Word to the herd
An idiots guide to moving from London onto a farm
Well it’s been a month or so since I last wrote some stuff, my last official waffle was paying homage to Londinium.
London. The city I once adored, was now a toxic and expensive ex. I hated her. I love her so much.
I flounced and by god I miss her so much. But thanks to a new job working for the man, I’m back up once a week for a paid day with her Londoness (no kissing tho…)
But no more living in London. A brief stint staying with my folks, and then my next chapter. My new home.
That home needed to be something completely different.
Where next? Where would YOU go after living ultra urban?
The Cotswolds. It’s fucking beautiful. The Cotswolds is like if Disney made a hyper real theme park, based on the most quintessentially English stuff ever.
Why the Cotswolds? My kids live there. My goal was to live near the kids, but not too near the ex-wife (a co-parenting conundrum)
A house somewhere nice. But where’s the fun in that? Whats better than rural?
Ultra rural.
Yes my ADHD brain told me that despite the ruralness of the wold, I should ramp up this bitch to 11, the kid in me wanted to live on a farm again.
If you’ve never lived on a farm, you are truly missing out on a life experience. It’s magical.
When I was a kid we used to camp on a lovely little farm in the Cotswolds, Folly Farm, just on the Fosse Way, and despite my firm aversion to tent-based accommodation, I really loved being around nature, the smell of cow excrement, and all the fun of the farm, a safe temporary homestead that punctuated the standard Cotswold campsite holiday activities; the allure of eating fish and chips whilst wading the ‘Water’ portion of ‘Bourton', the achingly picture-perfect Broadway, Bibury and lovely old Stow-on-the-Wold.
I loved those holidays. So I wanted my children to experience living on a farm. And not just inside a canvas prefab, but actually live on a farm, permanently.
And so in 2015, after living in Lower Slaughter for 2 years, and struggling to find anywhere decent, my ex-wife found Stonefield. It was a lovely old house on a private estate that housed an organic dairy farm. It was super remote, and my first real foray into living on farms. Despite my working in London during the week (I will always love you cruel mistress), I lived there at weekends and loved just lying in a hammock next to an orchard in a 1 acre garden, talking bullocks to the cows, smelling the shit and watching the sun go down.
I left my marriage in 2017, and so left my ultra rural dreamscape, and sauntered back into the vascular, heavily tattooed arms of my nemesis, Londoness.
Fast forward to 2024 and I’m now coming back to my dreams.
Anyway I moved my sweet ass into a beautiful cottage on a working farm, on a huge private estate, far, far away from all of the noise.
And by goodness I found somewhere incredible. But its not for everyone…
Living on an estate property is a tricky, yet satisfying proposition. You get to stay somewhere epic, for much less money than you would normally pay. But you have to pass a vibe check (interview with the owners), understand the ‘estate rules’, have absolute respect for the neighbours, understand the paradox of privacy, be ok with ‘country folk’ stuff and supply all your own appliances. It’s a bugger to get deliveries, you can never have a clean car, and your neighbours are bovine, ovine, porcine and equine. There is a lot of poo.
But my goodness you are in for a treat. And the people, these are the best people in the whole world. Just wonderful folk, so kind, patient and interesting.
I feel like I could make this work. But there are some challenges to overcome:
My car is too small
Driving a small, rear wheel drive car (thanks BMW!) in the sticks, is like bringing a knife to a gun fight.
I love my current automobile, it’s perfect for London. But it’s totally wrong for this new episode, I need a 4x4 or at least a 3x3.
Also people drive a lot. And quite slowly. And there are animals all over the place.
The big shop
When I was dating Londoness, if I needed groceries I just popped out to get a few bits and bobs from a local micro market, a ‘Little Waitrose’, ‘M&S food’ or a ‘Tesco Metro’ (why is there no ‘Liddle Lidl?)
Some knick-knacks and a few reduced items. Some Comté. Extra booze, a portable gin and tonic or a cheeky extra can of strong lager?
Yeah say goodbye to the ‘convenience’ in ‘convenience store’.
You are fucking miles away and so you are forced to endure what the regular folk on the grid call ‘The Big shop’.
The big shop is fucking terrifying.
It’s actually perfect screening for a first date as you can get all of your arguments out of the way, in an hour flat.
The big shop starts by having to park your small car between some fucking massive SUVs. In a bay that is one of seven, difficult to understand categories of shopper.
Then you walk FOR AGES to the store.
You then have to grab this huge metal cage on wheels thing called a trolley, and then fill it up with EVERYTHING YOU NEED FOR A WHOLE WEEK.
How the hell are you supposed to know what you need?
I don’t even know what food I need for tonight. I have no meal plan. I don’t understand planning over 24 hours. I’m lost in the aisles, and surrounded by people who are really good at this task. And they are all judging me. They know I’m new to this. They can see my trolley is full of bourgois bullshit.
I pick up some deodorant, a Pineapple, and some parma ham. I lightly grasp an Avocado. It’s firm, fuck knows what that means. I see people squeeze fruit and vegetables, so I try to fit in.
You can tell everything about a person by their choice of items in their trolley. It’s a window into their life. And mine is a well deodorised, tropical fruit-leaning, Italian ham enthusiast. Not a bad Twitter bio.
My Parma Karma notwithstanding, I was terrified. And I’ve not even got to the worst bit:
Self checkout - the big shop version
Self checkout used to be great, you can scan a few items and pay, bosh.
Now this invention has reached the big shop.
For the next 10 minutes you actually work on the checkouts. You have an *actual* conveyor belt, and you have to load it up and scan all your shop. Oh you thought you were done, but that reduced pork joint wont scan properly, and theres an unexpected item in your bagging area (oh missus)
I bounced. I’ll go to the petrol station and get a weak cheese and pickle sandwich.
En route I called Uber Eats and begged them to send some Guanciale and a Sourdough. They told me to stop being a little bitch, get some perspective and not to call them ever again.
I miss Londoness. She gave me Korean barbecue and a sore liver.
Sheep EVERYWHERE.
For most herbivores, the gateway drug to carnivore heaven is the humble bacon sandwich. This Pain de mie parcel of porcine will ruin a vegetarian faster than you can say ‘cognitive dissonance’
The only barrier between me and vegetarianism is a roast leg of lamb. It’s my Everest.
Imagine loving lamb so much, but seeing hundreds of beautiful fuzzy sheep everywhere. It’s really difficult.
It’s like being a monk in a nun porno.
I so very much want to be a vegetarian. I don’t agree with eating meat at all. But I LOVE roast lamb.
What Kind of Day Has It Been
Ok i’ve been here 4 days. I love the farm, I love where I live, but it’s a set of challenges that is not for everyone, or hardly anyone, but I am up for those challenges, as this is my destiny.
I love it here, I’m going to do everything to make this work. Cheers x
Thanks for reading!
PS. If you like this sort of stuff, you can read my writings on design and technology over on Medium, or follow me on Instagram