WHERE FUNDING MET REALITY
At a glance
The situation: A strong bid and significant funding existed, but there was no delivery structure on the ground.
What I did: Built a community-led vehicle, secured the market license, and reduced barriers to trading.
What changed: Markets strengthened and expanded; producers gained a practical route to customers.
What remained: The license stayed secure; capability and leadership continued after my departure.
A major public funding bid had been won to enhance the quality of life and economic prosperity of a remote rural area. A new community partnership was to oversee it. I had just relocated to the regional infrastructure charity responsible for ensuring the funding was spent well.
The bid itself was thoughtful and well written. It understood the area and saw the potential for a broad, food-based economy to match the landscape tourists already loved.
On paper, it was convincing. On the ground, there was a gap.
The economy was farming, fishing and seasonal tourism. It had declined steadily over generations, but culturally little had shifted. Cafés still closed on Sundays and Bank Holidays. The same people held the same jobs they always had. A large landowner still controlled much of the area. A local headteacher remarked, without irony, that “the children here aren’t going to amount to much.” Those with ambition tended to leave, rarely returning before their thirties, if at all.
There was no start-up support. The contracted business advice agency dismissed one-person businesses as “lifestyle” ventures. Community groups existed to meet social needs, but there was little visible economic leadership. Public transport was minimal. Distances were long. There were no large employers, and no infrastructure for food processing or distribution.
There was funding, targets and projected outcomes — but little in between. Recruitment for a Programme Manager repeatedly failed. Eventually, “he’ll do” became acceptable.
In a place where little had changed for decades, it was clear that money alone would not shift things.
What was actually missing
I began meeting people. A handful stood out — passionate, committed and capable, but working in isolation. They cared about the area and knew the problems first hand. What they lacked was a structure through which anything could move.
The area’s strengths were obvious: the landscape, the produce, and the loyalty people felt towards both. But distances made distribution expensive. Even if new producers were encouraged, there was no practical route to customers. Networking events would not solve that.
What was missing was somewhere for local producers to sell in a viable, low-risk way.
The Market Place was beautiful but underused. The existing Farmers’ Market required producers to invest upfront in stalls and canopies, all for a short tourist season. Something tangible needed to change.
The market licence
The Market Place could have been the centre of local trade, but the licence was held by someone with no interest in developing it. I was told this was insurmountable. The licence was issued by the local landowner’s Estate Manager — commercially minded and not especially interested in community development.
Through relationships built carefully and respectfully, I secured a meeting with the Estate Manager. I proposed a revised licence arrangement: community-led management of the Market Place on all days except Saturday. It would avoid conflict with the existing holder and offer economic benefit to the estate’s wider interests.
To do that, a new enterprise had to exist. So we created one.
Securing the licence was not just administrative. It changed the mood. It demonstrated that long-standing arrangements were not fixed forever.
Putting practical infrastructure in place
Once the enterprise held the licence, the rest could begin.
We recruited a Markets Manager to drive activity forward. We strengthened the existing Farmers’ Market and introduced additional produce markets during the tourist season.
We purchased market stalls and canopies to rent to producers so they did not need upfront capital. We experimented with rentable refrigerated units so food businesses could test demand before investing heavily.
We also designed a training programme — “Cash from Your Kitchen” — working with a supportive Environmental Health Officer and the Trading Standards Officer. Regulation was explained plainly. Requirements were translated into practical steps. Producers could ask questions without fear of being found “wrong”.
The aim was simple: reduce risk and lower the threshold to participation. People who had assumed food production required commercial kitchens and significant investment began to see a route in.
Creating a team that could move
I chose not to form a partnership of job titles drawn from existing organisations. That approach would likely have been slowed by history and local rivalries.
Instead, we built a small group of action-oriented individuals committed to delivery rather than position. That allowed pace and kept attention on the work.
Trust was built face to face. I met people on their own ground — farms, kitchens, small workshops. Each introduction led to another. The markets became visible proof that change was possible, without needing to be announced.
What remained
After I left, the markets continued operating and growing. The licence remained secure. The enterprise developed new leadership. The training model was replicable because it relied on local expertise rather than external consultants.
Most importantly, the system did not depend on me.
What this taught me
It clarified the difference between funding outcomes and building systems. Money isn’t enough on its own.
It showed me that physical infrastructure, however modest, can unlock confidence and participation. It reinforced that economic development is rarely about motivation; it is about reducing practical risk.
It also highlighted something often overlooked: the need to support the person on the frontline delivering change. Energy alone is not sustainable without structure behind it.
