This Little Swanny Went To Market

Common hogweed flowers reach for the sky

If there's any question over whether Napoleon was right when he remarked that Britain is a nation of shopkeepers, then I have just helped to tip the balance of the argument in his favour. On Sunday I moved into the hallowed realm of the producer-seller. I met the public face-to-face with only a market stall to separate us. Anyone could have walked into the village hall and bought my mange tout. It conjured up an odd mixture of feelings; of pride in my good-looking produce, of nervousness that no-one would buy it, of disappointment when people passed their gaze over my table and walked on, and of joy when people uttered the magic words “I'll take that please”.

The farmer's market was due to open at 10am. I got to the hall at 9, the car full of vegetables and my brand new six foot banner emblazoned with the “New Leaf” logo, and began to set up, as were others around me. Although I had been worried I'd have nothing to sell, I had managed to scrape together the following: five salad bags, two packs of broad beans, two portions of mange tout, three small bags of leaf coriander, one even smaller bag of lemon basil, and twelve courgettes. Fortunately Joe*, the guy who runs the market had sourced some additional things for me to sell (potatoes, carrots and bread – the latter I paid for upfront, the rest was his), so I was able to fill my table up and then some.

Just before 10am I was outside the entrance when a camper van drew up and a heavily-accented voice haltingly enquired “Can I sell bread here?”  I was somewhat taken aback, wondering how to explain politely that I would rather that I was the only bread-seller at this market. Fortunately before I had done so, the Austrian woman corrected herself with a laugh, “Ah, can I buy bread here?” This was a much more welcome question and I was able to say that I did indeed sell bread, so she and her companion came in and bought not only a loaf but also the first of my salad bags. Ker-ching! Let commerce commence.

Bonjour, French bean!

It would be nice to report that the floodgates were then opened and in poured a mass of eager shoppers, all bent on splashing out on my goods and those of the other eight stalls (namely, goats cheese, jewellery, cards, pork and cheese, honey and other bee-related products, arty photographs, Greek foods and ice cream).  It would also be a fib. A fairer assessment of the footfall over the next four hours would be “slow”. A blunter assessment would be “dead”. That's not to say that no one at all came in, certainly people did, but in dribs and drabs. Often there were no customers in the hall, which was when I'd listen to my next-door stall-holder hold forth very interestingly about bees.

The polytunnel is getting fuller

The lack of many customers did, on the other hand, make not having much to sell seem like a winning strategy. A good percentage of those that came in did buy something from me, and by end of play I could proudly say that all my own vegetables had been sold, bar four slightly wonky-looking courgettes, which netted me the immense sum of £23.20. And although I had quite a lot of bread left I had still made a slight profit, especially I was able to sell a few loaves at a reduced rate the next day to one of my local salad bag customers.

A four-legged inhabitant of my polytunnel

So it was a gentle step into the shallow end of the swimming pool of market trading. By next month's market I am sure my tomatoes will be ready, along with the cucumbers, and maybe even the carrots and cabbages will make an appearance, who knows. Perhaps more people will turn out next time. Food is being bought no more than two miles from where it was grown, harvested just shortly before market day, and sold by the person who grew it. This is surely how it should be.

*Not his real name, as per usual in this blog.