By Roz Hartley

I’m not good at much but keeping houseplants alive and thriving may well be my hidden
superpower. I grant you it’s not exactly glamorous. I’m not sure I’ll be offered a book deal or
a chat show off the back of it but it has been recognised amongst my friends and family.
“Look at your peace lily!” was the squawk that accompanied a drop-in visit from my
neighbour the other day. “Why is it flowering now? Mine absolutely refuses to.”

I wanted to be able to answer her but, to be honest, I have no idea why my plants continue
to thrive. I empty the jug of water on this particular specimen at the end of every meal
when we haven’t downed its contents (probably over-watering if you read the plant care
details) and it sits in a warmish kitchen out of direct sunlight. I strip it regularly of any brown
or yellowing leaves and chop chunks off the root every year as it is a bit of a monster and
there really isn’t room in my kitchen for a bigger pot. But the main thing is that I love it and I
tell it so, often.

Last winter, I treated myself to a pair of gloves which are green and fluffy and specifically
designed for stroking your plants. I drift into a meditative state, pull on my fluffy gloves,
block out the ridicule of my children and stroke the leaves of my houseplants. Obviously, the
main reason for doing this is to remove any dust from the leaves. This gives the plant
maximum photosynthesis power but, personally, I think the plant loves a little stroking
session, just like humans.
A little love goes a long way.

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By Roz Hartley

Slightly concerned by the number of fast-food bags I was finding in the footwell of my son’s
car, I gave him a mildly passive-aggressive present in his stocking: The Sunday Times
bestseller, “Ultra-Processed People” by Chris van Tulleken.
I hoped he might dive straight in on Boxing Day, learn how the fast-food industry is
manipulating us all and start shopping at the local farm shop instead. I thought that the little
bio picture of the author, who used to present one of his favourite children’s programmes
(Operation Ouch! which explored the weirdest and most wonderful bits of medicine from
sneezes and snot to pimples and poo) might lure him in. I was rather naïve. It didn’t and the
book sat on his desk for 3 weeks, gathering dust and empty coke cans.

My son has now gone back to university and the book didn’t accompany him. He didn’t even
pretend that he was going to read it….so I am.
Well! I’m only two thirds of the way through it but I have already cleared out the “sauce”
shelf of my fridge and stopped buying cheap ice-cream. Van Tulleken believes people will
change how they eat by reading his book, that we’ll be disgusted enough to voluntarily give
up ultra-processed food for good. I have to say that it’s working on me already.
My daughter rolls her eyes now when she sees me reading it. She fears that the contents of
the snack cupboard are about to be thrown in the bin and she may well be right.
Last night, we were in a horrible bargain shop looking for a sports’ bag when we both had a
fit of the munchies so we turned to the snack aisle. I said I would buy us a snack if we could
find one that had no additives, emulsifiers, e-numbers or modified anything in it.
I put my glasses on and started analysing the labels. My daughter settled in to reading the
small print and becoming more and more deflated as her favourites were deemed inappropriate by her annoying mother. We found ONE snack that fitted the brief – a bag of
whole monkey nuts in their shells for the excellent price of 99p and that is what we bought.
Back in the car, she then had the job of shelling them and feeding them to me as we headed
to the next shop to find the elusive sports’ bag.

The car, this morning, looks like a threshing machine has exploded on the upholstery and
I’m not sure the monkey nuts will be a go-to for my daughter. I suspect snack-buying will
now become a private, secretive affair that I am no longer invited to.
My food shopping may take a little longer as I double check the labels on things that I
assumed were healthy. My trips to local farm shops will become more frequent as I trust in
the provenance of their vegetables and meat. My dinners might take a little more thought
and pre-planning but my body will thank me. And my son? He’ll be reading this book when
he comes home at Easter… otherwise the Easter bunny will only bring him carrots.

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By Roz Hartley

I sit here at my desk in the aftermath of Storm Bert and can see out of the window my patio furniture strewn across the lawn, several branches down and a small, plastic greenhouse which will be of no use to my seedlings next Spring. Such an innocuous name, Bert, but capable of major disruption. Trains cancelled, cars floating down the road near my village and no end of lanes shut due to trees down. Friendly Sesame Street character, he was not. 

Apparently this habit of naming storms originated in the 1890s with a particular Australian meteorologist who entertained himself by naming storms after women or politicians that he didn’t much like.   Well, whoever Bert was, I didn’t much like him either. But then neither was I a huge fan of the weather the week before Bert with plummeting temperatures and frozen windscreens. Getting up in the dark is bad enough without having to de-ice the car before you can go anywhere. One might be forgiven for thinking that November in the UK is worth leaving behind. Oh to spend Winter in the Caribbean or the Bahamas.

But actually, if we cast our minds back even further, the beginning of November was delicious. Autumnal colours and trees turning orange and red accompanied my journey down to the West Country for a long weekend with the family. As always when packing for a long weekend in the UK, there was a bit of everything in my suitcase. T shirts and sweaters, hats and scarfs, wellies and sunglasses and, of course, the wetsuit. 

Even with the mild temperatures, the sea was just tipping over into unfriendly degrees centigrade – certainly unfriendly to bikini wearers. Although, as I donned the old neoprene (including feet and hands, thank you very much) I did pass much hardier folk than me, in their lobster-printed trunks and tropical-leaved swimsuits, discarding their towelling capes and running into the waves hand in hand. They weren’t in for long, but I was. I simply couldn’t drag myself out of the surf despite it being November. The sheer joy of body boarding or just hurling yourself into the foam brings a childlike exuberance that is impossible to suppress. 

I defy anyone to jump around in the waves on a beautiful November evening (in a wetsuit – with hands and feet) whilst the sun sets around them, not to feel full of the joy of the world. And thank goodness for these moments. They stay with me when the ice sets so hard on the car that I can’t open the door or the wind blows so hard that the bench hits the fence and makes a panel cave in. Grab the good times by the scruff of the neck and re-live them when the storms blow! That’s what November teaches me but, if anyone does have a spare ticket for St Lucia, then I am free next November.