This project was not about writing reports or hosting events. It was about putting something real in place, so that change had somewhere to land. Once that existed, people did the rest
WHERE FUNDING MET REALITY
At a glance
- The situation: business support focused on plans, loans and outputs, not lived reality
- What I did: co-designed a locally embedded model with no fixed targets and strong network activation
- What changed: entrepreneurs accessed practical help earlier and more safely
- What remained: a replicable model showing the value of trust-based, place-led support
The context
A Programme Manager from the New Economics Foundation telephoned the charity I was working for, seeking introductions to community groups for a circular economy research project. As she described her work, I recognised much of it from my own experience supporting new self-employment. I had seen elements of a circular economy operating informally and was interested in the thinking behind it.
Our conversations continued. There was clear overlap between her research and my observations as a business coach. We were approaching similar questions from different starting points.
What I had observed
At the time, most business support focused on writing business plans to secure loans. The emphasis was on growth, scale and job creation. It favoured slow, capital-intensive start-ups and required formal documentation before an idea had been tested in practice.
This model suited banks and professional services. It was less helpful for sole traders and small family businesses who simply wanted to create work for themselves.
The requirement for a formal business plan created an academic barrier. It professionalised start-up in a way that excluded capable, practical people.
It also largely ignored struggling businesses. In my coaching work I had seen what happens when decline sets in: owners carry problems alone, health deteriorates, financial damage escalates. Closing a business is complex and can become unnecessarily costly and distressing if not handled early.
Yet most successful entrepreneurs are serial. Failure is not an exception; it is part of learning. What was missing was support that recognised the full cycle of enterprise — including difficulty and closure.
The design principle
I believed support should exist at every stage: start-up, growth, trouble-shooting and closure. Businesses should be able to test ideas in manageable steps rather than committing significant time and money before knowing whether there was demand.
The circular economy research offered a useful lens. In many communities, businesses already support one another informally — sharing contacts, recommending customers, exchanging services. That instinct could be strengthened deliberately.
We shaped a model around a simple idea: place a practical business coach on the ground, with no fixed outputs to chase and no agenda beyond the entrepreneur’s best interests. The coach would be embedded locally and respond to real situations rather than funding targets.
Alongside the coach, a local panel would exist — not to critique business plans, but to open doors, share networks and make introductions. Communities often contain people with extensive experience and connections: retirees, public sector leaders, small business owners. Many are willing to contribute when the purpose is clear.
The coach connected and removed obstacles. The panel unlocked access.
The emphasis was on practicality, not paperwork.
What made it different
Conventional support measures visible outputs: plans written, companies registered, jobs declared. These are easy to count but do not guarantee viability.
Removing rigid targets allowed the coach to focus on what was actually needed. Sometimes that meant helping a sole trader unload equipment. Sometimes it meant finding storage space — in one area, a business requiring storage was introduced to a farmer with unused barns. In another, a “clerk of works” model helped householders diagnose repairs properly before seeking quotes, saving time and improving local workmanship.
Support was immediate and specific.
Entrepreneurs were encouraged to find customers early, to test ideas cheaply, and to use local loyalty as a starting point. Where failure occurred, it could be addressed earlier and more safely.
In communities without large employers, where self-employment is often the only realistic option, this normalised enterprise as something practical rather than abstract.
Securing the pilot
Through conversations within NEF and government departments, an opportunity emerged to test new approaches to stimulating enterprise. A national pilot was created, supporting eight diverse areas.
The funder accepted that outputs would not be narrowly predefined and that evaluation would be largely qualitative. That represented a shift from conventional commissioning.
The partnership between a place-based regeneration charity and an economic think-tank provided credibility. The model was allowed to develop in context rather than being standardised.
What changed in practice
Coaches were able to act quickly and practically. Entrepreneurs accessed networks sooner. Collective purchasing reduced costs. Tradespeople gained work through introductions rather than advertising.
Each locality interpreted the model differently according to need. The flexibility was deliberate.
Businesses moved forward more quickly because obstacles were addressed in real time. Support was visible and human. Entrepreneurship felt more attainable.
Isolation reduced. Confidence increased. The network itself became a resource.
What this taught me
Rigid outputs can distort delivery, encouraging activity that satisfies reporting requirements rather than genuine need.
Freedom from narrow targets reduces paperwork but requires trust and thoughtful evaluation. In some cases, a simple conversation with the beneficiary reveals more than a spreadsheet.
Informal networks are often the most cost-effective resource available. A farmer’s unused barn can be more valuable than a grant.
