The Village Organic Farm Travels the World

Soil Association

Tuesday and we went off to the Soil Association in Bristol. I’m sorry to harp on this, and I’m sure there are nice districts and pleasant activities on offer, but what a depressing place Bristol is! The high level of poverty and social dysfunction is evident. You can see it in the filthy streets, the homeless and the vestiges of violence. It made our little corner of south-east Queensland look like paradise. Which it is.

The Soil Association’s offices were a surprise – I had in mind small crowded cubicles and shared offices in a centuries old semi-detached, humming with activity; energy and passion oozing out of every crack in the wall.

Instead we found two floors in a state-of-the-art building (complete with fountain out the front); open-plan offices displaying a modest amount of organised activity, and slick corporate values in evidence – from the glass-walled conference room filled with suits and ties, to the microwave in the kitchenette, to the security cards required to be scanned on re-entry after a visit to the loo.

I met with Amanda Daniel, Dan Keech and Ken (didn’t get his last name) – all very concerned with carbon footprints and global warming, riding their bikes to work (“did we drive or catch the train into Bristol?”) and setting up salad-buying groups for the staff (presumably to eat with their microwaved tofu…). Their commitment was evident.

The Soil Association is doing great work under the ‘Making Local Food Work’ banner to promote CSAs and Farmers Markets, although we didn’t have time to talk about the latter. They are producing a range of ‘how to’ CSA booklets and on-line resources that will be invaluable around the world, although their charter is Britain-only. Amanda went on a travelling roadshow recently to inform and support communities that want to set up a CSA, specifically near Exeter.

It’s important to not forget that the Soil Association has been working in this field for many years – at least seven or eight – and the MLFW program is injecting some much-appreciated funding to broaden their audience.

Separately, there is some interesting work going on to rationalise farm audits by having one inspector simultaneously carry out an audit for two (or more?) accreditation agencies. This is never going to be simple and one of the challenges seems to be about whose standards are higher or more thorough. I wondered if this was more about saving money and expense for the regulatory bodies than necessarily saving time and energy for the farmer.

Another initiative is to encourage participation of small-scale producers in the development and refinement of standards (hallelujah), however, like all things corporate, getting small-scale producers involved is a challenge. These processes take such a long time and none I know operating a food production venture of this size could afford the time commitment.

Ken, meanwhile, is working on a project dear to his heart – to bring products from East Africa to Britain. I couldn’t help being confused and a little bemused by such a blatantly non-local initiative being supported by an organisation both historically and currently committed to promoting local food.

Ken’s argument – and it was a persuasive one – is that local food doesn’t necessarily have a smaller carbon footprint or foster local economy or provide product that is market-driven. And even the local food purists would agree that Fair Trade initiatives are worth supporting (the term is everywhere here) over the alternatives. In East Africa they are producing a range of food products that can’t be grown in Britain and some that can, but only seasonally. And then there are products that would compete directly with that offered by British producers.

Which brought me back to the hoary chestnut of why import them in the first place. I suspect (but don’t know this for sure) that Ken has some strong links with East Africa and, of course, Britain’s colonial and missionary past make it a logical region to target for this kind of feel good project.

Still, I felt uncomfortable talking about East African trade and Making Local Food Work over the same cup of coffee (which was probably African in origin). I wondered how the affected British producers, presumably many of who would be members of and accredited by the Soil Association, feel about their organisation channelling resources into such a venture.

The visit to the Soil Association made me think a lot about this whole issue of which criterion is more important – local, regional, small-scale, artisanal, good quality, socially just, environmentally sensitive, sustainable (I’m getting very tired of that word), cheap. On this last, one there’s not much point in promoting local food because it fosters a local economy if local customers can’t afford it. But then is it socially responsible to endorse access to imported and/or highly processed food, which may have little or no nutritional value, just because it is cheap?

Is it merely a luxury of the middle class to seek out foods that are nutrient-dense or locally produced or socially just – relegating price to much further down the purchasing criteria list – when others can’t afford the cheapest, most toxic food on their poverty-line social security income? Why rail against Tesco as the biggest competitor to small-scale food production when they are providing a valued service. Is it a case of, to quote Sally Fallon, ‘Natural Selection of the Wise’ or should that be ‘Natural Selection of the Privileged’?
I don’t believe there can be one answer for all communities.

