When other adolescents were pestering for Playstations and iPods, I was launching my own personal campaign for what I perceived to be the present to outdo all bygone gifts of birthdays past; chickens. On the eve of my fifteenth birthday, Florence and Gertrude arrived in their ergodynamic lime green coop, courtesy of Omlet (a nifty little company that provides chicken houses for those agriculturally inept). I have been a poultry enthusiast ever since, nurturing an array of feathered friends, from Rhode Island Reds to Pekin Bantams, all from the comfort of my own garden.

As hard as it is to believe, I have found few things in life more satisfying than collecting warm eggs, fresh from the nest, nor more exciting than when your hen lays her first. With this mindset, it’s safe to say that both my heart, and stomach, is in the country. Summers meant gluts of courgettes and salad leaves, picking blackberries in the surrounding undergrowth until my fingers stained burgundy, and my father shouting blue murder when the kids kicked his runner beans over at the allotment. I thrived as a child on fresh air and exercise, assembled in Hunter wellies and Barbour jackets, despite living just on the outskirts of the M25 and having never been hunting, shooting or fishing. But none of that seemed to matter when summer dishes could be assembled from little more than home laid eggs and home grown produce.

This relationship with food seemed second nature, but I never truly understood its attraction or ability to turn city dwellers misty eyed with delirium, until I moved to London myself.

The growing fascination with consuming and supporting local produce has accumulated in the coining of the term locavore, defined by the Oxford dictionary as a person whose diet consists only or principally of locally grown or produced food. Whilst this was once as easy as home baked chicken pie, sustaining the stomach of a locavore is nigh on impossible in regions of London riddled with establishments obsessed with Kentucky frying. Short of roasting up a rat kebab or escargot a la Abbey Road, I’m stumped as to what the wilds of the Camden district could offer in the way of tasty treats. Experts have indicated that the Thames is heaving with edible salmon and trout, which, whilst reassuring given that Nuclear waste is currently contaminating canned fish of Japanese origin, still doesn’t float my boat. My outdoor space is strictly limited to a North facing window box, where I initially envisioned a bountiful herb garden, until I reasoned I’d rather eat shrinkwrapped Thyme and Rosemary that hadn’t been peppered with the fumes of the No. 31 bus route.

I’m not alone in craving apples that have less of an impressive passport than I, or eggs that have been laid fewer than ten metres from the pan in which they’re scrambled. The promise of local produce has proven so enticing to gourmet diners that one in five restaurants have resorted to lying about the provenance of their ingredients to pull in the punters, according to recent research by the Local Government Regulation.

So what’s a bumpkin to do when removed from its natural habitat and roaming the concrete jungle? The first port of call for any budding locavore in the confines of London has to be the farmers’ market. Forget yoghurt fanciers and tree huggers, your local farmers’ market is likely to be thriving with yummy mummys and urban foodies, who take great delight in buying spuds speckled with dirt and count Emmerdale as their closest encounter with the countryside. London hosts some of the most spectacular farmers’ markets in the country, so it’s no surprise that there is an online site devoted to providing information on them, from opening times to locations; www.lfm.org.uk. “As certified famers’ markets increase in number around London, people can shop more readily at places where there is produce which is assured as being produced locally,” affirms Arthur Betts, a representative from the London Farmers’ Market website.

Betts is a great advocator for the benefits of buying food locally, and convinces me that it is possible to be a London locavore. “Much of the food at farmers’ markets will have been picked the day before,” he explains, “Produce has travelled less of a distance, and you can build up positive relationships directly between the customer and the producer of food.”

Sceptics of the origin of supposedly local produce can trust markets certified with farming body FARMA, who ensure that the little piggies going to market aren’t too far away from the little piggies that stayed at home. It also provides the best resource for information on fantastic farm shops, and pick-your-own farms if you fancy getting your green fingers busy.

With Betts’ advice fresh in mind, I trot off to Borough Market, which has got to be one of the most famous in London. Taking guidance from Borough Market veterans, I pitched up at 9.30am on a Saturday to avoid the crowds, though Thursdays and Fridays can also provide a more relaxed time to browse.

It’s fair to say I made more trips to the cash point than tested “Try Me” tasty morsels for the duration of my Borough Market stay, replenishing my purse at every opportunity. Lulled into a false sense of security through engaging directly with the stallholders, I’d naively assumed that the source of my purchases couldn’t be too far away. Discounting my loose leaf Earl Grey tea and olive punnets as obvious foreign invaders into my otherwise patriotic bag of produce, I analysed the provenance of my other groceries on my return home. The delicious olive focaccia had been baked in Whitechapel, and the free-range eggs had been laid not too far away, in Essex. The worst culprits were two fillet steaks and a slab of duck and pistachio terrine, which had come from famed butcher, the Ginger Pig. Their farms are located over two hundred miles away, in Yorkshire, but I was happy to momentarily part with locavore ideology for the peace of mind that the animals I was eating had experienced an unrivalled quality of life.

Back on the hunt for the most convenient ways to shop well within the nearby vicinity, I stumbled across an abundance of possibilities for even the most stringent of London locavores. Hubbub.co.uk offers an ingenious service in delivering food direct to your door from your neighbouring independents, providing seasonal produce and supporting the community local to you. Bigbarn.co.uk also encourages eating locally, with the ability to search for independent food retailers close by, and an online marketplace to buy local produce with just the click of a button. The choices for comestibles are endless; the only restriction depends on how near, or far, you want your food to have travelled.

But for locavores who like their food so local that it’s practically sitting beneath their nose, they need look no further than brand spanking new cuisine concept, Farm:. Commercial farming in the deepest depths of the city might seem an outlandish idea, but Farm: makes it possible by converting derelict buildings into mini agricultural havens, with vegetable plots aplenty and chickens running amuck on the roof.

“What makes it challenging in the city is that there is a large population of people wanting a huge amount of food,” explains Paul Smyth, founder of Farm:, “The large number of people combined with the small space makes ultra local food hard to come by.” Through support from Hackney council, 20 Dalston Lane has been transformed into a hub of rural activity. “We feel there is a margin for consumers who want to be able to see where their food is being grown… what we are trying to do is bring locality to the forefront of people’s minds.”

20 Dalston Lane is an example of what could happen if locavores were let lose on vacant spaces around the city; food factories in each district, providing fresh fruit and vegetables just a swedes throw away. Smyth’s vision, if rolled out across London, could bring locality back into the food chain. “The next step for people is to grow small amounts of food in their garden, or join a community like Farm:,” concludes Smyth. It really is that simple.

Eating local isn’t just for asparagus fondlers or martyrs of sandals and socks; it can be a slick, smooth urban operation with a little bit of effort and know how. Anyone who is convinced local food tastes no better than that imported from Timbuktu has clearly never had the pleasure of sticking their nose into a paper bag of tomatoes, freshly picked and warmed in the sunshine. There is something truly gratifying about going loco for local, not just in the smug satisfaction of growing your own, but also in supporting the independents in your community. Don’t be a slave to the Tesco trolley; even in the city, you can spark up a conversation with your neighbourhood butcher, devote a patch of your garden to radishes or better yet, buy some chickens. You’ll never look back.