Noel stops at a covered stall, a series of long trestle tables in a backwards L-shape with a wide space in front of it, bright orange awning emblazoned with a big Roscoe Farm logo and ‘Pumpkins’ in swirly calligraphy doodled underneath. I stand on the flagstone floor and have a look around while Noel shouts good morning to other traders in our lane and greets them with a wave and a smile.

It’s a good spot. One lane back from the front entrance, just enough for a bit of protection from the elements, easily visible from both side entrances, and on the corner before the market opens out into a much larger space with many more stalls. In the chaos of set-up time, I catch sight of a Scottish souvenir stall, a used bookseller, a baker whose scent of freshly baked bread has wafted through the building, a handmade jewellery stall, and a cheese seller offering chutneys and crackers along with a selection of locally made cheeses.

Noel pulls the cover off the bed of his truck, uncovering wooden crates which are so packed with pumpkins that they’re spilling over the edges. ‘Do you think you brought enough?’

‘It would be a good day if I didn’t,’ he says, completely missing the sarcasm.

‘Can I help?’

He grunts as he sets the first crate down in front of the back table. ‘Pick the best ones and display them along the back of the stall. The side area is for baked goods.’

I crouch down beside the crate and wonder what on earth constitutes a ‘best’ pumpkin. He unloads another two crates and puts them next to the one I’m still poring over. He stops on the way to get a fourth one and leans down beside me, plucking one I’d already rejected from the crate with one hand and plonking it onto the table with a thud. ‘That’s a good one. It’s not a nuclear chemistry exam, just grab anything. All defects make interesting features to a pumpkin carver’s eye. People like the dodgiest-looking ones.’

He hefts yet another crate from the truck and dumps it on the ground next to the others. I pick a random pumpkin from the second crate, examine it for anything that could be defined as an interesting feature, and plonk it quickly onto the table to show him that I’m not completely useless.

The fourth crate of pumpkins seems to be the last, because he moves onto another crate, and this one smells so good that I can tell what it is before he’s even pulled the cover back. It’s full of pumpkin spice muffins packed in boxes of two, individually boxed pumpkin cupcakes with buttercream swirls, wrapped sugar cookies in the shape of pumpkins and iced with orange icing, bags of roasted, salted pumpkin seeds, and jars of pumpkin ginger jam and pumpkin orange marmalade with handwritten labels and gingham tops.