In praise of farm shops

As a city-dweller for 34 years, I am used to the hustle and bustle of other people. Cars, sirens, strangers chatting in the street: it’s the background noise of everyday life, a comforting reminder that you’re never alone. So when I moved to the Suffolk countryside in April last year, I found it a bit of a shock. Pregnant, freelance, with a husband often in London for work, I had a two-year-old for company, few friends and a big empty house overlooking fields, sky – and not much else.

It's a 20-minute drive to the nearest town, and there’s nothing but a ramshackle pub in walking distance. We switched to online shopping for convenience, so I didn’t even have the weekly trip to the supermarket to fall back on. I was, in short, isolated, bored and very lonely indeed.

Then I discovered my rural lifeline: the local farm shop. I will never forget the first time I stumbled upon it: a cavernous outbuilding adjacent to a working farm, filled with aisle upon aisle of tempting goodies, local produce and a rainbow assortment of fruit and veg. I went in for a pint of milk and came out with a lemon drizzle cake, a carton of heritage tomatoes, a butterflied leg of lamb, three pot plants and a shortbread shaped like a tractor.

Since then, I have toured every farm shop within a ten-mile radius – and there are many. From the overpriced and gourmet to the rustic and very basic, they span all tastes, budgets and types of produce, appealing to customers both young and old, and supporting a vast array of local businesses that have no other way of selling their wares.

The government clearly agrees. Last month, Defra announced a £110 million fund, called the Rural England Prosperity Fund, designed to support and encourage the opening of farm shops across the country. Lord Benyon, minister for rural affairs, said the money is designed to address ‘the rural productivity gap’ – and about time too. The countryside economy is worth a staggering £260 billion (15 per cent of England’s total output), with rural areas covering 85 per cent of the country and home to 9.6 million people (17 per cent of the population).

Farm shops have been quietly keeping this demographic going for decades, since the first swathe emerged in Britain in the 1960s. Back then, enterprising farmers started trading fruit and veg from their stone walls to passing drivers in need of sustenance on long journeys. It was a way to make an extra bit of cash, using up surplus goods that didn’t sell at weekly markets or one-offs that couldn’t be flogged to supermarkets in bulk.

In the 1990s, there was something of a revolution in the farm shop world, with farmers and their families encouraged by their modest success to diversify into delicatessens, butchery counters and bakeries. On-site cafes and restaurants followed, with some even converting disused outbuildings into impressive barns that could be used for weddings, parties and events.

After the 2001 foot-and-mouth outbreak brought much of the countryside to its knees, farm shops were integral in helping communities rebuild. During the Covid-19 pandemic, they were among the earliest establishments to reopen, with their spacious surrounds naturally suited to social distancing, queuing systems and serving takeaway food and hot drinks from hatches. As the years have passed, farm shops have amassed a loyal customer base, among them celebrities (who favour Daylesford in the Cotswolds, dubbed a ‘mecca for millionaires’) and city-dwellers who now regularly make the trek from town to country to stock up on farm shop specialities.

For me, farm shops helped fend off the loneliness I feared could have enveloped my new life in the country. When my second son was born in August last year, a trip to the farm shop café become part of our daily routine. I knew I’d be greeted by a friendly smile from staff with plenty of time to chat. I could tuck into a slice of homemade cake and a mug of builder’s tea, after browsing the aisles for dinner ingredients and the obligatory packet of chocolate biscuits. I never worried about my baby crying, or making too much mess, or felt hurried off my table, as I so often did in the city.

There are, as with all good things, some downsides. The amount of money I’ve spent in farm shops in the 18 months I’ve lived out here is probably testament to my obsession (and may result in my husband banning me from frequenting them quite so much). They’re certainly not cheap: milk is double the price it is in the nearest supermarket; cheese is ludicrously expensive (£7.95 for a truckle of cheddar); and meat – reared yards from where it’s sold – is a luxury purchase. They also stock niche and unusual products – 11 different varieties of carrot, for example, as well as venison fillets and damson chutney – but lack everyday essentials, such as cereal or baked beans.

But my love for farm shops knows no bounds. I can put up with the limited produce, the extortionate pricing – and the fact that everyone, it seems, has now cottoned on to my secret, making them busier than ever, especially on weekends. These days, they’re my go-to for gift-buying, cake-sourcing, friend-meeting, world-escaping… a haven of happiness in an otherwise busy existence. Forget going to the pub after work: these days, you’ll find me at the farm shop, perusing the cold cuts and quails’ eggs. Maybe I’m getting old, but it’s the only place I want to be.