In a hotel conference room in Shropshire last winter, a group of people clustered by the coffee machine. Others were just coming in, undoing scarves and coats, most in branded sweatshirts or fleece gilets. Families scattered and bunched, finding others they knew, holding their cups awkwardly and sharing out croissants. Heather Wildman, the host, moved from group to group, making introductions: an arable contractor to a vineyard manager, a poultry farmer to a cheesemaker. The mood was subdued and a little apprehensive. Everyone stood by the edges of the room, watching the food and the door.
Wildman positioned herself at the front, offered more tea, thanked everyone for taking the time, knew it was difficult with production schedules and school runs. She is 50, with a ready, open smile. Her introduction was friendly, practised, self-deprecating. She explained what the day would hold and made clear that she was not from the ministry, the Environment Agency or HMRC, that she was not an accountant, a lawyer, a snitch or a nark. “None of that,” she said. “I’m a farmer, and I help people.”
