A few words about Bury Market
What happens when we forget where our food comes from?
The way we go about our everyday tasks have been disrupted. We’re internalising, our networks are getting smaller, and we’re not very sure where anything comes from anymore.
At the very end of the tram lines, tucked into the north of Manchester, there is a market town. Hot smells of meats, and butter and pastry linger. Incense, piercing sweetness of fresh fruit turn heads to follow. The war cries of fishmongers, green grocers and butchers permeate the air, two punnet for a fiver. We are not in silent, contemplative isles of white washed and brashly lit supermarkets anymore. You have now entered a space that is very much alive.
The voices of stall holders, retain the recipes of their mothers, and their mothers mothers. I can taste the grass that the sheep grazed on, a few miles away…
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