by Henry VIII visits a Notting Hill farmers market and discovers that provenance, however charming, still costs considerably more than the supermarket
I once received tribute from every corner of my realm, vegetables and livestock delivered as a matter of course, no payment expected beyond basic loyalty. The farmers market charged me full, considered price for a single turnip, and explained its provenance to me at genuine length while doing so.
The Stallholders
Each stall displayed a small hand-lettered sign detailing exactly which farm the produce came from, several within a specific, named radius of London, a level of traceability I found genuinely admirable, having personally overseen a royal kitchen that rarely questioned where anything actually originated so long as it arrived on time.
The Turnip
The turnip in question, purchased from a stallholder named Rosalind, cost nearly three times the supermarket equivalent, a price she justified at considerable and genuinely engaging length, discussing soil composition and growing methods with a passion I found more compelling than most actual agricultural policy I ever personally enacted.
The Cheese Sampling
A cheese stall offered samples freely, and I worked my way along the entire selection with genuine enthusiasm, settling eventually on a considerably expensive wedge described as unpasteurised and artisanal, words I have learned generally correlate directly with price regardless of any actual difference in flavour I could confidently detect.
The Live Music
A small folk duo performed near the market’s entrance, collecting tips in an open guitar case, and I found myself lingering considerably longer than intended, genuinely moved by a rendition of a song I vaguely recognised from somewhere in my considerably longer than average lifetime.
The Bread Stall Queue
A queue for a particular sourdough stall stretched the length of two other stalls entirely, customers waiting, by Rosalind’s estimate, upward of twenty minutes for a single loaf, a devotion to bread I recognised instantly from certain considerably more violent bread riots I once personally had to manage during my original reign.
The Verdict
I left with a turnip, a wedge of cheese, and considerably less money than a supermarket visit would have required, and yet I felt, walking home, genuinely satisfied in a way no supermarket trip has ever quite matched. I once demanded tribute as my due. I now pay full, informed price for a turnip, and I have decided the story that comes attached to it is, on balance, worth every extra penny.
The Walk Home
I left with a turnip, a wedge of cheese, and considerably less money than a supermarket visit would have required, and felt, walking home, genuinely satisfied in a way no supermarket trip has ever quite matched. The story attached to a good turnip, I have decided, is worth the extra pennies.
Some things are worth paying full, informed price for, turnips included. Provenance, it turns out, really is worth something. The turnip and cheese belong, undeniably, in my diet plan. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: six pounds now apparently the going rate for a croissant on principle, the original account of my own return to Britain, the proper London pub where history finally sat down for a pint.
