I go to say that I’m sure he’s being modest, but he interrupts me, and I get the impression he’s embarrassed by the compliment. ‘Try a muffin, my mum’s the baking genius in the family.’

I unscrew the twist in the paper bag and take an orange-coloured muffin out. It’s in a black case with tiny orange Jack O’Lanterns all over it and ‘Roscoe Farm’ emblazoned on the bottom. ‘Branded bags and cake cases too?’

‘We sell this stuff on the market stall along with the pumpkins, and we have a huge bakery stand outside the pumpkin patch when it’s open to the public. My mum’s amazing in the kitchen, her goodies are very popular.’

I can see why. The top of the muffin is all cracked and sprinkled with powdered sugar. It looks like an artisan creation in a fancy bakery, and I almost feel guilty for pulling a lump off and popping it into my mouth. It tastes as good as it looks. The perfect blend of sweet and savoury, buttery, spicy, and warm, the case underneath heating my hand as I hold it. ‘Oh my god.’ I let out another orgasmic noise. Actually, that’s an unfair comparison because I’ve never enjoyed an orgasm as much as I’m enjoying this. It was worth the six-hundred-mile drive just for this muffin.

We’re coming up to his farm and I can see a light on outside, flooding the front with brightness. I can’t help pressing my forehead against the window for a closer look. Glenna is in the huge open driveway outside the farmhouse, and I can see signs leaning against walls and pumpkins piled everywhere. Noel honks the horn again and she stops what she’s doing and gives us a wave. The farmhouse looks as picturesque from up close as it looked in the distance, all old stone bricks and window boxes that were undoubtedly filled with flowers in the summer. There are double wooden gates open wide, and their tarmac driveway is a huge empty space, surrounded on the edges by freestanding stalls covered by orange and white striped awning and decorated with huge vases of brightly coloured autumn leaves.

Glenna is still waving as we pass by and leave her behind. ‘No Gizmo?’

‘You are joking, right? Gizmo doesn’t get out of bed at this time of day for anyone. He’ll saunter out when he’s ready, have some breakfast, a gentle walk, and then snuggle under his duvet on the sofa until lunchtime, and after that he’ll be dragged out to the fields with me while I work, and then snuggle on the sofa until teatime.’

‘Oh, bless him,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to see him again.’