In rural and deprived areas, enterprise and wellbeing are closely linked. When people feel supported, problems surface earlier and can be managed before they escalate.
This project reinforced my belief that support systems must reflect lived reality. Without that, funding risks circling around intention rather than impact.
MAKING CONNECTION PRACTICAL
At a glance
- The situation: deep isolation in a remote rural community, with no practical structure for adult connection
- What I did: designed a low-cost, self-sustaining cooking club built around existing routines
- What changed: reduced isolation, stronger peer networks, practical mutual support
- What remained: an informal, resilient support system not dependent on funding or hierarchy
When I lived in a very remote rural area, everyday life required planning and resilience. We were thirty-five miles from the nearest large supermarket. Villages numbered in the hundreds; market towns in the low thousands. Fields sat between everything. Bus routes were sparse. Cars were essential and expensive.
Butchers, bakers and banks were closing. Out-of-town retail was restricted to protect local traders, yet provision was shrinking.
Daily life for mothers revolved around the school run. There was no childcare, which meant no paid work unless family support existed. Parent-and-child provision was limited and professionally led. Sessions were short, term-time only, and often poorly aligned with school hours. Social Workers used the same buildings. Many mothers avoided attending for fear of being judged.
Evenings were not realistic for connection. Roads were long and dark. Full-time carers were exhausted by bedtime. In a traditional area, fathers were unlikely to assume evening childcare. Going out required preparing dinner, settling children, and leaving again. For single mothers, babysitting was often unavailable or unaffordable.
Isolation was not dramatic; it was steady. Days passed without adult conversation. Energy drained quietly.
This was not a lack of care. It was a lack of structure that fitted the realities of the place.
What was missing
There was no space where mothers could relax together without pressure. No place to talk, share skills and exchange reassurance without it feeling like a class or assessment.
Most importantly, there was no structure that worked with daily routines rather than competing with them.
Connection required time and energy that were already in short supply.
A practical design
The shift was simple.
Connection needed to happen while something useful was being done.
Cooking together met several needs at once. The evening meal was prepared. Children could play nearby. Conversation flowed naturally. Being busy with your hands allows for different kinds of discussion; more personal conversations often surface without the pressure of direct eye contact.
We used a village hall on a half-day rate, from morning school drop-off until early afternoon. Recipes were drawn from straightforward British cooking — nothing reliant on specialist ingredients unavailable locally. Costs, including hall hire, were shared equally. Everyone took the same portion home.
The group required no funding. A grant would have delayed the start, required a formal structure and bank account, and added unnecessary complexity. A weekly shop and shared contributions were sufficient.
Children played in the adjacent space and were visible through the kitchen hatch. They were supervised without constant intervention. Older children mixed with younger ones during holidays. Parents observed one another’s approaches and offered reassurance when needed.
Taking an evening meal home freed up time later. It removed one task from the day rather than adding another.
In effect, it was a small piece of social infrastructure, shaped deliberately around geography, childcare and energy constraints.
What changed
Relationships formed gradually. One particularly isolated mother found a steady support network and became more socially confident. Others began trying new things. A question such as “How are pork pies made?” led to shared research and experimentation.
Children had consistent playmates. Shared parenting norms developed informally. Support extended beyond the hall — beach trips, holiday activities and practical help organised collectively.
When one mother experienced serious personal difficulty, support was already in place.
The group did not depend on one organiser. If someone was absent, it continued. Administration was minimal and there was no formal hierarchy.
For some, the network enabled practical shifts — beginning a nursing degree, sharing childcare, regaining stability. Regular adult contact reduced reliance on external intervention for others.
What began as shared cooking became a network that mobilised quietly when needed — offering childcare, encouragement or simply company.
These were not measured outcomes. They were the natural consequences of reducing isolation through practical design.
Why it worked
It fitted around reality.
It did not compete with domestic responsibilities; it supported them. It did not require travel at night. It did not require funding beyond shared costs. It did not create committees or formal roles.
The structure was light. Shared responsibility meant no one carried it alone. Avoiding formal funding kept it simple and immediate.
The meal taken home made the time visibly worthwhile within households where women’s time might otherwise have been questioned.
The structure made participation easy. The relationships made it resilient.
What this taught me
Informal structures can be powerful when intentionally designed.
Projects can begin with little or no budget if shaped around existing behaviours.
Designing around constraints — school hours, feeding families, energy levels — matters more than designing around aspiration.
Practical activity facilitates conversation and builds confidence more reliably than discussion alone.
When connection is made workable, people build their own support systems.
This was not a funded programme. It was a modest intervention in a place where connection required design.