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By Roz Hartley

As the leaves turn yellow and red around me and the daylight hours grow shorter and shorter, the huge temptation is to light the fire, make a Yorkshire pudding, shut the curtains and curl up on the sofa with the remote control close at hand. Yes, it’s hibernation season and not just for hedgehogs and tortoises. Fifty-year-old women like to curl up in a ball and wait for the Spring to come too!

​But not this one. Not this year. I’ve dug deep and, from somewhere, found some resolve. As the years trot by and the Yorkshire puddings wreak their havoc on my waistline, I have started to do something I have never been tempted to do before…RUN! 

I’m not talking Forrest Gump running. I’m not waving goodbye to my family and all my creature comforts and setting off across the wilderness with nothing but blister plasters and electrolyte for company. No. My style of running is far more suited to the middle-aged. I get home from work, plug in my earphones that I’ve snaffled from my daughter, choose a nicely paced tune or two and hit GO on the Couch to 5k app that I’ve heard so much about but never EVER been tempted to try before.

What changed? Could be my waistline or the puffing that has started to accompany me climbing the stairs. I just felt I needed to take the proverbial bull by the horns and, as good old Cher would say, turn back time.

The first week was pretty heinous. Jo Whiley (whom I chose to be my “coach” on the app) encouraged me to walk for two minutes and then run gently for one. ONE MINUTE. That’s a measly sixty seconds. Well, that first week it might as well have been sixty minutes. Huffing and puffing, sweating and slouching, I hauled myself through the first 30-minute session watching as my daughter (who’d agreed to do it with me) disappeared off into the distance without any apparent change in breathing or facial colouring. 

BUT I have stuck with it (she has not!) and through some minor miracle, my body is acclimatising and my brain is actually telling me that I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying the routine of every other day, coming home from a day at a desk, quick change into trainers and trackies and getting out in the fresh air. The main trick is to NOT sit down beforehand as the resolve quickly evaporates once the bum hits the cushion. Get straight out, whilst there’s still a little bit of daylight left and off I go. 

​Running through the autumn leaves, passing the conkers on the ground and the muck-spreading farmers, watching the sky change colour, is a far better way to spend half an hour than curled up on the sofa or doom-scrolling on the phone. And it makes me far more inclined to choose a fresh dinner, stuffed with fruit and vegetables rather than hibernation-inducing comfort foods that I would usually be craving at this time of year!

Four weeks in and I’m doing well. My scales thank me. My lungs thank me. Jo Whiley keeps thanking me – but I’ve not become evangelical about it. I’m not trying to persuade anyone else to join me as I know it will be met with eye rolling and sighs (as it did when people mentioned it to me in the past) but if you are even slightly tempted, give it a go! 

And if anyone is wondering what I’d like for Christmas – blister plasters and electrolyte wouldn’t go amiss!

Run Forrest, Run.

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By Roz Hartley

It’s that time of year when, up and down the country, mothers and fathers are pushing groaning trollies down the aisles laden with kettles, toasters and irons (they won’t use it – put it back) wondering if they have taught their eighteen-year-olds enough life skills to successfully navigate their first term at university.

​The corner of my own lounge has been commandeered for an ever-growing pile of duvet, pillows, towels, bedside light, toilet brush, cuddly toy, cuddly toy.. didn’t they do well?!

​I know, as I drive my own six-foot-tall, eighteen-year-old off this Friday, that I have done all I can. He knows what he knows. He knows how to use the washing machine (but shows no interest in doing so). He knows how to cook a pasta bolognese (but still would rather order a takeaway). He knows that eating five a day keeps you healthy (and that cherry-flavoured cola doesn’t count). He knows that living at home has been easy and warm and free and that he is stepping out to manage his own money (or lack of), his own time and his own responsibilities… and he can’t wait!

And set against the backdrop of all this newness for him was an invitation for me to attend my own university reunion. Would I like to meet up, thirty years on, with a motley crew of fellow alumni, a bit balder, a bit rounder, a bit wrinkly-er than the versions of ourselves who graduated three decades ago? Always trepidatious about these things (just what do you talk about when the inevitable “what are you doing now?” has been covered) I made sure there were enough going that I still spoke to regularly and ticked “yes”.

​Pre-reunion was a funny old time. What should I wear? How much effort should I make? Should I crash diet? Should I have a new haircut/pedicure/wardrobe? All self-induced madness, of course. After thirty years of not seeing these people, did I really care what they thought about the effects the ravages of time had had on me? Maybe!

​Within an hour of the get-together, none of it mattered. We were dancing on tables, knocking back tequila and singing along loudly and out of tune to “so Sally can wait”. Yes, we are older and greyer but the eighteen-year-olds are still inside us. Yes, we have proper jobs and mortgages and school runs and arthritis but we are all still here and we know how to belt out a bit of Oasis. What a wonderful, life-affirming night it was!

So, as I wave goodbye to my own undergraduate later this week, I will try not to overdo the list of things he should and shouldn’t do and let him find his own way. After all, we all managed to work it out…
​(Although, I can’t promise his “good luck” card and present won’t have a slight angle!)

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By Roz Hartley

I was lucky enough to wake up in a treehouse this morning.
​Not a kid’s treehouse with mud pies and pirate flags, secret passwords and dirty knees. I’m talking a proper bona fide adult tree house with copper rolled-top bath, fluffy white towels, china plates and even a little wood-burning stove.

​My behaviour was pretty childish, however, as I climbed up the wooden steps into the canopy of the large oak tree which surrounds the little house and squealed with delight at the sight of the leaves through every glorious window. I opened the fridge and was even more excited to see a welcoming bottle of prosecco rather than the Blyton-esque ginger beer one expects in such an abode!

We unpacked, went for a little walk, popped the bottle and settled on the expansive sofa. Oh! No TV. No Sky. No Netflix. No Amazon Prime. Well, this was going to be interesting. Conversation and board games, here we come!

​Just as the world around us is realising the damage that smart phones are having on the younger generation, it is also rather wonderful to take a break from it all as an adult, to turn off the phone, to close the laptop and stare into the flames of a wood burner rather than a 55-inch telly. 

