On nerves, kindness, and the people who make a market feel like home.
For a long time, The Celtic Apothecary lived mostly online. Photos, posts and orders packed quietly at my dining room table. It felt safe. Then, at the start of September, I did something that made my stomach flutter for days beforehand: I booked my very first market stall.
The night before
I’d love to tell you I was calm. I wasn’t. I packed and repacked the crates, counted pouches and wrote price labels. Then I lay awake all night. I didn’t sleep a wink. My stomach was churning, a mix of nerves and excitement I hadn’t felt in years.
But underneath the butterflies there was a quiet knowing. This was the right path for me. Talking to people face to face, sharing the herbs and hearing their stories, has always felt natural to me, far more than any screen ever could.
What carried me through was the people around me. My brother carved a sign for the stall from oak. My father made wooden crates to display the herbs. My sister-in-law sewed hessian sacks into a tablecloth, and my amazingly supportive partner carried boxes and helped me set up. When I looked at that finished stall, I realised I wasn’t really standing there alone. A whole family’s hands had made it.
A stall to touch and smell
I wanted my stall to be a sensory experience, not just something to look at. So at that first market at Sketty, I put out a little dish of lemon verbena for people to touch and smell. It worked like magic. People rubbed the leaves between their fingers, breathed in that bright lemony scent, and smiled. My very first sale was, fittingly, lemon verbena.
That first market taught me something important: people want to connect with herbs with all their senses. So now I bring a sample of every herb I take to market, so everyone can touch, smell and discover what speaks to them before choosing.
Garden stories
What surprised me most was how much people wanted to share. Customers told me about the lemon balm spreading through their borders, the elderflower they pick each June, and how they forage for nettle leaves and seeds along the lanes. Those conversations were the heart of every market for me. Herbal knowledge has always been passed from hand to hand and voice to voice, and here it was, happening across my little table.
Keeping old places alive
One moment at Waverley has stayed with me. An older couple stopped at the stall and asked how I became interested in herbs. So I shared my story about growing up in a converted 300 year old watermill and spending evenings with my grandmother next door. They were fascinated by its history, and we talked for a long time. What we found we shared, was a belief that places like these stay alive through conversation, through stories passed along so they’re never forgotten. It reminded me that this is exactly what I’m trying to do with my grandmother’s herbal wisdom.
A gathering of wellbeing
Waverley had a different feel from Sketty, softer and gentler. Alongside my stall were others devoted to wellbeing: organic and vegan foods, vegan truffles and cakes, herbal tinctures, hand-poured candles and crystals catching the light. Many visitors browsed slowly between the stalls before heading off for their holistic therapies: spiritual readings, sound baths, reiki or reflexology. There was a calm, unhurried energy to the day, and my herbs felt right at home among it all. It was lovely to be part of a space where people come simply to look after themselves.
A community of makers
I hadn’t expected to feel so at home among the other stallholders, but I honestly did. They were supportive and welcoming from the very first morning. All around me were people bringing things made with care: artisan bread, homemade honey and jams, hand-knitted and crocheted hats, and beautiful handmade jewellery. Everything was cooked with love or crafted with attention. There’s a quiet kinship among market traders, people who understand the early mornings, the cold hands and the hope you carry in with your boxes.
My market companion
My son has started joining me at the markets too. If you ask him, he’ll shrug and say they’re “ok”. But I see the way he chats to people and helps carry the crates, and I think, deep down, he enjoys the buzz of it all. Or perhaps it’s the home-cooked Spanish food from one of the stalls that keeps him coming back. Either way, having him beside me means more than he knows.
Daring to be brave
The women in my family have always been quietly resilient. My grandmother and my mother both suffered hardships and change, but each time they picked themselves up and carried on. I like to think I’m cut from the same cloth, and I carry their strength into everything I do.
Neither of them had the chance to do what I’m doing now. Standing behind that stall for the first time, with no sleep and a churning stomach, I thought of them. Stepping out of my comfort zone felt like a way of honouring them: daring to be brave, as they always were, in their own quiet ways.
What I’ve learned
The nerves haven’t disappeared, but I’ve learned that the fear before is always bigger than the reality. The people who stop at the stall are curious and kind, and they’re often looking for exactly the kind of gentle, considered rituals I love to share.
Most of all, I’ve learned that this business isn’t just mine. It belongs to everyone who has stopped, chatted, shared a garden story, bought a pouch, or come back to tell me how they got on. Diolch o galon to each of you.
Come and say hello
My next market is Sketty, Saturday 7 November, 9.30am to 12.30pm. If you’re local, I’d love to see you there. Come and touch, smell and chat, and find your own cup of comfort 🌿
Andrea x