Well then…
Pull up a chair.
Put kettle on.
Make it a proper brew. None of that warm dishwater with oat milk and a sprinkle of unicorn dust that some cafés try to pass off as tea nowadays.
Honestly…
If your brew needs more ingredients than a Christmas cake, you’re doing it wrong.
Anyway…
Another month’s been and gone, and what a month it’s been.
Markets have been absolutely brilliant.
The weather’s been hotter than a black Labrador on tarmac.
Football’s been back on everybody’s television.
And just when you think common sense might be making a comeback…
Someone proves you wrong.
Every single time.
First of all, a massive thank you to everybody who’s supported RSH Artisan Markets this month.
Whether you came along to Skipton, visited us at Settle, found us outside White Rose or are planning on joining us in Haworth this Sunday…
Thank you.
Without you lot, we’d just be stood under gazebos talking to ourselves.
Although some days that might actually be easier.
Skipton
Skipton was another cracking day.
Now Skipton’s one of those places where there’s always something happening.
You’ve got the canal, the shops, cafés, pubs, visitors, locals and enough dogs to start a small canine football league.
People wander down, spot the market and say:
“Oh, I didn’t know this was on.”
Despite us advertising it.
Posting about it.
Sharing it.
Putting dates online.
Mentioning it approximately four hundred and seventy-three times.
Still…
“I didn’t know it was on.”
Honestly, we could hire a plane to fly over Skipton trailing a banner and somebody would still ask when the next market is.
But that’s Skipton.
Busy, lively and full of people having a proper day out.
The market looked fantastic, our traders did us proud, and customers came down to support local businesses.
Some came for a quick look.
Which, in market language, means they stayed an hour, bought three cakes, some cheese, a candle and something they definitely didn’t need but absolutely had to have.
That’s the joy of artisan markets.
You don’t come looking for anything specific.
You leave with a chopping board, a jar of chutney and a brownie the size of a house brick.
Perfectly normal.
And of course there’s always somebody asking:
“Is this the whole market?”
No, love.
We’ve hidden the other hundred stalls in the canal.
Settle
Settle was another cracking day too.
It’s one of those places that reminds you exactly why we started doing markets in the first place.
People smile.
People chat.
People actually say good morning.
Children aren’t permanently glued to phones.
Dogs get more fuss than celebrities.
It’s Yorkshire exactly as Yorkshire should be.
Now don’t get me wrong…
It were warm.
Actually, warm’s an understatement.
It were absolutely roasting.
I reckon even ducks were looking for paddling pools.
You could’ve fried eggs on the pavement.
Probably bacon as well.
One trader told me their chocolate was melting.
Another said their candles had started sweating.
I nearly put a sign up saying:
“Free tan with every purchase.”
Still, people turned out.
People bought local.
People had a laugh.
Exactly what markets should be.
And Settle’s got a proper atmosphere.
Lovely shops, cafés, pubs and people having a wander without looking like they’re in a race against the clock.
Nobody needs to rush.
The cakes will still be there.
Well…
Most of them.
Unless I’ve been past first.
White Rose
White Rose has been another brilliant venue this month.
The outdoor markets have looked fantastic, and it’s lovely watching shoppers wander over and discover something they weren’t expecting.
A handmade gift.
Fresh bread.
Yorkshire cheese.
A proper pie.
Instead of another shop selling exactly the same trainers as every other shop.
Honestly…
Have you noticed?
Every shopping centre’s exactly the same.
Clothes.
Shoes.
Coffee.
Phones.
Repeat.
Then another coffee shop in case the first twelve weren’t enough.
Markets are different.
You never know what you’ll find.
That’s why people keep coming back.
And there’s always somebody who walks past every stall, looks at absolutely everything, then says:
“I’ve got no cash.”
We take card.
“Oh, I don’t use cards.”
Fair enough.
Carrier pigeon, perhaps?
Cheque book?
Bag of turnips?
We’ll work something out.
The outdoor markets at White Rose have been a really good addition, though.
Loads of people, plenty of interest and a proper chance for local traders to get their products in front of customers who might never normally visit an artisan market.
Some people stop for two minutes.
Others vanish into the market and reappear half an hour later carrying bags, food and a slightly guilty expression because they’ve spent more than they planned.
