the retirement prospects of women in fictional Cotswold villages. Are these women Women Against State Pension Inequality (WASPI) women?
“Pickle, a sleek grey cat with an imperious attitude and a habit of curling up on the warmest notebook display.”
I have just felt all my notebooks and they are all equally warm. They aren’t displays though. Is Pickle a good cat name? I would call a sleek grey cat Smoky which I think makes me less imaginative than Chat GPT.
“His name was Tom, he said, recently moved to Honeywick with his dad, who’d taken a job at the local garage.”
A Hallmark made for Christmas movie began to unroll itself in my head when I read the above sentence. Chat GPT seems to like the name Tom. We had a Tom in my second story too. We have no postal element this time.
So now for the book cover. I’ve specified the title of the story, the colour of the cat and the colour of the notebook Tom buys.
The thing I notice about this cover is that Stationery is spelt correctly once and incorrectly once.
I think for my fourth go at creating a Christmas story set in a fictional Cotswold village I’ll stick with the name Honeywick, specify use of British English and maybe add a modern element because all three stories so far have felt a bit generic.
I went to the lovely Marlow Bookshop just after generating this book cover and I treated myself to a new notebook.
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.
Today I decided to pause in my writing based Ludditery (I adore notebooks and always will) and see what ChatGPT is like as an author. I pootled over to Wikipedia’s ChatGPT entry for a quick answer to what the flip is ChatGPT and then I got started at https://chatgpt.com/ which is pleasingly uncluttered.
I didn’t need to create an account to get a story, but I created one later to get an image. The story, in blue below, is pretty good and does what I asked.
Title: The Snow Fairy of Chipping Wold
Chipping Wold, a honey-stoned village nestled deep in the Cotswolds, always looked like a snow globe scene in December. Its thatched cottages, winding lanes, and twinkling fairy lights made Christmas feel like something out of a storybook. But one Christmas Eve, something truly magical happened—something even the oldest villagers still whispered about over mulled wine at the pub.
Evelyn Thompson, the village’s sprightly seventy-two-year-old postmistress, was the first to see it.
She was trudging home after the last post round, her Wellington boots crunching through the snow. Her scarf, a knitted red-and-white spiral made by her late husband, fluttered in the wind. Evelyn was looking forward to a quiet evening with her cat, Marmalade, and a generous box of assorted chocolates—her annual Christmas treat. She had just passed the ancient yew tree near the churchyard when she saw a flicker of movement in the snow-dusted branches.
At first, she thought it was a robin. But as she got closer, her breath caught in the cold air.
There, nestled against the bark, was a bird she’d never seen before. It was no bigger than a sparrow, with feathers as soft as frost and as white as powdered sugar. Its wings shimmered with a pearly blue hue, and its eyes sparkled like tiny beads of jet. It didn’t flutter away when Evelyn approached; it simply tilted its head and watched her.
“It’s a snow fairy bird,” she whispered, more to herself than anything else. Evelyn had once read about them in an old travel book. Native to the snowy forests of Hokkaido, Japan, these rare little creatures were thought never to leave their homeland. Seeing one here, in Chipping Wold, on Christmas Eve of all nights, was like finding a unicorn in your garden shed.
She stretched out a mittened hand, and to her amazement, the bird hopped onto her finger. For a few moments, they simply looked at each other in the hush of the falling snow. Then, just as suddenly, it took off into the air, leaving a trail of shimmering flakes behind it.
Evelyn stood for a long time in the snow, the chill forgotten. Eventually, she made her way home, heart thumping with wonder. She didn’t tell anyone—not at first. Who would believe her?
The next morning, the whole village was buzzing.
“You’ll never believe what I saw by the green,” said Mr. Penrose, the vicar. “A tiny white bird, glowing like moonlight.”
“It followed me all the way to the bakery,” said little Maisie Clark, whose cheeks were red with excitement.
By the end of Christmas Day, at least a dozen villagers claimed to have seen the bird. They began calling it the Snow Fairy, and the name stuck. It became the heart of a new village legend.
