Normally I have been a person who shies away from markets, they’re usually filled with people selling things no one wants or products of below par workmanship that are unsalable anywhere else. So, last Saturday, I surprised myself by agreeing to accompany my friend to what was billed as the monthly local farmer’s market on Churchill Island five minutes from my home.
Armed with fifty dollars cash and a dose of skepticism we wended our way along a narrow dirt road to what is normally an idyllic and scarcely inhabited scenic spot. I could tell something was up due to the mobile traffic light that regulated the comings and goings over the one lane bridge that usually only carried a handful of cars per day. Car-park attendants gestured directions with a half interested arm, guiding us into the filling field of Audi’s and rusty 4 wheels drives that is more often a grassy meadow.
I was pleasantly surprised by what I found on strolling through the many stalls. Not the usual fare of plastic toys, hippie clothes and vinyl belts from China but a stunning array of real produce that a person like me actually wants to consume. This was real food grown by real people. The sort of stuff you’d expect to find in trendy downtown eateries or mountain top retreats. Yet here it was, available to the average person, grown and prepared by average people at prices that anyone could afford. Local wines, hand picked asparagus cut that very morning, clear apple juice still warm from yesterdays pressing… what more could one want?
Even more impressive than the produce were the producers. It amazed me how many nationalities and accents could be heard amongst the stall holders. Locals, born and bred mixed it happily with new comers from the far corners of the globe, everyone enthusiastic about what the other brought to this food lover’s paradise. One couple I met were selling fresh pasta and originated from Croatia. Over the tasting of some gnocchi we started talking of a recent trip I’d made sailing in the islands off the Croatian coast. As we chatted I discovered that she came from the island of Hvar where I had recently been. A small island with a history going back to 600 BC, Hvar impressed me with its old marble streets, wonderful harbour restaurants and open genuine people. Now here we were on the far side of the world enjoying some banter and fresh gnocchi. I realised as we chatted that our sense of identity never really comes from a nationality or place of birth but rather has a quality more universal. Community is defined by a commitment to one another, an unspoken duty to add something to those around us and to take part in life. And that is what we were doing at that moment, building community by our interaction and sharing of lives and experiences, the food acting as an excuse to open up and sample each other’s world.
In this time where the news is often dominated by debate of immigration and talk of who belongs and who doesn’t it was refreshing to experience the reality of what a multi-cultural community really adds to our lives. I’d rather have my community defined by the human attributes of honest endeavour and open interaction than the accident of where someone was born. What makes community is often hard to define yet the absence of community is understood by how empty we feel by our own isolation. Surely one key ingredient though is the willingness to be involved, to add to and receive from the experiences of each other. That’s the sort of place I wish to live in and I’m happy to report it is alive and well in many unlooked for places, even on a small island on the edge of the world.
Details of Churchill Island can be found here. The Farmer’s Markets are held every 4th Saturday of the month 8am-1pm.
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