I wonder if it would help me to reconcile everything we’ve seen so far if I think more in terms of choices about food being made locally (rather than the food itself necessarily being local) and the focus put on educating consumers – sorry, co-producers – about the consequences of those choices. If customers want a Tesco and can support one in their district, then maybe they should have one. And if they don’t, such as in Maleny, they don’t get one regardless.

De-centralisation of decision-making and control, that’s it. And that’s where the paradox lay. In the Soil Association, we have a massive organisation, largely centralised, creating and funding the implementation of national policies and standards. By necessity they assume a position of expertise – which is only relative – and authority on what is best for its members and the community at large: just like a government department. And yet they, too, fervently believe – in a leftist and trendy way – they have the best interests of the people at heart.

I would hope, though, that one day all people, regardless of their socio-economic status, are able to make their food choices from an informed position and not one borne of ignorance.

Woodstock and Blenheim Palace (almost)

Today was my first official meeting in England (as part of the Churchill Fellowship) and I was a bit nervous. Plus it was with Jennifer Heim, the coordinator of the ‘Making Local Food Work’ based at the Plunkett Foundation, and it was a program I’m really excited about. Their aim is “to boost the resilience of the local food sector by supporting community enterprises, ensuring their long-term viability and increasing access to fresh, healthy, organic and sustainably produced local food with a clear provenance. The portfolio will also encourage consumers to engage with the production of food with the purpose of reconnecting people with the land.”

Their goal is “to put in place a range of approximately 650 successful, viable, resilient, locally controlled and principled local food enterprises, which, between them, actively contribute social, economic, and environmental benefits to the communities they serve and help to address the challenges of food access and food security.” Heady stuff.

We left home at 8:30am, thinking this would give us plenty of time to get to Woodstock, just out of Oxford, by 10:30am. Our rationale: we had been advised it would take one and a half hours.
But when we were still on the outskirts of Bath at 9:15am, I started to lose confidence. And it slowly leaked away over the next hour until, at just on 10:30am, I rang from Bunbury or Bibury to say that we were caught up in traffic (not a lie in the strictest sense). I hate that. I knew Jennifer was busy and moving the appointment back would muck her around.

On the way, we passed through Tetbury and the entrance to Duchy Home Farm – tantalisingly close and yet so far, because I haven’t yet been able to pin down the farm manager for a tour. This area is at the south end of the Cotswalds, which I’d read contains an embarrassment of ‘impossibly beautiful villages’. Every village was stuffed full of buildings hundreds of years old, wrapped around a lovely river, and decorated with quaint shops and pubs. Absolutely gorgeous.

At Woodstock we drove past the main entrance to Blenheim Palace. It’s huge! And so is the Palace.
The meeting was great – Jennifer was very well prepared and gave me a thorough briefing on the program’s genesis and an overview of the portfolio of projects – ten in all – that come under the ‘Making Local Food Work’ program. It’s an impressive endeavour, not least because Plunkett Foundation has brought together seven organisations to work together on this project, all with existing projects and territories of their own. Plunkett’s core philosophy is about cooperation and a strong belief that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.

I was interested to note that the government funding (£10 million over five years) is going to the administering organisations – none of it will go directly to farmers or small shop-owners or targeted enterprises. It will largely be spent on advertising and events to promote the various projects. But if they achieve even just some of their goals, it will be money well spent. And at worst it gives a financial boost to organisations that are recognised for the excellent work they do and outcomes they already deliver.

We don’t know much about Woodstock but there was a house called Chaucer’s Cottage and Blenheim would have attracted many important visitors during its time. One pub boasted seven hundred years of hosting kings and queens. But Pat and Oliver spent most of their time while I was in the meeting at a toy store buying a scary plastic mask.

Blenheim Palace didn’t happen in the end – it felt like a place that required a lot of energy to do it justice and we didn’t feel like sacrificing the family entry fee of £24 (or £16.50 per adult) if we ended up having to make a quick exit.

The journey home was much faster – we decided to head south and then use the westbound M4. Gosh, they drive fast on the motorways here! I was in one of the slower lanes and was pushing the car to 75 miles per hour (more than 120km/hr). Left, right and centre cars were changing lanes, slowing down, merging and exiting, all at speeds of up to 90 mph. It was exhausting.

By the way, upmarket cars like Corvettes and top-of-the-range Audis occupied the fast lane. I guess in the current financial climate they needed to get home in a hurry to check their share prices and see if they can make this month’s lease payments.