​It was lovely just to chat and play a dog-eared, well-loved quiz game of “MR and MRS” and reveal just how well we knew each other, to discuss the past and plan the future. Fizz in hand (!), we worked out our finance dreams and mapped out our healthy eating resolutions and exercise plans before filling the copper bath and having a good soak.

​I woke rested and refreshed. I didn’t reach for my phone first thing but watched a squirrel dashing around in the oak tree, looking for early acorns. I felt like I had pressed “reboot”.

A healthy breakfast of fruit and yoghurt on the balcony amongst the branches and it was time to get back to reality. Time to go to work. Time to write a newsletter. I packed up my bits and bobs, lovingly stroked the edge of the copper bath and drove home, by-passing the coffee shop (that wasn’t part of our finance plan) and giving the golden arches the cold shoulder (healthy eating, healthy eating!).

​If my resolve weakens over the coming weeks, you may find me lying on the grass looking up at the sky through imaginary branches or on the laptop googling “tree house accommodation near you” … at least until this little specimen gets a little bigger!

tree house can be found here www.cheritontreehouse.co.uk

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By Roz Hartley

The recent sad and untimely death of Dr Michael Mosley has led to rather a lot of posthumous publicity for what he advocated. His writings, podcasts and programmes had rather passed me by when he was alive, but after the somewhat macabre media fascination (and mine, to be honest) with where he had got to on that Greek Island, I began to read a little more about his work.

​If you, like me, didn’t know much about him, he was on a mission to unearth the small, simple things that anyone and everyone could introduce into their routine to make them happier and healthier. 

More houseplants can boost your productivity (I’m surrounded by them already – not sure there’s any room for more) and singing can give you a natural high (though the people I live with might disagree!). Standing on one leg can improve your balance, reduce your risk of injury and improve your posture. He would do it every morning whilst he was brushing his teeth. Cooking tomatoes increases their lycopene levels which can aid in the prevention of cancer.

​I love this idea. I’m captivated by the notion that these really simple changes can be incorporated into your daily routine. I don’t need to join a new gym, wear a leotard (thank God!) or buy an ice bath. A 30 second cold shower every morning for 60 days reduces the risk of sick days by 30% according to Dr Mosley’s research. I can’t comment on that one as I’m still working up to it but standing on one leg is coming along brilliantly. 

​My children take it in turns to knock me over and have started referring to me as “the flamingo” but the mockery falls on deaf ears. The arrogance of youth may fade when they realise I’m going to live forever and their inheritance will be spent on houseplants and tomatoes!

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By Roz Hartley

What is it with this weather?

​As I write, the crack of blue sky I was excited about earlier has been obliterated by a thick, angry, black cloud in the shape of an upside-down Donald Trump and fat raindrops are falling on my patio and my evening plans. My washing has been in and out and in and out and, quite frankly, I have not found the hokey cokey as amusing as I used to. The cricket season has not got off to a good start with 6 out of 7 fixtures cancelled due to wet, soggy pitches and don’t start me on what this climate is doing to my hairstyle. 

The only saving grace that I can cling to is that my veggie plot is looking lush and I haven’t had to lug a watering can around every evening although, even that yin, comes with the unhelpful yang of a prolific slug population.

​For anyone organising a village fete or a wedding, frantic weather app checking must have become obsessive and the poor old weather men/women have even been seen to shrug their shoulders in front of the camera and admit to not really knowing if you are going to get sun in Hull and showers in Hove or the other way around.

Chelsea vegetables

I was glued to the weather app last week when I headed up to Chelsea having been offered a ticket to the flower show. My first visit and I was crazily excited. I packed a bag of sun cream, raincoat, sunhat and umbrella just to cover all the options…and yes, I needed them all. Unfortunately, by the afternoon, the rainclouds dominated, the paths had become a muddy mess and the show gardens were hard to glimpse between the myriad of umbrellas and moaning visitors.  I retired to the Pimms’ tent where a single plastic cup of ice, lemonade and a sniff of alcohol set me back a whopping £16. 

​The train ride home got me musing as I stared out at the passing countryside through steamed up windows. It’s good to venture out and about to see the sights every now and then even if it’s just to reaffirm that local is best. A lovely cup of coffee and a beautifully baked slice of something sweet in my local farm shop seems a total bargain after Chelsea and I can stay out of the rain in their snug little café. What more could you need?

​Must dash – the sun is out and my washing needs to shake it all about.

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By Roz Hartley

Up in my mum’s attic last weekend (don’t ask!) I came across an old trunk full of photos, postcards and papers which we hadn’t seen before. Hoping for some good old “Cash in the Attic” discoveries, we brought it into the light and started sifting through the mottled, yellowed papers to see if we were millionaires.

A right old trip down memory lane later, but no Turin Shroud, I left clutching a delicate old handwritten book of my grandmother’s recipes which my sister was ready to throw in the bin. I, being rather more sentimental and a sucker for nice handwriting, snaffled it out of the dump pile and brought it home.

​I can remember my Granny well despite being only about five when she died. She was stocky and sturdy with tight, greying curls and always a pearl necklace. She had a twinkle in her eye, a kitchen full of melamine and a strange insistence on toilet paper that looked like tracing paper.

I made myself a big, frothy coffee and settled in a sunny spot to commune with the past… two hundred and twenty-five pages of beautiful, black-ink-penned handwriting. I flicked through, looking for something I fancied cooking;
Kidneys? Not really…. Casserole of fish?.. Could do with a better name!…
Tapioca and apples, boiled fruit cake, veal cake..…erm…. Kiss me quick pudding? Maybe. 

​Every now and then, as I turned a page, not only would I get a strong whiff of aging paper but a little scribbled note would fall out. It was these little blasts from the past which excited me the most. One was a shopping list on the back of a newspaper article from 1949, advertising Pond’s double cleansing cream for “complexions as pretty as almond blossom” and one was a succinct recipe on the front of an envelope, postmarked 1945, to a long-forgotten Mrs Briggs requiring:

​​

1 level tablespoon of dried egg
2 ozs of butter
4 ozs margarine
Half a teacupful of warm milk

I’m not sure what this little nugget would have created but dried, powdered egg featured quite regularly in my Granny’s recipes and, not having heard of it before, I fell down a Google-shaped rabbit hole of wartime recipes.

