‘They’ve picked her out to be the next Queen of the May. That’s my neighbour’s youngest, Katie. Butter wouldn’t melt to look at her, but a right little minx she can be. Her mum will be thrilled, though.’

‘How exciting for her! They never had anything like this where I was brought up. It’s a lovely tradition.’

I took out my phone and began to snap away, when an elderly man in front of me turned and shot me a disapproving look.

‘Bad luck that,’ he remarked tersely.

‘Pardon?’

‘Taking a picture of the three of them like that. Won’t end well for the one in the middle, you mark my words.’

Baffled, I turned to the woman I had spoken to for an explanation and she wrinkled her nose. ‘There’s some folk believe that if you take a photo of three people together, the one in the centre will soon die,’ she said in a lowered voice. ‘I think it’s codswallop, but maybe best not tempt fate, eh?’

The man continued to glare at me, so I put away my phone and hooked my arm through Jack’s.

‘Let’s go and see what they’re selling on the stalls. I fancy a nice cake to have with a cup of tea later.’

Hand in hand, we milled around the green for a couple of hours, attracting curious looks from some of the locals. But the atmosphere was vibrant, the sky a glorious blue, and I was revelling in our new surroundings. It hardly seemed possible that this was all being laid on only a stone’s throw from our front door. The smell of frying onions and doughnuts filled the air, fuelling my appetite. There were stalls selling a variety of mouth-watering goodies, and wine from a local vineyard, which I would have loved to sample. Instead, I bought a warm samosa to stave off the hunger pangs, and for later, a homity pie, a huge home-made chocolate sponge and some blackcurrant jam.

I suddenly had the suspicion I was being watched and turned to catch one woman staring across at me from a stall selling scented candles, various polished stones and handmade Gothic-looking jewellery. Instead of averting her eyes, she continued to observe me unnervingly.

‘I’m just going to have a look over there,’ I told Jack, who had sparked up a conversation with a dapper elderly man in a tweed three-piece suit, trying to drum up interest in a variety of gins from a small local distillery. Attempting to look casual, I wandered towards the woman, who was still watching me. Maybe she thought she recognised me from somewhere.

‘Hello. Do I know you?’ I ventured.

The woman appeared suddenly flustered and her mouth dropped open. She was around forty, dressed in a sort of kaftan, with short dark hair framing her elfin face and a tattoo depicting a crescent moon in scrollwork winding around her wrist.