Nobody will recall a shortage of purple sprouting broccoli as the grand crisis of summer 2022. But for Claire Birch, the owner of Lincoln’s Doddington Hall, an undersupply of these modish cruciferous stalks could prove disastrous. She’s promised them to a wedding party at her grand Elizabethan estate near Lincoln, but her walled kitchen garden, recently restored to its historic glory, can only supply so much. Meanwhile, discerning customers in her farm shop can’t get enough of the stuff, buying it up by the bushel. It’s a lot of fuss over a bit of posh broccoli.

Doddington Hall is one of a handful of grand and glorious farm shops profiled in the Channel 5 show Britain’s Poshest Farm Shop. Its elite company include Lord Newborough, eighth Baron of the Rhug Estate in North Wales who counts the Royal Family as customers; Devon’s Darts Farm Shop, a family business selling home-made gelato and spa treatments alongside its own cabbage and courgettes; and Sussex’s Cowdray Estate, where shop assistants make up hampers for polo watchers between shelf stacking duties.

So far, so fun. There’s the Earl of Devon, a clutch of countesses and more stately homes than days of the week. Most of these so-called farm shops have more in common with Harrods Food Hall than a greengrocer. But while these extreme incarnations make great telly, they began life as places to sell produce direct from farm to consumer. For all their luxury, they still do this job, for those who know where to find them.

When food inflation bites, consumers with some wriggle room in their wallets can make wise choices to buy better quality and stock up on seasonal food. I can buy two cauliflowers for a pound and Kent’s best potatoes by the sack at my local, Rose Farm Shop. It is definitely not posh, whatever the word means these days. Channel 5, with the sneakiness typical of TV producers, didn’t tell its farm shop owners they were to be branded “posh” until the show had been made. The owners didn’t welcome the label. “We all had a moan about it,” Michael Dart of Darts Farm Shop in Topsham tells me. “We do sell the best quality food and drink. If you want to call that posh, you can. But we’re sustainable businesses supporting local food and drink producers.” Channel 5 insists the word “posh” has no negative connotations for its viewers, who see it as meaning that something will be a treat, rather than exclusive.

Dart’s father, Ronald, sold veg from a roadside shack and started one of the UK’s first pick-your-own businesses. He can’t have envisaged his sons would one day sell Agas as well as apples. But despite the lifestyle aspirations of these fabulous food emporiums, they still do the job in hand. Dart says they got a better understanding of customer demographics when they began pandemic deliveries. He was surprised at the spread. He may have a 64 quid whole turbot on his restaurant menu, but he claims to feed the “salt of the earth”, pointing out that their value meal packs are priced against cost and have actually come down over six months.

Jeremy Clarkson took on the Goop-reading, Daylesford-visiting Cotswold types when he opened his Diddly Squat farm shop last year. It is gimmicky, no doubt, but it has proved we have a taste for proper farm shops, and that they don’t need to sell expensive candles to get our attention.

Will they ride out the glum winter forecasted? “Farm shops are resilient,” says Rupert Evans, chairman of the Farm Retail Association. “They rose to the challenges the pandemic created and demonstrated the benefit of short, local supply chains. New customers who found them during the pandemic have largely remained loyal.”

Amy Coleman, manager of the Rhug Estate shop, claims that food inflation has had some positives for the sector because the price gap between farm shops and supermarkets has decreased, leading people to change the way they shop. She says if a product is a similar price, they’d rather buy it from the farm shop.

And who wouldn’t choose the gently-lit environment of a farm shop over an illuminated supermarket, where you can’t complete an aisle without having discounted Kettle Chips thrust upon you? I treat myself to a whirl around a posh farm shop the way other people, reportedly, go on shoe sprees or book hair appointments. I’ll drive to Gibson’s in Wingham, surrounded by some of Kent’s finest vineyards and supported mostly by Steph and Dom types in mustard or burgundy trousers, to gaze at the flours and patés. For the best cheese counter, 10 types of tomato and obscure tinned goods, I’ll make the trip to Macknade in Faversham, which started life as a tent on the family farm. I love the “posh” bits of these shops, from jars of snails to ribs of beef and English sparkling, and can spend hours there, often leaving with only a few small purchases. I’m surprised I’ve never been ejected for loitering. I love them all, posh or not.

Sophie Morris is a freelance journalist and university lecturer

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