Bristol and a steam train

One of the challenges of travelling is not having access to your usual information sources, and I’m ashamed to say that, being an internet and e-mail addict, the last few days of not being connected has been tough.
Another challenge is when you find that you’re relying on information that might not be reliable. Or trying to get around without a map.

Today we did all three. One of the brochures we’ve accumulated said there was a Farmers’ Market – and a Slow Food one at that – in Bristol, so off we went. Being mapless we followed our noses and found the street eventually (and then took ages to find a parking spot) but there was no market and it all felt very disappointing.

Frankly, Bristol was grotty. I’m shocked by the amount of rubbish on the city streets in Britain, and Bristol was a prime example. Cigarette butts are everywhere, particularly in front of restaurants and cafes, making their entries uninviting. I’d forgotten how popular smoking is in the UK – we saw very few people smoking in San Francisco and I don’t remember seeing lots of smokers in Ireland (maybe they are just more discrete). But on London streets we were constantly passively smoking as we walked behind pedestrians and passed office workers outside their building entrances.

Another travel challenge is being able to order the food you want when you don’t speak the language. Here a long black coffee is variously known as an Americano or espresso with hot water or cafetiera (plunger). Flat whites don’t exist – it’s a cappuccino or latte. To complicate matters, café staff here are often of Eastern Europe (or beyond) origin and don’t have the best English. Today we had to send our terrible coffees back – they were nothing like what we’d ordered, which makes me worry a bit about how we’re going to go in France and Italy.

Down at the waterfront we wandered around in the sun and admired the colourful longboats and but I still felt uneasy and moved my wallet out of my back pocket and into the depths of the backpack. Moments later we were stopped by a strangely dressed woman carrying a baby, who showed us a handwritten sign, essentially asking us for money. I guessed she was a gypsy, or was trying to look like one, but it was confronting, especially having heard John/Dad’s story of the gypsy woman throwing her baby at him (in France?) as a ploy to pick his pockets.

I’ve not heard many people say they’ve had a bad pub experience in the UK but I can say it now. We decided to have a drink and something to eat at a waterfront pub and after waiting for at least ten minutes to be served at the bar, we were told that it was a 45 minute wait for food. The drinks were lukewarm, the lemonade was flat and the service was grumpy. However the broken glass in between the cobbles was in quantities that suggested at least a few previous patrons had had a smashing good time.

Maybe I was just in a bad mood after the disappointment of the market-that-wasn’t but Bristol didn’t do it for me at all.

The day was saved by a magical experience at the Avon Valley Railway at Bitton, where we travelled to Avon Riverside and back again in one of several restored timber coaches (a la Hogwart’s Express) pulled by Robert, the black steam engine. One of his dining carriages, Doris, was empty and all set up for a traditional Devonshire tea for a private party. We waited at Avon Riverside until the party arrived, having boated gently down the river to meet the train. It sounded ever-so romantic. I’ve put it on my wish list of things to do when we return.

The train was accompanied in both directions by dozens of cyclists and walkers. The train line has a public walkway alongside and there were people obviously riding from Bath or Bristol (maybe ten miles or more). You’ve got to hand it to the Brits – they do walking really well. There are public walkways criss-crossing the country and it seems to be acceptable to cross someone’s field if you are tramping or walking seriously. In the cities, there are dedicated bike lanes in major streets, which is confusing (and dangerous) when you are crossing the road because the bike lane is sometimes separated by a barrier and the cyclists are a bit dare-devil when it comes to running lights. Eyes in your toes.

Bath, Avebury, Stonehenge, Salisbury

It’s Saturday 20th of September and this morning we headed off to Bath city – it was a lovely day with blue sky and hardly a cloud. Surprisingly, there was lots of traffic. Queues everywhere. Oliver says to say that we saw a horse!

Following our noses, we ended up in the Sainsbury’s car park near the old Green Park Railway for the Bath Farmers’ Market. I’m interested to know what Sainsbury’s thinks about having the market on their doorstep. I can see advantages and disadvantages to them, at least. The great advantage to market patrons was the huge parking resource, which in these cities is a critical factor.