​Rationing during and after World War 2 meant everyone with a ration book was allowed one real egg a week but you could have a tin of dried eggs every two months (one tin was equal to 12 fresh eggs). (I also learned that if you decided to keep your own chickens, you were no longer allowed your fresh egg ration but you could exchange it for chicken food!)

​Imagine that!? One egg a week! And that was only if they were available. Shoppers, like my Granny, would have signed up with a specific baker, greengrocer and butcher in their local town and would queue up once a week to pick up their rations. Often, they would get to the front of the queue to find that the last egg or loaf or pack of butter had just been given out and there was nothing they could do about it.

Fresh eggs at The Flower Farm 

​I made chocolate brownies last week and the recipe required six eggs. I thought nothing of popping to my local farm shop and buying half a dozen eggs and using them all in one cake. I didn’t have to queue, no one asked me for my ration book, I wasn’t offered a substitute of powdered egg in a tin and neither did I hear the air raid siren go off on my way home.

Fully stocked shelves at Cobbs Farm Shop

​We may be up against high inflation, global warming and doctors’ strikes but our farm shops are full of fabulous fresh food, eggs are plentiful and Spring is just round the corner. Let’s count our chickens and celebrate the good life. Omelette, anyone?

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By Roz Hartley

I’ve got a dirty secret.

​I live a simple life in a small cottage in Dorset. I love my garden. I love my cricket. I love my children (not necessarily in that order but, yes, in that order today!) but there is a room in my house which makes most of my friends twitch. The most compulsive of them can’t resist taking a peek into it when they come round. Some of them visibly shudder as they shut the door again and quickly change the subject. Others have offered to come round and help me with it. I pretend it doesn’t bother me but somewhere, deep down, I feel ashamed.

​We’re not talking Fifty Shades of Grey secret room. It’s just my utility room/ crafting room/ general dumping ground. People are coming over for dinner – I open the door and throw the debris in. Online delivery arrives – shove the packaging in there. Stuff waiting for the charity shop – pop a bag in the utility room. The detritus of life has a terrible knack of building up until you can hardly open the door. I dread the question, 

”Mum, have you seen my football boots?”  

​as I know they are in there somewhere, muddy and manky, under layers of other lost, forgotten paraphernalia. I joke with my daughter that;

“I’m going in…. if I’m not out in ten minutes, hire a winch”

Well, not anymore. It’s finally time. New year, new me and all that.

​Some are getting down the gym, some are training for marathons. Some poor fools have given up alcohol and others are learning to dance. I am sorting out my utility room and erasing my dirty secret. It’s the only thing that I can do, for free, that will enhance my life and make me feel like a shiny new me.

Did you try something new? Did it last longer than the second week of January?

​I looked back at my resolutions for last year and the declaration I publicly made in 2023’s January newsletter was to eat more seasonally and buy more locally. I like to think that the promise I made to myself has now become part of my everyday, a shift in habits which I hope is being echoed around the country as shoppers realise that they have the power to choose where they spend their pounds. Meals created from fresh, seasonal, local produce benefit our bodies, our planet and our communities. That’s a big outcome for a little new year’s resolution!

​And how’s my clear up going? Well, I can now open the door so check in next year and I might be able to see the floor.

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a note from THE editor, Roz Hartley

Christmassy, I mean? I think it gets harder and harder each year to get into the spirit. The tinkle of bells introduces Mariah Carey’s festive belter and all I seem to think about is how much money she must make from that blasted tune, her private cash cow! Cynical, I know.

​The magic that is Christmas as a child seems to be an elusive ideal the older you get. Last year, I pulled my own name out of the sack for our work “Secret Santa” and rather than admitting to it and putting it back in to choose another one, I kept it, bought myself something I actually wanted, wrapped it and looked forward to opening it with a genuine smile. Very sensible, I thought, but not really capturing the Spirit of Christmas!

​Even John Lewis seems to have lost their way this year. Nothing says Christmas quite like a Venus Fly Trap!

​I thought my daughter was losing the festive joy yesterday when she announced that she no longer wants a stocking on Christmas Day. (She is fifteen, after all, but I just assumed this tradition would survive for as long as she is my daughter). She followed it up with “I don’t really need anything LITTLE” which made me chuckle and remind myself not to jump to conclusions. She still wants presents, just not silly little stocking fillers!

Well, she’s going to get one, perhaps more for me than for her.

​I will fill it with useful things – the ubiquitous socks, new pens, a phone charger and mascara – everything a teenage girl consumes on a daily basis – and some yummy little sweet treats from my local farm shop – hot chocolate, yoghurt coated raisins and her favourite little biscuits which we save for special occasions. And she will get in to bed with me on Christmas morning and I will “ooh” and “aaah” in mock surprise at all the things she opens in front of me…because that is our tradition and that will make me feel it! Christmassy, I mean.

Even if it’s only for the actual day itself, the Spirit of Christmas will come, and you’ll find me tapping my foot and raising a glass to Mariah and the great song she created all those years ago.

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a note from THE editor, Roz Hartley

Oh my gosh, it was chilly this morning. When the alarm went off at a stupid number that started with a six and I opened one eye to total darkness, the thought of throwing off the covers and actually getting up was more unappealing than usual. Sure enough, peeking through the curtains, I saw there was a frost on the barn roof in the field opposite me and fat, fluffed up birds sitting on the wires strung between the telegraph poles, keeping their feet warm.

​When the season irrefutably changes from summer to autumn and the woolly socks come out, not only do I start to consider lighting the wood burner and adding another layer to my duvet but my need for heavy-weight comfort food becomes a slight obsession. I find myself leafing through cookery books salivating over unctuous stews and boiling broths, gooey chocolate cakes and creamy mashed potato. Let’s face it, food is the most primitive form of comfort.

