Abergavenny Food Festival

Letting go: a birthday gift to myself.

Right then… Got my personal life off my chest, and it feels pretty damned fine.

You lot are amazing. The offers of support have been gratefully received.

I can't explain the psychology of it. Just that transparency feels extremely liberating. A fearless woman with nothing much to lose, holding only a commitment to the truth of her own experience… I’d read me, I reckon.

There is power in being properly honest about how hard the last 4 years have been… in naming the true extent to which we’re struggling. Calling out the fuckery of it all benefits everyone.

Now that I’ve moved out the way of myself, I’ve been considering food festivals. The Valley Fest piece led to fruitful conversations on what it means to run an ethical event, and whether doing so is ever financially viable.

It got me thinking about Abergavenny Food Festival…

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…I couldn’t have written this article before now. The disappointment I felt with the board of directors was still too raw. Anything I wrote, would easily have been dismissed as an angry takedown by a disgruntled ex-employee. (Sorry, freelance Chief Executive.)

But I think that if I hold on to this one for too long, the moment will pass…

So.

Writing from love…

Can I let go of any residual hurt, and instead offer up something both truthful and constructive? An honest appraisal of the very real issues, but with space for growth and change? Perhaps less click-worthy than a wittily executed online trashing, but with more real-world application?

A shit sandwich 🥪 💩🥪

The Bottom

Context matters… so let's start with how I got the job, and what I understood I was walking into.

Summer of 2016, I was invited to apply for the role of Chief Executive of Abergavenny Food Festival. I’d known the founder, Martin Orbach, and then-Chief Executive, Kim Waters, for a few year’s already. We’d talked casually about finding opportunities to work together.

Martin is one of those people that many of you will never have heard of, but for whom there is a huge amount of deserved love and respect throughout a certain demographic of UK hospitality. He, and his farming friend, Chris Wardle, started the festival in 1998 - the year after BSE and Foot & Mouth disease ravaged our livestock farmers. They were passionate about getting the public to buy direct. They wanted people to appreciate their harsh reality, and celebrate farming’s cultural contribution.

Public outrage at front-page images of burning livestock led to a surge in the popularity of local food. Jamie and Hugh appeared on our TVs. The Soil Association rode a wave of media interest in the organic farming movement. For a moment in the late nineties, it seemed the UK might become a country that actually cared about what it ate.

The festival was part of the zeitgeist. They created demand, built opportunity and drove public understanding at an essential moment in time.

A time, much like now, when our food community was largely in crisis.

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I was a regular visitor. The festival falls on my birthday. I’d been attending since 2010, and had a whole lot of love for it.

The way it took over the town; how they’d succeeded in gathering everybody - not just the usual old trope of chefs and journalists, but the farmers and makers, artisans and independents. You found products you wouldn’t find anywhere else. It took forever to move from place to place, shouldering through bustling throngs of people, stopping to chat with a seemingly endless stream of familiar faces.

It felt like the entire food-community of Wales and the South West converged, nestled in the shadow of Sugar Loaf mountain; always blessed with ‘the last good weekend of summer.’

It didn’t occur to me back then, that I enjoyed an insider’s perspective. That my experience wasn't everybody’s. That perhaps I’d bought into one of those small, sweet stories we like to tell ourselves about the perceived loveliness of things.

The Shit Bit

When invited to apply, my response was an enthusiastic yes. I loved the festival and could see all the potential. It had gone a bit off the boil. Wasn’t quite what it was in its heyday… but still enjoyed a stellar reputation and a huge amount of affection from within the industry.

When appointed, people commented on what a good fit it seemed.

I understood that the board knew me and had read my CV. I self-identified as a food activist 🙄. I thought they got my interest in the festival, as a creative vehicle for delivering more meaningful change.

The marketplace for UK food events had become increasingly crowded in the 20 years since their inception. We were competing for national audience. It was no longer enough to believe that punters would show up, simply because ‘it’s Abergavenny’.

My mistake was assuming a baseline understanding of the production environment in which we were operating.

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From the beginning, I wholeheartedly bought into that dangerous idea that this was more than just a job…we were family… building something... This event was special. There were blurry professional boundaries from the start.

It was an honour to have been entrusted with responsibility for it. This was one of the best jobs in food, surely?

