Striding amongst the gated alleyways of Taunton Market, I cast my eye over the many beasts due for trading. The iconic lean over the gate as one ponders the whys and wherefores of a sale or purchase was something I practiced long before I first bought any stock. Saturday was, and maybe still is market day there, and whilst my Mum was doing the weekly shop in nearby Sainsburys, I was across the road imagining I was stocking my farm or selling my produce. This environment to me aged 10 (ish) was intoxicating. Fast forward nearly 30 years and my love for market day persists. I have sold stock at pedigree sales, filled lorries with store lambs and sold fat stock, pet sheep and dropped off cull ewes. I always get that same buzz. It is a hub, a mecca, a meeting point and an important cog in the agricultural machine. It caters for big and small farms, buyers looking for a bargain or serious red meat buyers with contracts to fill. Two weeks are never quite the same, not just with the prices though, its about the competition, the standard and the quantity. I often joke that I know when prices are going to drop as it will be the week I choose to take my prize lambs. You must choose when to sell wisely as, you can only sell them once. I have become quite the connoisseur of a market breakfast, which I consider an integral part of a morning at market. In general, the further north one travels, the more generous and homely the cooking seems to be. That said there are some fantastic market cafes in the south that champion local producers and put up a very agreeable plate of food. Watching (good) auctioneers work a room is a thing of beauty. Orchestrating bids and creating excitement and energy for even the plainest of culls is a skill unto itself, as is attempting to read an unfamiliar auctioneer. Picking up a hard Welsh accent can be tricky for the uninitiated or a Cumbrian that sells so fast that in between raising a hand and the bid being acknowledged, the price is £50 higher than you wanted! There are, of course many other characters intrenched in market life, the drover with a rollup consistently in his mouth, the dealer that seemingly buys everything but you never see them bid. Oh, and the smallholder who can’t reverse their horsebox that’s filled with Hebridean sheep that they have spent all morning chasing round and manhandling into submission. The rich tapestry of rural life gathered in one place. This tapestry feels like it has become frayed in some sense and it is so important that we keep it knitted tightly as we negotiate the unknowns of farming through choppy waters. I think markets have a huge role to play in this, and I’d like to think for continuity alone they are worth their weight in gold. Markets will always have that traditional sense about them. There is great feeling that generations have brought stock to a central point for sale. It’s great to watch the pride of a pedigree breeder as he wills the price of his beloved up and up. Then there is the joy of receiving luck money (a crumpled fiver) for a pen of sheep you’ve paid far too much for. The anticipation of a sale day, whether buying or selling can be addictive, I’m pretty sure you don’t get that from signing a production contract. Unless we want markets or marts to go the same way as abattoirs, we need to use them or lose them. Sell live and thrive! Protecting these rural networks is good for everyone, hauliers, butchers, abattoirs and the markets themselves. So next time you step in the sale ring, box up a barren cow or tuck into a market breakfast make sure you realise how much you’d miss them if they are not there. I know I will.