​I caught the tail-end of a Nigella Lawson cooking show this week which I sucked up like a thirsty man in the desert! She wafted about in her incredibly beautiful kitchen whilst making a brie, fig and prosciutto sandwich. The photography was as close to inappropriate as you can get on a cooking programme with slurpy, dripping fingers poking little bits of melted cheese into the corners of her lipsticked-mouth but the sheer quality of the ingredients was what got me.  

​The ripened fig was nestled in a fruit bowl of similarly delicious looking fruit, no plastic wrap and no supermarket stickers. The prosciutto that Nigella lifted from her immaculate fridge was wrapped in brown, waxy paper from the delicatessen down the road and looked ostensibly incredible and the brie was perfect, oozing and creamy, just like it would be from the cheese counter at my farm shop, not solid and cold from the chiller cabinet in the supermarket.

​She popped them all in between slices of floury sourdough and proceeded to fry the whole lot in a chunk of yellow butter the size of a small country and my mouth dribbled with unfettered desire. I checked no-one heard the small moan that escaped from my lips.

As George Bernard Shaw famously wrote; “There is no sincerer love than the love of food” and in that moment I loved that sandwich more than my children and wished, not for the first time, that Nigella was my neighbour who kept knocking on my door to taste test her food.

​The look of food is just as important as the taste, perhaps even more so, as it hints at the joy to come, the pleasure we associate with eating and elevates the experience from a simple need to fuel our bodies into the intense joy of devouring a good dish.  As Gianfranco Perri (founder of Just Gourmet Foods) wrote in Speciality Food Magazine this month;

“it is .. important for independents to build a multi-sensory experience for the customer.  Food shopping shouldn’t be a sterile process, and we can be positively inspired through all our senses. Good food retailing is an art and one to be indulged with visual impact, smell, taste and through the positive emotions that a customer will hopefully leave your shop with.”

​That’s it…right there. I want to walk into my local farm shop, grab a basket and fill it with food that wouldn’t look out of place in Nigella’s kitchen. Comfort food is going to keep us warm this week (and hopefully delay the central heating going on for a little bit longer!). After all, I’d much rather spend my money on figs and cheese than gas.

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a note from the editor, Roz Hartley

For the past few years, I have driven past this sign on my way to work and watched as the price of horse manure has steadily dropped. It used to read £1 a bag and the pile of large plastic bags, full to bursting with horse poop, would entice passers-by to fill up their car boots with steaming manure to sprinkle on their roses or veggie beds. Obviously, the pile wasn’t going down as quickly as the seller required, so soon afterwards, the price dropped to 50p a bag.

​Driving by last week, I noticed that the sign had once again been updated. The price of horse dung has hit an all-time low in this neck of the woods as it is now FREE to anyone who can be bothered to lift a bag and pop it in their car. Free!! It seems whilst prices rise in pretty much every other market, from grain to petrol, from rents to cheese, there exists one place where you can grab a bargain – pony poo!

​I’m sure a few people were excited by the freebies at the side of the road. The word “FREE” can make a person do all sorts of out of character things. I feel my fingers twitch when I see a “BUY ONE GET ONE FREE” (or the delightfully named BOGOF offers) in my local supermarket. Who else comes home clutching two bags of doughnuts when really all they went in for was a box of matches? It’s false economy really. No one needs two bags of doughnuts …. It could be argued that no one really needs ONE. The word FREE makes us lose our rationale and gather up stuff that we ordinarily wouldn’t look twice at.

​I am trying to be a better shopper. I am trying to not get sidetracked. Just because horse poop is free, doesn’t mean I automatically put some in my car boot and so neither should I pick up bags of doughnuts.

​Freebies in supermarkets are just the tip of the destructive pricing model iceberg that lures consumers into expecting to pay less and less for the food. The reality behind the BOGOF is that producers are not being paid fairly for their hard work, their own profits are being squeezed into non-existence and food production in the UK is shrinking as a result. 

“Farmers cannot keep feeding us if they are denied commitment and security and are not making a fair, reasonable profit”

says the eloquent Guy Singh-Watson of Riverford.

​Everything should be pointing the conscientious shopper to the farm shop where the supply chain is short and the pricing fair. We’ll keep shouting about you and fuelling the revolution! Shoppers… turn your back on those BOGOFs and get down to your local farm shop. A bag of free horse manure to the first ten customers through the door.

Have an interesting story you would like us to share? Contact our editor…

Roz@fabulousfarmshops.co.uk

By Roz Hartley

I have just spent a wonderful weekend on Exmoor where the wild ponies nibbled amongst swathes of bright purple heather and the enormous skies changed from blue to white to a startling shade of black from minute to minute. There was a definite chill in the air and the hedgerows, laden with ripening blackberries, reminded me that the summer is drawing to a close.

My runner beans have pretty much done all their running and the tomatoes are ready, juicy and red. My corn on the cob are swollen, tips papery, and my chillis are feisty. I don’t have much in the ground now except some skinny leeks which will hopefully beef up over the coming months and be a lovely surprise when I’m racking my brains for a winter lunch.

​For me, this time of year is always bittersweet with the school holidays coming to an end and the September routine set to begin again – the freedom of the summer being replaced by the Monday to Friday regime. For the farm shops, I’m sure the summer will have been a busy one and now the crescendo to December begins. Ordering and planning for the festive season must make the march of time accelerate.

​I hope, in amongst the routine, you give yourself the chance to stop for a minute, look up at the sky, pick a blackberry from the hedgerow and remind yourself what a great job you’re doing! Or go one step further and take a whole day off. 

I can highly recommend Exmoor! ​

“Each person deserves a day away in which no problems are confronted, no solutions searched for. Each of us needs to withdraw from cares which will not withdraw from us.”

Maya Angelou

And, as I reminded my colleague today, ​it will all be there when you get back!