There was an interesting mix of stalls – some were food and obviously local, but there was also a stall selling woven rugs and another selling second hand books. In the middle, the food stalls had ‘Farmers’ Market Trader’ signs high up on poles, essentially to signal that they were indeed farmer traders but also to give customers directions to the epicentre of the market: an ingenious way of making the market more interesting for customers because without the other stalls, there would have only been 16 to 20 farmers.

Stalls included:
• Lamb, pork, beef – organic and non-organic but all small-scale and local
• Eggs – free-range but not organic: the egg man told me that a lot of British organic egg producers are converting back to non-organic because the price of feed has gone up to £360 per ton as opposed to £240 per ton for non-organic
• Organic and non-organic vegies – most of the root vegetables are sold with dirt still on
• Apples from an apple orchard run by an orchardshare organisation – they offer involvement in several ways: you can buy shares in the orchard as a whole or you can ‘own’ a specific tree, which they discourage because of the complications at harvest time, or you can participate as a volunteer at harvest time or pruning time or at pretty much any other time (the woman on the stall said that their shareholders and volunteers love coming to the orchard and are passionately involved, which turned me off a bit at the thought of several dozen excited but possibly unskilled city-dwellers galumphing around in wellies and armed with sharpened secateurs)
• Garlic
• Tomatoes
• Game meats – venison, quail, pheasant, etc
• Mushrooms – at least eight different types
• Cheeses – cow and goat (a Dutchman was selling the cow cheeses from an ingenious trailer that converted into a refrigerated display cabinet)

After the market we went looking for a little café in central Bath and on the way passed The Bertinet Kitchen and cookery school, which is where our friend Noline had come the previous week to learn about patisseries. This week the focus was on bread, so the Kitchen shop was full of bread, including sourdough (which they sold for 85p per 100g). It’s an interesting model – I understand he charges £110 per class per day, then the Kitchen shop adds another income stream.

We dropped off the food at our farmhouse and then went to Avebury, where we saw the amazing henge complete with sheep (dozens) and sheep droppings (millions).

We headed south then, passing (eventually) Stonehenge. We didn’t stop. There were hundreds of cars, coaches and campers, and after the beauty and tranquillity of Avebury it was a bit of a fizzer. The entry fee seemed a little steep, even though National Trust does a grand job of looking after these sites and deserves every penny they can raise.

The contrast was stark: Avebury was an historic place being used and loved, and because of that was energised. Stonehenge was a dead monument. At Avebury, apart from the very active (and productive) sheep, there were people leaning up against the stones eating picnics, half-naked people sunning themselves on the bank and dozens of couples and young families just meandering around gently and peacefully. There was even a wedding happening (with drumming) together with costumed participants – very pagan and interesting and totally appropriate, it being so close to Autumn Equinox.

Meanwhile Stonehenge was merely a monument – roped off, cold and dead. As if to add to its lifelessness, the British Army has a firing range immediately to the north of Stonehenge, with myriad tank crossings, military (imposing) signs and a very masculine energy about the area. We wondered whether Stonehenge’s once strong energy had precipitated the ying/yang balancing of the army’s response.

We then meandered further south to Salisbury, where we stood in awe of the cathedral. Inside there was a service happening to invest/install three or four new female choristers. The singing was divine. Salisbury Cathedral is such a feat of human endeavour – it was built in only 38 years – and there was much to admire in such a short time because we had arrived at 5:30pm when everything was closing. We missed out on having tea in the refectory café, with its glass ceiling that allows diners to admire the spire (the tallest in Europe) while taking their tea. We also missed out on seeing the Magna Carta, the 13th century document to which all western democratic constitutions refer. But we did get to hear the bells chime six o’clock.

One great thing about travelling around in Britain is that you can, if you really want to, get to a handful of significant places of interest in an afternoon and still get home for tea at a reasonable hour. Which is what we did. Only just over an hour later, we were back at our farmhouse, heating up Cornish pasties from the market and settling down to our drinks of choice in Britain: Guinness for Pat and cider for me. I’ve tried a couple but I’m sold on Bulmers. And a tot of Bailey’s after dinner. Of course.

London to Bath via Bristol

Friday 19th of September

Can’t believe it’s time to leave London already. But Bath is calling. Things were going really well for us, packing everything quickly, checking out without a hitch, getting to Paddington with heaps of time to spare and lots of trains to watch at the station (even if they were just stinky diesels).

And then after an uneventful trip to Bath, the unimaginable happened. Pat got stuck on the train and off it went, leaving Oliver and me and six pieces of luggage on the platform.

