‘I do. Thank you,’ I say, knowing exactly where to find them. They’ll be in the ‘pub’, more British than French now, with seating in the middle of the square under the plane trees by the church. A glorious setting with prices to reflect it. It was Ollie’s favourite, too. ‘But I think I’ll be here until we pack up at midday,’ I say.

‘Hope you smash it!’ she says, and wishes me good luck. ‘Au revoir,’ she adds, and walks on without buying anything. Henri is standing in his doorway, wiping his hands on the tea towel tucked into his white apron, which is tied around his gently rounded middle. He smiles, then urges me to get back out there and start selling again. So I do.

The morning passes quietly and I sell about half of my stock, in little clear freezer bags. I pop a sprig of lavender into each one. I plan to get paper bags soon and some stickers made with ‘Le Petit Mas de la Lavande’ on them to underline that my bakes are from a lavender farm. I’m not making a fortune today, but at least I have some money to live off and next week I’ll try to extend my range.

The church clock chimes, signalling midday. The stallholders start to pack up, giving last-minute reductions and making end-of-the-day sales, then head for the café off the car park, which will be full of people greeting each other, shaking hands, kissing, chattering, the smell of cooking, and jugs of wine. Even Henri’s little bistro has filled up and he is taking orders and serving customers with his dish of the day. Every now and again he looks over to see how I’m doing. I give him a nod and a smile.

‘You’re selling?’ he asks, as he brings me another coffee. ‘Did it go like hot cakes?’

I thank him profusely for the coffee, and when he won’t take any money, I offer him a biscuit instead. Suddenly I’m nervous again. What was I thinking, offering a French chef one of my home-baked biscuits? The tray I’m holding wobbles as my hands shake. From the main square I hear the shouts of stallholders as they manoeuvre their vans.