OK, it's time to address the elephant in the bakery section.

Here’s the deal: we’ve had to make the tragic, reluctant decision to stop baking our delicious, universally loved bread. I know, I know. We’ve all heard the rave reviews: "Best bread ever," "I’ve never tasted crust like this," "This loaf changed my life." Trust me, we know. But we said we’d give it a year to see if it was viable, and now, a year later, the numbers are in. Turns out, people will rave about the bread all day long—but it takes far too much time to make it all. It’s all handmade after all. So, no more bread. If you’re still reading this, I hope you’ve got tissues handy because the mourning period starts now.

But we have the shop, and that’s the dream, isn’t it? To be that charming shopkeeper from a nostalgic BBC drama, standing behind the counter, knowing everyone’s business (mainly because they tell you far too much while buying their cheese), chatting with lovely old Mrs. Jenkins about the weather—which, let’s be honest, has been rubbish since… well, forever. And alright, so we’re not exactly rolling in cash. In fact, we’re barely folding it. But there’s something about it, something about running your own little shop—even when the rain is falling and there is no one in town— that keeps us going. It’s not particularly glamorous, but you do feel like part of the town, part of the community, part of something, even if that "something" is just the daily crossword and a chat with the delivery guy.

And let’s face it, there’s always that tiny, ridiculous glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, today will be the day we actually make decent money. Plus, if we close up shop, where would Mrs. Jenkins get her biscuits? Exactly. I mean, I’m basically holding the community together, one Shah Ginger biscuit at a time.

We look forward to seeing you all soon!

Phil and Julia