I’D rarely been in a supermarket until I was around nine, when an Aldi opened up in the next town over. There was a J Sainsbury and an Iceland in Stockport, but those were for posh people, and for our family and most others nearby, entirely out of the question. The majority of our food came from the Farmfoods a bus ride away.

In the village where I grew up, between Lancashire and Manchester, our options were limited to a handful of tiny convenience stores, several takeaways, a bakery, a post office and more pubs than the rest of the amenities combined. You’d have had a hard time getting anything other than a loaf of bread if you were low on food. You can’t make a meal out of Space Raiders, Kola Kubes or an ice pole.

To eat properly required logistics and planning. Not easy when you have three small children, two jobs, no car and only one pair of hands to carry everything back on the bus from the next town. Not easy when if you wanted fresh veg instead of frozen, you also had to walk around the market stalls with the rest of your shopping. That’s what shopping was then: a whole day lost to planning, travel and execution. Upon visiting years after we’d left, I recall thinking how decadent it was that the next town over finally had an Asda. How luxuriant to have affordable food options that weren’t almost entirely frozen. How fancy to have vegetables that didn’t come from a tin.

The food we ate was basic but lovingly prepared. It wasn’t junk, but it wasn’t the best quality because it just wasn’t available. I’d never given it much thought until I moved back to Scotland, to a similarly sized place that had a Spar, a Nisa, a Co-op and a Tesco. We could eat well on my mother’s modest income, without her having to lose a whole day to “the big shop”. If we ran out of something, it wasn’t an issue – we could pop out for more. Freedom of living, in the most basic sense, that most of us who live close to shops take for granted.

When I returned to Scotland, I assumed that everyone had this sort of access to a shop. I’d assumed Scotland was more modern than that little pocket of north-west England I’d grown up in. It was only when I went not too much farther afield I realised there were places as cut-off from decent food as we were growing up – even more so.

If you have a car, living in these places doesn’t seem like such an issue. Or if you have internet access at home and can afford the minimum spend (usually £40) to order your food and have it delivered. But how many don’t?

For how many is that minimum spend grossly at odds with what’s in the bank account? How many people have to choose between the cost of a taxi ride home from a supermarket because there are too many bags to take on the bus, or spending that money on another meal?

Food deserts are still a reality for many people in Scotland. Communities across the country are still hamstrung by the legacy of post-war planning. Places that no longer have an industry to rely on, that exist as dormitory towns for those with cars who can afford to commute and to spend their money elsewhere. Places like the hamlet my elderly grandparents live in, with no shops and only a for-profit bus service that comes once an hour.

It’s damning that it’s still a struggle for so many people to access quality, affordable food. Especially in a country that produces some of the finest ingredients in the world.

It’s all very well telling people that they have to eat their five-a-day, spending money creating shiny resources that tell people what should be on their plates if they want to live long and healthy lives – but if they cannot access that food in the first place, then it’s money wasted. No-one should be limited to pricey packets and tins, but that’s what a week’s food is to far too many people.

If the Scottish Government is serious about tackling food inequality and improving health, then it needs to think about how to get food to the people first. Without addressing the root cause, the inability to access it in the first place, other initiatives are meaningless.