There’s been no shortage of stories in the news recently about the pressure hospitality is under. I’m keen not to turn this journal into a depressing list of reasons why — no one needs that at this time of year.
But it has got me thinking.
Hospitality has always faced challenges, but the balance has shifted. Rising costs, national insurance, and now more recently with business rate rises. It’s left many independent operators understandably asking, what’s the point? When you love what you do and make enough to get by, that’s one thing. When that same love no longer covers the basics, many decide it’s time to step away.
And yet, despite all of that, I still believe hospitality is an industry we should be deeply proud of.
As soon as my legs were long enough to reach the pedals, I was put to work on the farm. But Mum and Dad were also keen that I earned elsewhere — to understand work in a different environment. My first proper job off the farm was in a pub at sixteen. It was hard work, especially those long, busy Sunday shifts, but I look back on it now with real fondness.
I remember spilling hot gravy over a lady on my first Sunday lunch and being calmly shown how to put it right. I remember a young Australian chef explaining how a dish was made, the different techniques used, which I am sure helped ignite my interest in food. I remember the team sitting down together after a busy shift for a drink, a laugh, and that feeling of having got through something together.
Hospitality has a unique way of teaching you how to deal with people, how to roll your sleeves up, and how to handle tough moments as a team. That feels like a pretty incredible education for a young person. As work becomes more isolated, physically and socially, I do sometimes joke that a job in hospitality should be part of national service. It builds resilience, empathy, and a sense of shared effort.
But hospitality doesn’t just shape the people who work in it. From the other side of the counter, small independent cafés, pubs and farm kitchens quietly become something else entirely.
You notice it in the number of conversations you overhear without really listening. In the regulars who come for more than food. In the mums and dads killing an hour after the school run, the retirees meeting friends, the freelancers tapping away on laptops, the walkers warming up, the people who just need to be around others without having to explain why.
Hospitality is often one of the last easy places to belong.
I was reminded of this recently on a trip to Cirencester, where a beautiful business, The Old Department Store, has been turned into a community hub, reclaimed furniture, a second-hand library, and a bustling café filled with people who you felt really appreciated being among others. Places like that matter more than we sometimes realise.
I never tire of conversations or emails from people telling us how Hartley has helped them at a particular moment in their lives. A young mum finding her feet. Someone recovering from illness, enjoying a quiet corner and a good coffee. Small moments, perhaps — but meaningful ones.
As we hear more talk about automation, AI and efficiency, and how policy seems to be changing to support that, I hope we don’t lose sight of the value of truly people-oriented businesses. Not everything that matters can be optimised. Some things exist simply to bring people together — and that, especially in winter, feels like a small joy worth protecting.