What happened was that we got everything off the train, which for those that have travelled with A] children and B] lots of luggage will know, is a pretty mean feat because they give you about 6.7 seconds to load everything onto the platform (in between all the oblivious passengers in your way), smooth down your jacket and proceed calmly.

However we had left behind, in the racks above the seats, our three jackets, including my irreplaceable leather coat, so Pat dashed back just as the station master blew his whistle and grabbed the jackets and raced back to the door just as the doors were automatically locked. He managed to throw them to me through the open window while I wrestled with the handle, which set off some silent alarm and brought two guards striding toward us looking very menacing. One of them shouted at me that the doors couldn’t possibly be opened again once they had been locked, which seemed to me to be a bit unreasonable given the range of scary possibilities, but he was not to be quibbled with. I even tried the “but we’ve got a three-year old and heaps of luggage!” tactic, which went down like a lead balloon (maybe because he got to hear my Australian accent, which firmed his resolve). He just yelled louder that Pat would have to go to Bristol and back and to stand back, madam.

So Oliver and I waited on the platform for what felt like hours but was probably only 40 minutes, according to the station master, who kept walking past me with the hint of a smirk on his dial. Oliver was quite upset that the train had taken Daddy away, so clever, consuming and lengthy distraction was required WITHOUT moving an inch because of the consequent nightmare of taking the baggage with us. Thus, we wrote the names of all our relatives in proper cursive script in a practice book we were given in Ireland, colour-coding them according to sex and linking all the cousins to their parents, making sure we didn’t confuse the Rebeccas or the Johns. And then we drew Mater and Lightning McQueen and coloured them in until finally, FINALLY, Daddy reappeared.

We got out of Bath as quickly as possible after collecting our hire car and made a beeline to our accommodation, which turned out to be fair compensation for such a poxy experience. We’re staying at Pennsylvania Farm, which is just outside the village of Newton St Loe, which is about four miles outside Bath. I mistakenly thought it was a working dairy, but it turns out to be a beef farm with pasture and, I presume, fields for hay.

All over this area are fields with the hay cut but laying on the ground and not yet baled, which is very late according to Jamie at the Churchill Trust office. The rain over the last few weeks has delayed harvest so the last few days’ sun has caused frenetic activity in the fields to get hay baled and stacked. In some cases, they are only just cutting; perhaps they are baling at the same time…

So the countryside is a mosaic of beautiful vibrant green pasture fields next to pale yellow, freshly cut straw fields dotted with square, rectangular or round bales. Ubiquitous rock walls, which became so familiar in Ireland, are replaced with hedges to make the delineation clear, like heavily applied kohl pencil.

We are staying in Stable Cottage, a semi-detached ex-stable (funny that) that shares a wall with Ivy Cottage. It’s gorgeous inside – thick walls with chunky centuries-old beams, leather lounges and rustic pine furniture to complete the effect. Our bed is upstairs – a very modern king-size bed with almost-but-not-quite Laura Ashley linen, an antique dresser and views to die for. The kitchen has all the mod-cons and some nice touches, like a solid butter dish with cover and big ceramic mixing bowls.

I don’t know who else is staying here but apparently all the cottages (there are three) are booked out. I think the others are older and into tramping. I hope we are not disturbing them with our exuberant high-jinks and heavy metal music.

Following instructions from a cute booklet left on the coffee table, we went for a short walk – just long enough to get lost in head-high stinging nettle and just short enough to make it back home before any one of us lost their cool – and then we settled down for what we hope will be a wonderfully relaxing base station for further exploration of this region.

Sunburn and Greenwich

Thursday (18th) in London.

Start with a little grizzle: Oliver is doing really well but his whingeing is challenging our ambitious daily plans – at its worst he nags us to 'go back home to our hotel'. Every five minutes. I’ve found it frustrating being shackled to a reluctant little one when there’s so much to see and do. We can distract him for chunks of time but essentially he's exhausted and not letting himself get a catch-up sleep. And I keep forgetting that he’s only three years old and everything I find exciting and stimulating he just finds scary and exhausting. Maybe we can do some sleep behaviour modification at the next stop, where we are staying for a week.