Have an interesting story you would like us to share? Contact our editor…

Roz@fabulousfarmshops.co.uk

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR, ROZ HARTLEY

I’ve watched my fair share of tennis this month. ​

Wimbledon sneaks up on me every year and I marvel at how July has come around again so quickly. The fortnight brings little pots of strawberries and cream, line judges in natty white trousers, Tim Henman in the commentary box slightly aggravated by John McEnroe and an endless stream of incredible tennis matches which suck you in and chew you up.

​I turn the TV off at the end of the day exhausted by the sheer brilliance of the underdog – those seemingly tireless players who may be two sets down but somehow find the energy, bravery and downright bloody-mindedness to dig deep, shout at the sky, screw up their fists and fight back.  

​I am in awe of their resilience, their tenacity and their inventiveness as they hammer down an ace or pirouette towards the drop shot, find a new impossible angle and begin again, a point by agonising point, climb back to victory.

​Not dissimilar, I feel, to the hundreds of pioneering independent farm shop owners and artisan producers that we celebrate here at Fabulous Farm Shops.

​Let’s face it, life has been tough over the last few years. The unprecedented madness of the pandemic was followed by crazy energy price hikes and a cost-of-living crisis, all to a backdrop of cut-price supermarkets and endless BOGOFs… and yet, here you are, digging deep.  

​We, at Fabulous Farm Shops HQ, are constantly amazed by the energy of this community and thrilled by the re-invention employed to combat the retail climate. Expanding your farm shop with a café showcasing all that is fresh and local is your ACE. Offering a refill service or a vegetable delivery scheme is your DROPSHOT. Showcasing your local ice cream producer in a cabinet instore or a coffee van or fishmonger on your courtyard is your BACKHAND SLICE. 

​We sit in the front row applauding and whooping your efforts and hope with all our hearts that the clouds clear, the sun comes out and you can throw your sweat bands into the crowd and lift the trophy.

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Roz@fabulousfarmshops.co.uk

​I know they say you can’t but it’s not true. I’m learning new things all the time and I’m (err) a lady of a certain age.

I bought a paddleboard last year (went to Lidl’s for a tin of pineapple and came home with one, as you do) and can zig zag my way down a river now with the best of them. I’ve watched Strictly Come Dancing wistfully for years now and finally took the plunge this year, signed up for classes and now my rumba is as cringingly awful to watch as anyone else’s (but deeply satisfying to perform!) and when I used to make the cricket teas for my dad’s team back in the 80s, I never thought to actually pick up a bat and ask if I could play, but now I’m down the nets every Tuesday and I’m getting better, really I am. See – old dog, new tricks!

​I’m a huge believer in “give it a try” and can be heard shouting it frequently at my children when I put a new dish in front of them and it’s greeted with a curled lip and a wrinkled nose. They both hate mushrooms and avocado, but I refuse to be beaten. I leave them both off the menu for a good twelve months and then sneak them in, in a new guise, a re-invented fanfare of deliciousness to see if their tastes have changed, their palates broadened.

​Talking of broad, I used to feel that way about broad beans. My dad would plant a couple of packets every autumn and his excitement was almost palpable around this time of year when the first small pods were ready to pick. I would wander down the garden path and stare at the long rows of rather beautiful plants with their silvery-green lush foliage and striking black and white flower and wonder how such a pretty thing could produce such a vile bean. My heart would sink at just how many there were. It was going to be a bumper harvest.

​Sure enough, that Sunday, the kitchen would take on a rather farty aroma as the bright green little kidneys were boiled in their skins, turned an unattractive grey and were liberally scooped onto our plates. Dad would clap his hands in glee. I would vow never to eat another broad bean as soon as I was old enough to choose for myself.

​And, for a long time, I kept my promise to my younger self. Until about five years ago when I went to an early summer party. We were out in the garden, a Pimm’s in hand, painted toes on show, enjoying the thrill of the first truly warm evening and the hostess was passing round platters of delicious things. I scooped a generous dollop of a bright green dip onto my oval of sourdough and popped it into my mouth…and, OMG , the world stopped turning. Well, not quite, but my eyes opened a little wider, the birds sang a little louder and I started following the hostess like a lovesick puppy.

​“What IS that?” I swooned. 

​“Broad beans” came the repulsive answer. Don’t be ridiculous!

​But yes – that’s what it was. New broad beans, boiled BRIEFLY in salted water, cooled and PEELED. Yep – those guffy skins are taken off and discarded – and then the beautiful new little nuggets of goodness are whizzed up with a little bit of mint, garlic and olive oil. Well, well, well….

So my epiphany came after 30 years and my self-inflicted broad bean exile came to an end. And my cries of “give it a try” have become even more evangelical. Do it today!
​Take something you’ve always hated (and I’m talking about a fruit or a vegetable, not James Blunt – although you never know what a remix featuring Eminem might do) and mix it up. Re-interpret the little blighter and you too might just find heaven in a bean.

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR, ROZ HARTLEY  

Have an interesting story you would like us to share? Contact our editor…

Roz@fabulousfarmshops.co.uk

​A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR, ROZ HARTLEY  

A friend of mine popped over the other day for a catch up and I flicked the kettle switch down as I heard her footsteps coming up the path. I had two of my favourite mugs on a little tray and a couple of pastries and my milk frother at the ready. The anticipation of my first coffee of the morning and a chat with my friend had me buzzing before the caffeine even hit my blood.

Then she uttered the chilling words….
“No thanks. I’ve given up coffee. I’ll just have water….”
Well, that burst my frothy bubble. Where’s the joy in that? Could we even still be friends?

​Don’t get me wrong. I love a nice cold, glass of water…after a game of cricket or a long bout of gardening or housework or when I’ve just done my teeth and can’t shake the minty fresh tongue thing but at 11 o’clock, when you have already done what feels like half a day’s work – is there anything better than coffee???

pic from Fields Farm Shop & Café, Suffolk

​

Most of the world agrees with me. Coffee is the second most traded commodity in the world (after oil) with over 2 billion cups consumed every day and 98 million of those in the UK (according to the British Coffee Association. )

​Coffee shops have been multiplying on our high streets exponentially for at least 20 years and we are seeing more and more of our fabulous farm shops introducing coffee machines, expanding their footprint with coffee shops and cafés, and selling beautiful, roasted beans alongside their fresh milk stations.