That’s how you know it’s been a good day.
Haworth This Sunday
And now…
Haworth this Sunday.
One of my favourite markets of the year.
Especially with Haworth Festival happening.
Live music.
Entertainment.
Dancing.
Thousands of visitors.
If you’ve never been, you’re missing out.
Proper Yorkshire.
Proper independent shops.
Proper pubs.
Proper cafés.
Proper atmosphere.
Not six vape shops and three mobile phone repair places next to each other.
Just somewhere with character.
Haworth’s one of those places where people come for a quick wander and somehow spend the entire day there.
You walk up Main Street.
Stop for a coffee.
Look in a shop.
Have another coffee.
Walk back down.
Get something to eat.
Then realise you’ve spent six hours there and still haven’t seen everything.
If you’re coming along this Sunday, come and say hello.
I’ll be wandering round pretending everything’s under control while secretly wondering who’s borrowed the cable ties again.
There’s always something missing.
Cable ties.
Scissors.
Tape.
A pen.
Usually the exact thing you had in your hand ten seconds earlier.
Organising markets does that to you.
By lunchtime, you’ve put your phone down somewhere, forgotten what you were doing and had the same conversation with three different people.
The Weather
Now then…
Let’s get the weather out of the way.
Because every Yorkshire conversation starts exactly the same.
“Morning.”
“Warm, isn’t it?”
Or:
“Bit chilly.”
Or:
“Looks like rain.”
We don’t ask how the family is.
We don’t ask how work’s going.
Straight into the weather.
It’s basically Yorkshire law.
This month’s been warm.
Very warm.
Too warm, according to some people.
Which is funny really, because six months ago the same people were saying:
“I wish we’d get some sunshine.”
Now they’ve got it:
“It’s too hot.”
Honestly…
British people don’t actually want good weather. They just want something different to complain about.
I’ve heard more complaints about sunshine this month than I heard about rain all winter.
Apparently it’s too bright.
Too hot.
Too dry.
The grass needs cutting.
Nobody can sleep.
Ice cream melts.
That’s what summer does.
Then the temperature drops two degrees and everybody says summer’s over.
Make your minds up.
One minute people are buying fans.
Next minute they’re carrying waterproofs.
British weather doesn’t have seasons anymore.
It just picks something at random every morning.
Then you’ve got the weather experts.
BBC says sunshine.
Met Office says thunderstorms.
Your phone says cloudy.
Facebook says:
“Barry’s knee is hurting, so it’ll rain tomorrow.”
Brilliant.
Apparently Barry’s left kneecap is now more accurate than satellites.
Outdoor market organisers check the forecast approximately every seven minutes.
Not that it helps.
You can check six apps and get six different answers.
Sunny.
Cloudy.
Showers.
Thunder.
Wind.
One app probably says volcanic ash.
Then on the day, you look out the window and decide for yourself.
Technology.
Marvellous.
Football… Wooo Football
Now then…
Football.
Wooo football.
There.
I’ve mentioned it.
Happy now?
Honestly, football turns normal people into absolute lunatics.
England win:
“We’re winning the World Cup.”
England lose:
“Sack everybody.”
Dave from number twenty-seven suddenly becomes Pep Guardiola.
Remarkable really, considering Dave gets out of breath reversing his wheelie bin back up the drive.
Half the people shouting at the television couldn’t sprint to the end of the garden without needing a sit down and a cup of tea.
Yet they know exactly who should play, what formation they should use and why the manager’s got everything wrong.
From the sofa.
With a packet of crisps balanced on their stomach.
Every pass is criticised.
Every shot should have gone in.
Every substitution is wrong.
“Why’s he brought him on?”
Because he’s the manager, Keith.
That’s generally how it works.
And football commentary doesn’t help.
“They need to score here.”
Yes.
That is usually the point.
“They don’t want to concede.”
Excellent insight.
Worth every penny.
Still, every pub’s full.
Every living room’s full.
Everybody’s an expert.
Until the next match.
Then everybody changes their mind again.
People… Honestly
The best thing about markets?
People watching.
Honestly, you couldn’t script it.
There’s always one bloke walking round with his hands behind his back, inspecting every stall like he’s judging Chelsea Flower Show.
Never buys anything.
Just nods.