I was tasked with bringing the festival into the present, whilst remaining entirely deferential to its past. My line managers were two ex-CEOs, who now sat on the board. People responsible for the past success. People attached to the way they’d always done things.

I sold myself, as I so often do, on the grand possibility of it all.

Ignored the red flags.

The outgoing CEO had left the previous October (2015), and despite being invited to apply in June (2016), it was November before I started work.

I held out for the job. The six-month wait put me on a financial back-foot, before I’d even begun. The board’s relaxed attitude towards having someone in post should have been a sign... But then, so should my freelance contract, which I understood meant capacity to work on other projects, but which gave me a chief executive job title and stipulated I deliver no-less-than two days a week from an office in Wales, managing a team.

My arrival

Delivering that first year was like a brick to the head.

I rocked up (all new ideas and big energy) to a ramshackle office, tucked away in the attic of a financial advisors, on a narrow Abergavenny side street. My handover consisted of lots of bits of paper stuck in a box under my desk.

There were two Dropbox links; one for board documents, and one for everything else, (which wasn’t a lot.) Amongst the board documents were the minutes from my interview. I quickly learnt that I hadn’t been their first choice. The board members I knew had lobbied for me… a second vote had been taken.

It knocked my confidence. I needed to prove myself. I owed it to the ones who’d advocated for me.

I met the most recent CEO for a brief coffee, disregarded her soft smirk at my naïve enthusiasm, and that was that.

I was given a copy of the income/expenditure, and a list of items paid under each category; but in terms of figuring out the budgets, knowing what relationships went where, or providing any practical detail on how things came together… I was essentially on my own.

Production systems were non-existent. How do car parks work? How do chefs order ingredients? Suppliers lists? Home-ecs? Prep kitchens? Nothing??

40,000 visitors over 3-days, the shutdown of an entire town, 6-hour get-ins, extensive road closures, 8 venues, 3 stages, 2 cookery schools….

Learning that the UK’s leading food festival, one known specifically for championing local products, was sourcing ingredients with an early morning run to the local Waitrose… it was a moment.

That’s the thing about community events… they grow organically over years, often cobbled together by an inexperienced staff and volunteers… Someone lets you use their field in exchange for a handful of tickets. Someone else’s mate has a tractor if cars get stuck… Nobody writes stuff down. Production develops ad-hoc; changing with each passing ops manager...

AND YET… the soul of a thing so often lies in the organic muddle of its development. The evergreen crew of loyal locals, the mildly anarchic sense of chaos… unpretentious inclusion. There is energy, connection and community. People mucking in and helping out. It’s what creates the vibe...

How to professionalise and scale events, while still retaining the centre? It’s a tricky and delicate balance… deserving of further discussion.

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I survived year one, thanks only to the dedication and support of the existing team. Unravelling how the live show came together was like wading through treacle…

You have to run it once! Trust us. It just sort of happens.

Understanding how they’d historically achieved on the available budget? Terrifying.

My overly-ambitious, first-year programming pushed the team to breaking point.

A better consultant would have gone back to the board, and calmly communicated that it wasn’t possible to deliver a safe and professional festival with the resources currently available. There wasn’t a single area of production that didn’t require un-picking and re-resourcing. It was a much bigger job than I had initially understood. I needed feet on the ground. It wasn’t straightforward. We would need capacity and resources if we were to bring it into the 21st Century.

I should have re-negotiated everything at the end of year one.

Instead, I told myself that I could fix it.

Employee-free

Abergavenny Food Festival has existed for 22 years. When my contract ended, in December 2019, they’d never had a single employee.

Pursuing an organisational structure, designed to keep board responsibility and admin to a minimum, but offering zero stability or security to your workers, might be technically legal, but it’s crappily unethical.

Even if you start out that way, twenty years running a supposedly successful enterprise should leave you in the position to offer some security to somebody, surely?

Lots of festival crew have no desire to be contracted to a single event or organisation. But too many of us return to deliver the same events year after year, for an industry that offers zero job security, no benefits, and few policies, processes or rights via which we can hold our employers accountable.

There was no system for feedback and review, no paid holiday or sick, no policy for well-being or mental health, and no clarity on who I could turn to when the pressure became too much.

At least twice I tried to communicate with board members about the extent to which I was struggling. Each time they pointed me back toward the two ex-CEOs, who thought everything was fine the way it was. Eventually, honesty undermined my position.