Oliver is loving the squirrels and enjoyed seeing all the guards on horseback at Buckingham Palace today. We only caught the last few minutes because of the traffic, which was a nightmare (we found out later that there had been a terrible accident in the centre of London: a cyclist had ended up under a truck and the helicopter we had heard had actually landed in the street so traffic was banked up for miles all around) but then again, ten minutes of seeing a few tossers in fluffy hats poncing around and you’ve really had enough, right?

We've been walking miles and miles and miles. Good thing too, with all the luscious food we've been eating (yes, even in London - we found a French bakery at Greenwich with goats’ cheese quiche, prawn and rocket-filled sourdough rolls, REAL pain au chocolat and strawberry tarts. And the best, strongest coffee I've had since leaving Maleny). But it was time to give our feet a break so we took to the river.

The boat trip down the Thames was beautiful. And it was sunny – I got sunburnt in London! The commentary was clever and informative and very East-Ender funny. We had a great time at the National Maritime Museum at Greenwich, where they have lots of interactive displays and buttons to push. We got to see John Harrison's clocks but only briefly due to the usual trifecta of (A) crowds, (B) time running out, and (C) Oliver being grizzly.
But we did see them.

Then a miracle happened: in the street below the Museum we found a bus with Russell Square on it. We got on and meandered back all the way to within a block of our hotel. Praise the Lord.

London Part 1

We arrived at Gatwick Airport at about 10am on Tuesday 16th after a fairly straightforward flight from Dublin. One strange thing about Dublin airport is that you board via stairs out in the open. Rain, hail, wind and shine. And we’re talking international flights here. Actually there are a few strange things about Dublin airport, but like much of Ireland, it’s somehow OK. Maybe it’s the Guinness still in your system. If you encountered the same problems in the U.S. you would feel like complaining.

Another weird thing: we disembarked at Gatwick FROM THE REAR DOOR (even though they had connected up one of those corridor things to the front door) and straight into a BA bus, which took us to another gate, presumably the international end of the terminal.

Then when we got off there was no customs or checking of our passports – nothing! Very strange. After our rigorous customs experience at San Francisco, I guess anything else pales in comparison.

Gatwick seemed disorganised – perhaps Virgin will slick things up a bit if they go ahead and buy it – and after mucking around for AGES trying to find which bus to catch into London (eventually found that we had to go around the corner and up the escalators back up to Level 2 and take the shuttle train to Terminal 2), we caught a National Express bus, which took about an hour and a half. We came in via Brixton, which was pretty depressing but once we got to Central London, it felt more like home. At Victoria Station we decided to take a cab and got a great REAL LIVE Cockney London cabbie with rhyming slang and all. He was great – even recommended a good fish and chip place nearby.

When we finally got to our Hotel (the Celtic Hotel) in Bloomsbury it was seven hours after we had left Dublin and we were tired. And then the gremlins did a real job on us – the Celtic Hotel had cancelled our reservation. We originally had two reservations with them but when I asked them to cancel one, they had cancelled the other.

Debora, the receptionist, was very apologetic and helpful (even though Oliver by this time was a hairsbreadth away from throwing a tantrum) and we eventually got a room at a place around the corner, the Royal National Hotel, which is a massive place and about as far removed from the small intimate B&B I had booked. And more expensive. Great location though. Plus we have a bath, shower and toilet in our room.

We LOVE London. I felt instantly comfortable and surprisingly familiar with it all (the first time I was here was 31 years ago; the last time was 22 years ago). This is Pat’s first visit and his impression is that it’s not as busy and congested as he was expecting. The streets are wide and there’s lots of sky.

The architecture is gob-smacking and it isn’t grungy or dirty (where we’ve been at least – perhaps the ban on coal fires is making a difference). Like Ireland, there are not many verandahs or places to shelter. In a place where rain is an almost constant companion, we’re surprised that more isn’t done to ease its irritating influence.

We haven’t done the Underground yet. Those who know me well will know why but it’s actually been nice to walk and catch buses. I actually went down two – yes, two – sets of escalators to the platform but freaked when the train arrived and the reality of going into the bowels of the earth. It’s just not natural.

Bloomsbury is lovely. We’re right next to Russell Square and near Coram Fields, where there’s a magic playground. After we checked in, we walked for miles but Oliver wasn’t too happy so we might try to find a pushchair today. We walked to Trafalgar Square (tragedy: no feeding the pigeons allowed any more) and then to Big Ben and then along the river to Embankment until our feet got sore and O chucked a wobbly.