The green barn farm shop’s new café, Essex

​

We know that we drink coffee to help us wake up, to motivate us to get on with the day, to keep our eyes open when the snooze creeps up on us but the social side of drinking coffee is the real pull for me. Meeting for coffee, hands clasped around a big mug, those glorious aromas wafting around you whilst you chat and re-connect make this drink a bigger part of our lives than anyone could ever have guessed when it was introduced into England in the 17th Century.  

Coffee:
​A warm, delicious alternative to hating everybody every morning forever

Coffee has filtered (sorry!) through our lives and created a fragrant backdrop to business meetings, first dates, break-ups, favourite sit-coms, friendships, reunions and farewells. As American romance writer J. Lynn writes:

“the key to the start of any good relationship is to remember how the other person likes their coffee”.

​Nowadays some 700 million people are estimated to rely on coffee in one form or another for their employment, you can get a master’s degree in coffee at a university in Italy, attend various barista training courses, enjoy coffee tasting experiences, have quotations about coffee framed on your wall at home and buy “coffee lovers” gift sets for Christmas … you can even spread the old grounds on your garden and use it to improve your roses or burn it on your log burner.

​Not bad for a little bean!

pic from Hooga Coffee, Somerset

Have an interesting story you would like us to share? Contact our editor…

Roz@fabulousfarmshops.co.uk

By Roz Hartley

I was sat in my garden on a glorious late April afternoon, cradling a cup of coffee (my third, if I’m honest) and seeking inspiration for this very blog post. It’s the time of year when everything feels fresh and new, poised to unfurl (but I wrote about that LAST April!) and full of energy (except my brain!).

​Waiting for a flash of inspiration, a bee came into view as it landed on a dandelion at my feet. It got stuck into the golden layers and looked positively joyous as it emerged coated in sunshiny dust. Absent-mindedly, I followed its journey and saw it land on my wallflower, poke about for a few seconds and then on to my rosemary bush where it lingered for longer and delved into the small, lilac/blue flowers, open and welcoming in the sunshine.

​Where next? It hovered around my coconut macaroon for a while (did I fail to mention the coffee accompaniment?!) before settling on my tulips and finally buzzing off where I could no longer follow…to the neighbouring garden. Good luck, I whispered, you won’t find much there!

​How fabulous, I thought, to have such a choice for your coffee break, to flit from yellow to purple to blue to white, to taste a bit of sweetness, a bit of savoury, a bit of herby perfume and spend your day digging into a smorgasbord of different flavours and colours…. KER POW…inspiration!

​Isn’t that just how I feel when I shop in my local farm shop? 

During the week, squeezing a food shop into the window of opportunity between work and school run, I will nip into the supermarket. Uninspiring but necessary, I will be on autopilot picking up what we need in the cupboard, but, at the weekend, when time is my friend, I will venture to my farm shop and browse the shelves and I become that bee.  

Ooh olives in chilli and garlic? yes please…I’ll try a bit of that.

Hand-stretched focaccia with sea-salt and rosemary? Well, I don’t mind if I do, thank you very much.

Grass-fed steak, dry aged on the bone? Why ever not? 
​
Handmade, gooey chocolate brownies? It would be rude not to.

​I flit from one delicious offering to the next, metaphorically dunking my stripes in their pollen and revelling in their goodness! The farm shop, with its plethora of choice, is the kama sutra of the food shop.

​A very wise man (William Cowper 1731 – 1800) once said that “Variety’s the very spice of life” and, had I met him, I’d have shaken him by the hand (and possibly asked him if he’d been watching a bee in his garden when he came up with that one). We all need choice in our lives to keep them exciting – man cannot live by turnip alone.

​The supermarket can keep us alive but it’s the farm shop that can nourish our soul.

Have an interesting story you would like us to share? Contact our editor…

Roz@fabulousfarmshops.co.uk

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR, ROZ HARTLEY  

My daughter came home from school, kicked off her shoes and announced that she was going to cut out refined sugar for a month… hmmm, interesting! 

​I felt this was an excellent ambition and definitely one to be embraced. I decided I should hop on this particular band wagon (far better than getting a tattoo, shaving your head or having a bucket of ice dumped on your head). 

​“I’ll do it with you”, I chimed enthusiastically, and put the chocolate bar back in the cupboard.

my usual cravings…

​I had noticed that my need for sweetness had been reaching unprecedented levels. I would finish eating a meal and immediately crave chocolate. I was almost unable to walk past a bakery without popping in for a sugar-encrusted something and I wondered if I could reset my taste buds. Self-control is not something I’m known for, so I was interested to see how this would pan out.

It was unfortunate that this gauntlet had been thrown down on the Monday before Shrove Tuesday. Our pancake day was different to usual. My son (who had no intention of joining us on our sugar deprivation journey) enjoyed liberal application of treacle to his pancake, topped with extra sugar and the merest hint of lemon juice…just for balance. In fact, over the coming month, his sugar intake probably doubled as he took joy in unwrapping chocolate bars under our noses and licking ice creams in our paths.

​Our pancakes received their toppings of fruit and plain yoghurt in silence. No oohs and aahs or slapping of lips and no pleading for seconds. The month stretched ahead of us.

​Usually when something is forbidden, you crave it more. Tell me I can’t make a noise and I immediately have a desperate urge to shout. Tell me I mustn’t scratch and the itch becomes ferocious. Tell me not to touch the fruit of that particular tree and I am back in the Garden of Eden reaching for that apple.

​But that was ok … apples were allowed.

​And it was fruit that saved me. Knowing that chocolate was a no-no made me look to alternatives. My fruit bowl became my friend. I looked forward to my banana at breakfast and an apple as an afternoon snack. Grapes were suddenly my not-so-guilty pleasure. I stopped opening the snack cupboard when I got a bit bored and opened the fridge instead. Even a cherry tomato was seen disappearing into my mouth when I felt I needed “a little something”.