Side note: Any job, which only works for wealthy individuals of a certain age, is not a job that works.

If a role, especially the role of leader or CEO, is only functional because you have a second income (i.e. from the other business’ you own), or because you need to keep busy in retirement, or because you have a wealthy husband and want to play at a career in food, then it’s not a functional business... it’s a hobby.

Speaker Fees

It has historically been the policy of Abergavenny Food Festival not to pay speaker fees. A close relationship with leading publishers means the festival works to identify chefs and authors, with new books to promote. They cover travel costs, accommodation, and if you’re important enough… an invite to Jane Baxter’s Friday fry-up. The fry-up is the hottest ticket in town. Publishers, PRs, agents and food writers fall over themselves to get in. Space is limited... I attempted to move it to a larger venue, but was told to put it back again… Free to make changes, unless the inner circle objected to them.

The pay-off for your time and skill, as a chef or author, is industry connections, book sales and exposure. And here’s the annoying thing! Abergavenny is one of the only food festivals I know, which comes close to delivering on those intangible benefits of participating.

They have raised the profile of lesser-known names. Chefs have done cookbook deals, pitched articles, met agents or publishers… One young drinks writer started presenting BBC Food Programme after her appearance, new guests are regularly found for Saturday Kitchen…

There is a track record of delivering the kind of industry connections, other small-town food festivals can only dream of… but it’s not a model that really works over time, or at scale.

It works for the exclusive few… those that can afford to shoulder their own costs. Those brave enough to network, who know people already, who can capitalise on the opportunity…

Vittle’s Jonathan Nunn will be interviewing Angela Hui at this weekend’s festival. Jamaican food writer, Melissa Thompson is also attending. Somebody has been thinking about programming - a relief after the over-inflated egos of the white male legends parade last year.

On balance, they’ve done a good job of addressing diversity - it’s almost as if they knew what might be coming!

My question to Melissa, Jonathan and Angela is… are you being paid for your time? And if not, why not? I’m genuinely interested. When so much has been said about the importance of paying people properly, is Abergavenny an exception?

I’m delighted that you’re going to be there... I implore you not to hold back on asking the pokey questions.

Relationship with the town

It didn’t take long to realise that the food festival’s relationship with the town was very different from my experience as a visitor.

Locals do not much like it. There is a virulently active Facebook group. As soon as I arrived they hosted an extensive discussion about how much I might be getting paid.

There is historic bad-feeling amongst the market traders, who get kicked out of their weekend slot in the Market Hall to accommodate the annual event. Easily solved with some thoughtful inclusion, but requiring an ongoing commitment to considering their needs.

The majority of festival-goers are wealthy, white English folk. Visitors to a county that is sometimes perceived as less-Welsh thanks to the number of outsiders moving in.

In a town of approximately 10,000 people, roughly a third live on the council estates north of the centre. Their needs, and their experience of the festival, is very different from that of the foodie in-crowd.

I hadn’t understood the number of townspeople who wouldn’t step foot inside. Wouldn’t dream of buying a wristband to walk around their home town. They were infuriated by the road closures, hated the visitors, and felt strongly that the festival did not represent them.

Locally, this is a festival for wealthy English folk. Those happy to pay for £10 cocktails and £12 lobster rolls. Those who can drop a few hundred quid on fancy food, and the odd cookery class. Over the years, the team had stopped making much effort to support diversity of inclusion, or local access. By the time I arrived, feelings ran high…

There is a widely misheld rumour amongst the locals that someone, somewhere, has made money off the back of the festival. The business is a registered not-for-profit, and the historic reality of the finances makes the insinuation frankly, laughable. Nobody, at any point, made bank.

But, the business does enjoy tax breaks, justified by viewing each year’s festival as a fundraiser for the following year.

It feels fair to say that an organisation that benefits as such, must prioritise its commitment to the local town, above and beyond their commitment to schmoozing with famous chefs and national media. The town should be the priority.

Access to healthy, affordable food, support for independent hospitality businesses, tackling isolation and loneliness in the elderly, opportunity for young people… these are all, very real local issues. The festival is well-placed to deliver year-round programmes of participation and engagement; something Green Man does particularly well…

If it’s the celebrity schmooze that enjoys the most benefit, then it’s right that the charitable purpose of the organisation is questioned.