Wednesday we headed off to the first of my appointments here: Winston Churchill Memorial Trust at Queen’s Gate. We decided to take a double decker bus and got the front seats on the top deck! However, we got stuck in a traffic jam at Oxford Street and sat there for 20 minutes before we got off in desperation, already half an hour late for the appointment and still miles away. We walked for a while, contemplating walking through Hyde Park, which probably would have worked, but instead took a cab. And I’m glad I did as I had the address a bit wrong.

The CEO of WCMT, Jamie Balfour, is a part-time farmer so we had a lively chat about the price of corn, beef breeds and whether it’s worth going organic. He was charming and very British army (Major Colonel General, or something like that).

The peace and tranquillity of Hyde Park was a welcome relief to the chaos and noise of the streets – do the police cars really have to use their sirens all the time? It’s like being an extra on the permanent set of The Bill. The memorial fountain to Diana, Princess of Wales is beautifully simple and stylish.

Onward and westward and, eventually, we were at Harrods. The food hall is still an awesome place, even on the fourth visit. I mean, tiny pots of caviar for £140… Honestly! Chickens with their heads still on, tiny stuffed quail no bigger than a duck egg, huge wheels of parmigiana, and Australian wagyu beef for twenty times what we were charging per kg.

I wonder how much mark-up is on some of the artisanal food products. And I wonder what Harrods’ requirements are regarding consistency and quantity of supply. We heard that the producers of traditional Irish blood pudding, Willie and Avril, were approached by Harrods to see if they would supply 200kg. Willie said that he thought he could manage it if they could give him several weeks’ warning, at which point the Harrods procurement person clarified that they wanted 200kg PER WEEK.

The food hall was all a bit overwhelming so we took refuge in the toy department. Oliver was so well-behaved and didn’t ask us for anything and we managed to walk out of Harrods totally empty-handed. I think that deserves a medal.

We decided to abandon our plans of a ferry trip to Greenwich and made a bee-line for home, which sounds a lot easier than it turned out to be. I need to change the way I estimate the time it takes to get anywhere in London. I think I saw that it is British Fashion Week (hence the chaos in Oxford Street) but I also think it’s like this a lot of the time. Plus there is a lot of building going on in that area and two lanes each way chock-a-block with double-decker buses and cabs does not make for smooth travelling. Essentially, I should estimate the time and then double it.

But aren’t the London cabs brilliant?! I have no concerns that they might take us from A to B via W, and they really know their stuff. The first cabbie said he took 15 months to get the Knowledge but some take three years to memorise London’s nooks and crannies. It’s no myth – we hopped into one cab and asked for Leigh Street (an insignificant street near our hotel and home to the recommended fish and chippery), and the driver immediately responded with, “Nah worries, Leigh Street, Bloomsbury, off Coram Street, hold on!” Then, later, getting to Paddington Station to catch our train to Bath, the driver took some convoluted route across half of London and, just as I was starting to wonder if my faith in London cabs was a tad blind, we turned a corner and there we were at Paddington Station with half an hour to spare and only £9 on the meter.

Back to Wednesday afternoon: while Pat and Oliver hit the reset button in the hotel room, I headed off to put on the washing at a nearby launderette and to track down the office of the London Farmers’ Markets, which also sounded a lot easier than it turned out to be.

Eventually I got there (only five minutes walk from our hotel!) and Arthur kindly printed off some material about how they run their markets. I was pleased to note that they keep a fairly close check on whether the produce is actually from the farm – this is not always done and in Australia it is widely reported that some stallholders buy and repackage complementary products. In some cases, the whole stall comprises products that are being re-sold and they may not even know the origins.

LFM has a sliding scale of daily stall fees, linked to sales and capped at £90. They are closely linked to Sustain, which is one of the organisations involved in the ‘Making Local Food Work’ project, and Arthur also suggested I make contact with FARMA, which is the Farmers’ Markets certifying body.

We ate at the Chinese Restaurant attached to the Hotel, only because there were Chinese guests dining there. Our hunch proved to be a good one – we had two enormous and flavoursome main courses with lots of meat and vegetables and a ton of rice for under £30.

A challenge ahead is to try to get Oliver to have more sleep. He is currently going to bed when we do – this is partly because the late twilight means that we are eating later. He’s just exhausted a lot of the time and that makes for a difficult passenger. On the whole, we are travelling well and having fun. Phew!