​My taste buds have definitely been reset but so have my habits. With the ease of the snack cupboard banished from my day, looking for alternatives has proven to be rather wonderful. It takes two minutes longer to peel and chop a carrot than it does to open a bag of doughnuts and the colour and the crunch is beautifully rewarding (it IS…try it!).  

​I am six weeks on and I’m still going strong.  This week sees rhubarb on the shelves and soon we will see our farm shops stocking pears, early raspberries and strawberries and I’m positively excited about all my fruity options. 

​And my daughter? How did she get on?
​She was elbow-deep in the snack cupboard after two days!

Have an interesting story you would like us to share? Contact our editor…

Roz@fabulousfarmshops.co.uk

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR, ROZ HARTLEY

I have a new habit. Muttering.

Largely directed at the News on the radio as it reports stories from the world that seem to me completely absurd.

This week it was all about rewriting Roald Dahl to make his books more “suitable”? Mutter, mutter “Has the world gone mad?” “Leave the BFG alone” 

​I had a full on (one-sided) debate with the newsreader about leaving the written word alone. Why should we airbrush the past? Why should we tamper with the original?

​I then went online and caught a glimpse of a 64 year old Madonna, with a face like a stretched and shiny aubergine, upset about the world’s reaction to her new look. I felt a flicker of deja-vu as I muttered the exact same words. Why should we airbrush the past? Why should we tamper with the original?

Madonna and her entourage

​Mad-onna is creating her own truth as much as re-assembling her own face just as the “sensitivity readers” are re-writing Dahl’s gloriously repugnant characters but an airbrushing of the truth seems be prevalent all around us.

​Another story in the News which was next in my firing line, and apologies for the pre-amble if actually all that interests you are tomatoes, British supermarkets are now rationing tomatoes – and possibly cucumbers and peppers. The vegetable aisles are full of nothing but empty shelves…

​And, apparently, it’s all due to poor weather in Europe…erm. Nothing like telling half the story.

Empty vegetable shelves in my
local supermarket.

Supermarket
half-truths?

Hmm global warming and terrible cucumber growing weather in Europe… but it all begins to smell a bit fishy when social media is full of pictures of shelves in Europe positively groaning under the weight of fresh cucumbers, tomatoes and peppers – all the things that aren’t making it to UK supermarkets because of the “weather”.

A European supermarket’s loaded shelves 

​Un-airbrushed accounts tell the full story. Of course, there was Brexit and we know about the lack of lorry drivers but there’s also a lack of foresight and a total disinclination to champion British suppliers. At the end of last year, as energy prices reached unprecedented highs, supermarket chains decided not to pay British growers the correct price for producing home-grown salads which needed heated greenhouses. Instead, they opted for importing cheaper produce from abroad. Cooler temperatures in Europe, distribution issues and a disruption to that supply chain mean empty supermarket shelves.

​I do wish the media would report the full story. I do wish my grandchildren will be allowed to read the glorious, unpolished language of Roald Dahl and that Augustus Gloop will remain as fat as he ever was (and that Madonna’s stretched and shiny aubergine-cheeks will be allowed to age and wrinkle like my own).

Stokeley Farm Shop – so much better than a supermarket!

​But most of all, I do wish that consumers will once again realise, as they did during the pandemic, that popping to their local farm shop, where the vegetable shelves are full of locally grown, seasonal produce, is the way forward. 

​Un-airbrushed pictures of glorious farm shop veg have been all over social media this week with hashtags as unapologetic as #noemptyshelveshere. If only the mainstream media would get on board too and every time they sent a reporter to the supermarket to show empty shelves, they would also visit a farm shop full to bursting, and interview “satisfied Sue” with a basket stuffed with produce rather than “disgruntled Di” moaning about her wasted trip to Tesco.

The Paddock Farm Shop
​shows off its cucumbers

Windy Arbour Farm Shop exhibiting
no shortage of tomatoes!

​In the meantime, you wonderful farm shops, let’s do what we can. Keep sharing those photos, keep shouting about your veg, keep doing what you do. And I’ll keep muttering at the radio…. 

Have an interesting story you would like us to share? Contact our editor…

Roz@fabulousfarmshops.co.uk

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR, ROZ HARTLEY  

January often gets a real bashing. Money is tight after Christmas and there are a whole 31 days to get through until payday. It’s cold and grey or wet and murky and, gosh, those long dark evenings…don’t they seem interminable? Your best friend is doing “dry January” (why, oh why, would you do that to yourself?) which means there’s one less person with whom to drown your January blues, and worst of all, in my case, cricket season is a hell of a long way off!  No wonder January is now the proud owner of its very own depressing day accolade, Blue Monday – apparently THE MOST depressing day of the year (the third Monday of the month).

According to Wikipedia, the man who put together an elaborate equation to work out the most depressing day of the year (surely there are better ways to spend your time? Cricket, anyone?) said that it was “never his intention to make the day sound negative“, but rather “to inspire people to take action and make bold life decisions”. 

​Winter vegetable at Jolly Nice Farm Shop, Gloucestershire

Well, January and its 31 days are now behind us and we can use February to make our bold life decisions. The days are definitely growing longer and hopefully the soil will begin to warm up and allow me to get a fork into it without too much effort. The farm shops are full of fabulous locally grown produce with apples and pears in the fruit baskets and cabbage, beetroots, leeks, parsnips and kale taking their turn to shine as the fantastic seasonal options for dinner.

“Oi Oi Savoy”
a beautiful savoy cabbage on sale
at the Railway Farm Shop, Suffolk

​Customers will be emerging from their January slump, ready to spend on some Valentine’s day home-reared steak and British grown flowers and all those dry Januaryers will be itching to try their local cider, gin or other favourite tipple which they have dreamed of for 31 days. 

We, at Fabulous Farm Shops, have come up with our own equation and calculated that the second Friday in February will be the best day of trading in Farm Shops across the land so far for 2023. We’re calling it #freakingfabulousfarmshopfriday and we hope it gives #bluemonday a run for its money.

Have an interesting story you would like us to share? Contact our editor…

Roz@fabulousfarmshops.co.uk