Each year after that, on Christmas Eve, people would gather by the yew tree with lanterns, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious creature. Evelyn, always seated on the bench closest to the tree, would bring a selection box of chocolates to share with the children who came. She always saved one particular chocolate—a caramel truffle wrapped in silver foil—and placed it gently at the base of the tree, “for the Snow Fairy.”
Some winters, the bird returned. Just a flit of white in the dusk, a shimmer in the branches, and hearts lifted across the village. Other years, there was no sign at all—but the hope remained.
As the years passed, Evelyn grew frail. One Christmas Eve, the villagers found her usual seat empty. A note was left in the post office window: “With love, always. –E.T.”
That night, the snow fell thicker than anyone could remember. The lanterns glowed softly against the swirling white. And just as the church bells rang midnight, someone gasped and pointed.
Above the yew tree, dancing through the snowflakes, was the Snow Fairy bird.
It swooped gently through the crowd and landed—where else?—on Evelyn’s old bench. There, someone had placed a chocolate selection box and a single silver-wrapped truffle.
The bird pecked the foil gently, then vanished into the snowy night, leaving behind a feather so fine and white it seemed made of cloud.
Today, visitors to Chipping Wold can still hear the tale. The bench by the yew tree bears a plaque that reads:
“In memory of Evelyn Thompson, who believed in wonder—and left us a little more.”
Every Christmas Eve, children gather with chocolates, villagers light their lanterns, and hearts wait for a shimmer of frost-feathered wings—just in case the Snow Fairy returns.
My first thoughts on reading this story;
“seventy-two-year-old postmistress, was the first to see it.”
“She was trudging home after the last post round”
To still be working at seventy-two our Evelyn must love post-mistressing or have not planned well for her retirement. I hope it’s the first option. Also, how many houses does Chipping Wold have? How much post is she delivering and who is doing the other post officey jobs while she’s out?
“Her scarf, a knitted red-and-white spiral made by her late husband”
I like that her late husband was a knitter and her scarf is a spiral. I imagine it’s hard to see out of a spiral of wool starting on your shoulders and ascending upwards, unless she’s wearing it from her shoulders downwards but that may make it hard to walk. I’m glad she’s described as sprightly, it makes the scarf seem less of a trip hazard. I have just Googled spiral and I realise I have confused spiral and helix so ChatGPT’s usage is totally fine and I am wrong. Serves me right for not being a computer.
“They began calling it the Snow Fairy, and the name stuck.”
Um, that is its actual name as specified earlier in the story. They are calling it what it is called. A human writer could have chosen another name like the Floofy Milk-Hued Flapper and this could have begun being used and then stuck.
“As the years passed, Evelyn grew frail. One Christmas Eve, the villagers found her usual seat empty. A note was left in the post office window: “With love, always. –E.T.””
A human writer might think E.T. a bit similar to that other E.T. of phone home fame. No reason not to use it though.
Now it was time to ask for a book cover. I created an account which was very simple to do.
Before image creation ChatGPT said what it would do and asked if I wanted to make amendments.
I typed Yes into the ChatGPT window and I didn’t change anything. I could have insisted on the blood Cyrillic font. I could have added a Spira chocolate bar which I miss enormously. Maybe the post office in Chipping Wold still has a box of Spiras in the stock room. Evelyn might have been too busy to do an annual stocktake since 2004. I had to wait a few minutes for my cover to be generated but this just made it more exciting.
And then a rather jolly image happened…
This looks like the sort of book that could be available at garden centres near you from the last week in August.
In general, this little window into Chipping Wold (I would also have accepted Stow on the Chipping, Wold Campden, Stoke on the Water, Preston Flark, or Little Fussing) is very festive.
Maybe I’ll ask Chat GPT to write me a story about a splendid jolly writer who loved writing short Christmas stories but became disillusioned due to the ease at which ChatGPT can do it and so gave up (for about ten minutes) but then had a sudden insight and decided writing is still for humans if they like doing it.
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