Farmers' Markets are a fickle experience.
Each one has its own particular feel.
Some are riven by politics and others by snobbery.
There is a culture to markets in general and it is split along Produce/Craft lines as well as Town/Country lines.
With wool I merge all of the above.
I use three markets and they all have their own clientele and vendors.
I love watching people, especially the vendors.
Invariably there is always the older, loud woman who knows everything and everyone. Her product never changes and she is back every week.
There is the bright young eager one who turns up early and well-organised with a fabulous product and totally cleans up. They are not asked back.
Then there are the dishevelled but charming late-comers with an average product. They do no sales pitch yet they rake in cash just by smiling and tiredly sipping their lattes. They are asked to come in winter when numbers are low.
There are three more types, and these ones I have yet to crack.
There's the little gentle souls who create and collect useful odds and ends for sale and re-sale. They smile and nod and chat freely. I've had entire life-stories. They rarely make a sale and their stall is well, old-school and a bit scruffy. They set up early and leave late. The market is their life.
There's the hard-bitten man/woman selling a product on commission. They are very trying. They threaten to give up each week. They make no friends.
And lastly, the back-bone stall-holder; usually the charity the market exists for....the one that sells sausages in a bread bun or surplus veges from the community gardens. The stall is managed by a rotating schedule of stalwart volunteers. They are the checkpoint for information and support. They are the heroes.
|Packing for market|
....and this morning at The Harvest Market at Te Whare Oranga O Parakai I did particularly well so I am genially disposed to all things market.
Tin Shed Yarns