Clique-business

It sounds woefully naïve in retrospect, but bugger me, I had no idea what I was walking into. I did not understand the power or privilege of the position I’d landed in. Particularly once that first year programme re-established the festival’s national reputation.

The board members I knew, were farmers and food producers. I was not ready for the shiny fake smiles of the million posh, blonde women who work in publishing, media, PR and marketing. I didn’t think to watch my back.

The festival never really felt like mine. The event belongs to Martin… I suspect it always will. His inner circle of loyal ladies, ever-present to subtly remind me of my place.

Who even are you anyway? scrawked a drunken chocolate brownie maker on my first Friday night in charge.

The spread of self-awareness

In the end, I was not wrong to quit, and they were not wrong to let me go.

After the 2019 September festival, things unravelled at a pace.

The programming had been stellar. The community and inclusion work was finally taking root, the diversity and demographic of the audience was shifting… Three year’s hard work, starting to pay off. But, behind the scenes we were a mess. My team was breaking, the finances weren’t where they should have been, and unforeseen production costs were rapidly stacking.

I was utterly burnt-out. In no position to guide the team through a sensitive de-brief and tricky post-production.

Women I loved and respected, who’d broken their balls to deliver the festival, were unilaterally stepping down. They made it clear they would walk, unless commitments could be made to significantly increase resourcing for their time, and production budgets.

I was trapped…caught between the team’s frustration with me as the boss, and my frustration with a board who couldn’t seem to understand the reality of what we needed.

I did not do a good job of advocating on the team’s behalf.

I should’ve done better. I did the best that I could at the time.

We had one disastrous, final meeting, where the two ex-CEOs came to talk to us, once again, about how we could reduce costs by scaling back on skilled production… and I stormed out in tears.

I went into the next board meeting and said I couldn’t do it again.

I was genuinely surprised when a week later, they told me they agreed.

My worst fears about the chronic insecurity of my annually reviewed, freelance contract finally came to fruition.

Not one board member came to say goodbye. No well done, or thanks for all the fish. In the three years since, I haven’t heard from any of them. That’s the bit that hurts.

Did they put me in an untenable position? Yes

Did they fail to understand the reality of the role, and what was being asked of the team? Yes

Did they keep pointing me back towards people who did not have up to date knowledge on safely delivering a modern day event? Sure they did!

They let me down. Unquestionably.

But, I let them down too…

My mental health was collapsing. The pressure was killing me. I was furious with them. It was time for me to go.

The Top Slice

So, the shit sandwich… you’ve got to sandwich the shit bit.

How to top it off? What might be possible?

Well… today is my 40th Birthday. Getting this newsletter off my chest is my birthday present to myself.

Do I care who reads it? Not really.

I trust that my words will find their way to those who might be interested in listening. Others will skim-read, and dismiss whatever I say as mad, bad or stupid. That’s okay. I’m not writing for them.

To those attending this weekend’s festival, a couple of things to consider…

The festival started at a time when our food community was in crisis. We’ve come full circle. So many are significantly in the shit. You hold a position of great privilege and influence. You could play a leadership role in convening meaningful discussions about the future of Welsh food. Not a couple of tokenistic panels at the Dome, but substantial significant conversations about how to rapidly build resilient, regenerative food economies. You’re in a position to obtain resources! Use your power, and reach with national food media, to drive inclusion and tangible benefit for traders and the local community. You have a responsibility to do so.

If you’re attending as a chef, speaker or guest (you know who you are!); and all you plan to do is head to the Friday fry-up, mooch around the market hall, get pissed at the Castle, and go home; you’re doing it wrong. I mean it’s fine. But in the middle of a massive cost-of-living crisis, it’s also a bit gross. So maybe think about how you communicate your weekend of indulgent consumption on social media.

Truth and reconciliation: I heard last week that Noma / Mad Symposium are planning a programme of truth and reconciliation discussions, designed to help tackle issues around culinary patriarchy. Why they’re not the right organisation to take that work forwards is a whole other newsletter. BUT, it’s a timely and necessary idea… I’m always up for a bit of truth and reconciliation. So, if you want to talk, host a discussion, or record a response… the door is always open…

I'm off to the altogether smaller, Scottish Wild Food Festival for the weekend. Happy Birthday to me.