The market opens at seven, and the best stalls are half empty by nine. I go early, with two cloth bags and no list, and let whatever looks best decide the week’s cooking.

In late summer that means tomatoes in every colour, beans by the kilo and the first apples. In winter it is roots and cabbages and a baker who sells rye loaves heavy enough to stop a door.

The real pleasure is talking to the people who grew it. Ask how to cook something you have never tried and you will get a recipe, a warning and usually a free sample. Ask what is good this week and you will be told the truth, even when the answer is “nothing, come back in a fortnight”.

I walk home with too much, and spend Saturday afternoon making it into soups, pickles and lunches for the days ahead.