Walks off.
Then you’ve got somebody asking:
“Do you take card?”
No.
We just bought the card machine because it matched the tablecloth.
Or:
“Where are the toilets?”
Usually underneath the sign saying:
TOILETS.
Amazing that.
Then there’s always one.
Every market.
Walking round.
Beautiful weather.
Live music.
Families laughing.
Food cooking.
Dogs wagging their tails.
Children enjoying themselves.
And there they are…
With a face like a slapped pasty.
Honestly, some folk look like they’re sucking a golf ball through a hosepipe.
You just want to give them a hug.
Or directions home.
Because clearly they’re not enjoying themselves.
Some folk could be handed a free bacon sandwich, a winning Lottery ticket and an extra bank holiday and they’d still complain the bag was creased.
I reckon some people wake up in the morning and think:
“What can I moan about today?”
Now don’t get me wrong.
I’m called Mr Grumpy.
But at least I enjoy it.
Modern Life
Nobody talks anymore.
Everybody scrolls.
Families sit in cafés.
Four people.
Four phones.
No conversation.
I watched two teenagers messaging each other.
They were sat opposite one another.
You couldn’t make it up.
If aliens landed tomorrow, half the country would miss it because they’d be filming it vertically for TikTok.
And why does everything need an app?
Parking.
Shopping.
Coffee.
Banking.
Doctors.
Cinema tickets.
Soon you’ll need an app to open the front door.
Then it’ll update while you’re stood outside in the rain.
“Please wait. Installing version 4.7.”
Brilliant.
Self-Service Checkouts
Who invented these?
Honestly.
“Unexpected item in bagging area.”
No there isn’t.
It’s shopping.
Exactly where you told me to put it.
Then the poor assistant walks over.
Presses one button.
Walks away.
Thirty seconds later, they’re back again.
Apparently that’s progress.
I preferred Doris on checkout seventeen asking how your mum was.
At least she worked.
Now I’m scanning, bagging, paying and doing security checks myself.
Do I get a staff discount?
Do I heck.
Parking
Parking nowadays has become Mission Impossible.
Download the app.
Create an account.
Verify your email.
Confirm your phone.
Enter your registration.
Retype your registration.
Confirm payment.
Accept cookies.
Loading.
Still loading.
Parking ticket.
Brilliant.
I only wanted to park the car.
Not apply for a mortgage.
Then you’ve got people parking across two spaces.
Usually in a car that looks like it’s survived three demolition derbies.
Calm down, Nigel.
It’s a twelve-year-old Qashqai.
Nobody’s trying to steal it.
Support Local
Joking aside, this month has reminded me exactly why we love doing what we do.
Markets aren’t just about buying things.
They’re about meeting people.
Having conversations.
Supporting somebody who’s spent hours making what they’re selling.
Independent businesses matter.
Without them, town centres lose their heart.
So thank you.
To every trader.
Every customer.
Every volunteer.
Every marshal.
Everyone who’s shared our posts.
Everyone who’s bought something local instead of clicking “Buy Now.”
You’re keeping markets alive.
And that’s something worth smiling about.
Even if some folk still insist on wandering round with a face like a slapped pasty.
Before I Go…
Oh…
Before I forget…
There is one other thing.
Some of you might have noticed little hints.
A photograph here.
A comment there.
A few mentions that probably shouldn’t have slipped out.
Let’s just say…
Bramham Estate Park…
That’s all I’m saying.
Don’t tell the boss I mentioned it.
She’s still asking questions herself.
Lots of questions.
Most beginning with:
“What have you done?”
“How many stalls?”
“Have you thought this through?”
And my personal favourite:
“Why do you keep doing this to me?”
So, if she finds out I’ve been dropping hints before she’s ready, I’ll be in more trouble than somebody who puts milk in before the hot water.
We’ll have a proper chat about that next month.
Until then, I’ll keep pretending I haven’t said a word.
See you all at Haworth this Sunday.
Come and say hello.
I’ll be the bloke with a bacon sandwich in one hand, a brew in the other and muttering quietly because somebody’s just asked if the market’s open…
While standing in the middle of it.
See you next month.
Mr Grumpy
Still Yorkshire. Still muttering. Still wondering why common sense packed its bags years ago and never came back.