I carry no phone An aspiring Luddite In a wired world.	Jeff Berry is an early adopter of the Internet and the Web, a late adopter of Twitter, and declines to adopt Facebook. With the death of Google+, he's experimenting with federated platforms . He admins a medievalist Mastodon instance, and can found on the PlusPora diaspora pod. He hates cell-phones.

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Farm by the Freeway York is hub from which roads radiate, like spokes on a wheel, to the villages which once made up its hinterland and which now make up its commuter base. Strensall, as wikipedia kindly notes, existed in the 11th century, if not before, as it makes an appearance in Domesday Book. It is no surprise then, that it exists along one of those spoke roads. The corollary to all of this is that, if you want to go into York, you really only have one choice. I have become quite familiar with the road which, while it's in Strensall is called the York Road, and which somewhere down towards York becomes the Strensall Road. On the Strensall Road part of this route, there is a stretch where, to the west, there are fields, and to the east there is a row of houses. I'll call them farmhouses, although I'm not sure how many of them are inhabited by farmers. At least one is, though, since ever since I arrived, every time I went to and from York, I passed a sandwich board sign, black block letters on white, which read 'OPEN - POTATOES - EGGS.' Sometimes it was augmented by a smaller sign leaning against it which said simply, 'VEG,' and sometimes by a different side reading 'BAGS OF POTATOES 6 A BAG.' One day, I got off the bus a stop too soon on my way to the car dealer and found myself across from the sign. Since I'd been meaning to check it out anyway, I walked across to see what could be seen. There was a crescent shaped drive, and a couple of trailers, open on one side. I examined them and their contents carefully. There were eggs and potatoes and a few other types of vegetables along with a hand-lettered sign listing the prices. A cashbox was on the floor of one of the trailers, I assumed it was screwed down, although I didn't check. Above the eggs was another hand-lettered sign reading, and I'm paraphrasing slightly, 'PAY FOR YOUR EGGS, YOU ARE ON CCTV.' Of people, however, there was nary a trace. Silently and alone, I departed. I returned a few days later, this time in my car on my way somewhere - as noted above, for almost any value of somewhere I have to drive by this spot. I was prepared with small denomination cash this time, since receiving change was, naturally, impossible. I drove into the drive, parked, selected my cabbage, potatoes and onions, dropped £2 in the box, and departed. There was no other soul in evidence during my transaction. Some time later, a Saturday I think it was, and earlier in the morning, I stopped by again, since I needed, at the very least, eggs and cabbage, and maybe onions and carrots, if any were to be had. I parked as usual and began my shop. There were brussels sprouts, a pleasant surprise, but no carrots. I suddenly realized that I was ill-prepared, for I had only a fiver and some small change. So I began to look at my options for making up a 5 quid parcel. As I stared into space considering my options and menu plans - if I got a dozen eggs, would I be eating omelettes all week? If I got the big bag of onions, would they go bad before I could eat them all? And so on - the window of the house opened, and a woman, I assume it was the lady of the house, asked if all was well. I explained my predicament, and struck with the idea that here was a real person, asked if she could make change? She said how much, and like lightning, I committed! Eggs, cabbage, onions and a stalk of sprouts. We did the math together, after all it was still early, and she went off with my fiver and came back with two-pound-fifty. As I began to load my goods, the farmer himself returned with more veg to add to the storefront, if I may call it such. We exchanged greetings and I went on my merry way. By now, of course, I had a routine, a plan. When going out for my shop, I would start at this place and get what I could there, using the other farm shops or supermarkets to make up the rest. It ticks most of my boxes, doing it this way: it's very local, and very seasonal; the money is going directly to the farmer; and it's fresh. Good, too. I've been once more since then, to refresh my cabbage, onions and sprouts. I had correct change and made my solitary shop in silence. In happy, contented silence. Luddite'sLog, 28 October 2013 © 2013 Jeff Berry

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