Part Seven: The One That Got Away

The early 2010s were a time of change - not just for the business, but for Judy and me personally. Salty Dog had come a long way from the van and the barn. We had staff, offices, and a growing reputation in the snack world. But as the business grew, our lives began to change too.

We’d always poured everything into the company. And without children, our work had become both our family and our adventure. That kind of focus can drive you, but it can also make you ask: what’s next?

That question led us to a small market town in Devon - and, as it turned out, one of the biggest lessons of my life.

 

Finding Our Bolt-Hole

 

We’d decided to treat ourselves to a little escape - a holiday bolt-hole where we could switch off from the business now and then. After a few weekends of searching, we found the perfect place: a lovely flat in Totnes, Devon.

Totnes had a relaxed, creative energy about it - a world away from the commuter belt of Buckinghamshire. We loved it from the moment we arrived. After our very first night in the flat, Judy turned to me and said, “I want us to live here.”

I laughed and said, “But we’ve got a home and friends and a business in Bucks!”

Still, I’ll admit, I was excited too. The idea of a new adventure, a slower pace, and a better quality of life was tempting. Within months, we’d done something that would have seemed mad a few years earlier - we sold our house in Buckinghamshire and moved to Devon full-time.

Of course, we still needed a base when visiting Salty Dog HQ back in the Chiltern Hills. So, we bought ourselves a canal narrowboat, named Merlin. It became our floating home-from-home - peaceful, practical, and a bit of fun too. We had some wonderful times on that boat, chugging along the canals after long weeks of work, switching off and soaking it all in.

It felt like we’d found balance.

 

Salty Dog Becomes a Lifestyle

 

By this time, Salty Dog wasn’t just a business anymore. It was becoming a lifestyle brand - not in the marketing sense, but in the way it allowed Judy and me to live life on our own terms.

The business was running smoothly, our team was strong, and we’d reached a point where we could travel a bit more. Over the next few years, we managed to visit all five continents, often mixing business with pleasure - trade shows, supplier visits, and the occasional glass of something cold on a sunny terrace.

After decades of hard graft, it felt like we’d earned a bit of adventure.

 

Lights, Camera… Snacks!

 

Around this time, life threw us another unexpected twist - we found ourselves on television.

The BBC was filming a new series of The Apprentice with Lord Sugar. The teams were tasked with developing new crisp flavours for the German market - and one of the teams was representing Darling Spuds!

We had an incredible day filming. The production crew were lovely, and it was fascinating to see how they put it all together. During one of the breaks, Lord Sugar’s advisor Nick Hewer was leafing through The Times. He looked up and laughed - there was a photo of Judy in an article about women in business!

He was genuinely impressed, which made Judy’s day (and mine). It was one of those surreal moments when you realise how far you’ve come - from flogging boxes of crisps out of a van to having your brand featured on The Apprentice.

Life was good.

But while everything seemed rosy, something big was brewing in the background - an opportunity that, on paper, looked like the next logical step. In reality, it nearly broke us.

 

The Temptation of a Factory

 

After the factory fire in Wales (the story I shared in the last chapter), a lot of good people in the crisp industry had been made redundant. Many of them were from the South Wales valleys, and they knew the business inside out.

My old friend John Mudd, who’d founded Real Crisps, rang me one day and said, “Dave, there’s a huge opportunity here. The workforce is still around, and there are generous grants available in Wales for anyone opening a factory. Someone’s going to do it - it could be you.”

The idea was intoxicating. Having our own crisp factory - making our products, controlling our supply, building something permanent - it sounded like the next big leap. There were challenges, of course. To qualify for the grant, we’d need to employ over thirty people. That meant serious investment and a lot of risk.

But I was excited. I could see the potential so clearly. It felt like the chance to really put Salty Dog on the map.

Judy, however, wasn’t convinced.

She looked at me across the kitchen table one evening and said, “Dave, you’re brilliant at creating and marketing brands - but running a big factory isn’t you. It’s a different world. And we’ve worked hard for this life; I don’t want to risk it.”

She was right to be cautious. But the idea had sunk its teeth into me.

 

The Meeting That Changed Everything

 

To ease Judy’s worries, I promised to speak to the bank and find out if we could do it safely - without risking our personal assets.

I arranged a meeting with our account manager. I went in with a detailed business plan, showing the opportunity, the grant structure, and the projected growth. I explained that Judy and I were absolutely not willing to risk our home or savings. That was our red line.

She listened carefully, nodded, and said something that filled me with relief: “If you pay the 30% deposit on the machinery, once it’s installed we can lend you the balance using the equipment as security. Your personal assets will be protected.”

Perfect. Or so I thought.

 

The Dream Unravels

 

We pressed ahead.

We rented a large industrial unit in South Wales. We paid hundreds of thousands of pounds in deposits for the machinery, building offices and changing rooms, and installing the first pieces of kit.

It was thrilling - seeing it all come together, imagining the fryers bubbling, the bags rolling off the line, our own team making Salty Dog crisps under our own roof.

The day we finally moved into the factory, I sat in our brand-new office, proud and a bit emotional. I picked up the phone and called my bank manager.

“Great news,” I said. “We’re in! Most of the equipment’s here, the fryers are on the way from America. I’m ready to draw down the loan.”

Her tone was calm, even cheerful. “No problem at all, Mr Willis,” she said. “We’ll just need directors’ guarantees from you and Judy.”

My blood ran cold.

“Sorry,” I said, “what did you just say?”

“We’ll need personal guarantees from both of you to secure the loan.”

I felt physically sick. I reminded her of our earlier conversation - that this was exactly what we’d said we wouldn’t do. But she was firm. “I’m afraid that’s standard procedure.”

I hung up the phone in disbelief. Everything we’d built - our home, our savings, our freedom - was suddenly on the line.

 

Breaking the News

 

I drove back to Devon, dreading the conversation with Judy. She was understandably furious - and she had every right to be.

I felt completely overwhelmed, not knowing which way to turn. I went upstairs to the bedroom, sat down, and had my first and (hopefully) only ever panic attack. It hit me like a wave - the realisation that I’d led us into a situation that could have destroyed everything we’d worked for.

Judy, ever the calm one in a crisis, called our accountant and arranged an emergency meeting. After going through every option, we came to a painful decision: we had to walk away.

That meant losing every penny we’d already paid - hundreds of thousands of pounds. It meant negotiating our way out of the lease. And worst of all, it meant breaking the news to the wonderful group of people we’d already hired, or promised jobs to.

I dreaded that part more than anything. But when I told them, something amazing happened - they weren’t angry. They were kind, understanding, even concerned for us. I’ll never forget that.

 

Letting Go

 

It took Judy a while to forgive me - and honestly, it took me even longer to forgive myself. I’d chased a dream and ignored my instincts. Worse still, I’d ignored Judy’s.

To reset, we took a trip to Iceland. One afternoon we stood on a wild, windswept beach, puffins flying past overhead, the air sharp and clean. We looked at each other and agreed: from that day forward, Salty Dog would be a business that worked for us, that gave us freedom, not pressure.

We’d risked everything once before and survived. But this time, we chose peace over risk. 

 

Join the Terriertorial Army

 

That chapter could have ended in disaster, but instead it taught me something invaluable: success isn’t always about getting bigger. Sometimes, it’s about getting smarter.

If you’re starting your own business, remember - growth is great, but guard your freedom. Protect what really matters.

That’s the spirit of the Terriertorial Army: fighting hard for your dreams, but knowing when to dig in, when to let go, and when to just enjoy the view.

Next time, I’ll tell you about how we bounced back with something new - the launch of our pork crackling brand, Gruntled.

🐾