When I lived near Westbourne Grove in London, I’d trawl the market stalls on nearby Portobello Road every Saturday. I’d return to my bed-sit laden with embroidered fabrics, vintage clothes, glass lampshades, crockery, books, records and, on one occasion, a bamboo flute that produced a sound a friend described as ‘mournful’.

In the 1970s Portobello Market wasn’t the wall-to-wall tourist scene that it is today and I rarely strolled its length without running into at least one person I knew.

Beneath the Westway, lodged between food caravans and stalls selling literature on the Women’s Liberation Movement, there were sometimes Jamaican steel bands playing, bringing grins to everyone’s faces with their lilting melodies. Further along the road, reggae music would boom through the open doors of West Indian households, people would lounge on front steps and the air was redolent with the scent of ganja.

I’ve visited markets in Sydney, Paris, Geneva and rural England, as well as the Camberwell Market in Melbourne. The Daylesford Sunday Market isn’t anywhere near as big as any of those but it has an energy that all good markets have. 

The setting is just below Wombat Hill, around the old Daylesford Railway Station which I’ll have to tell you about in another post. The stalls carry everything from skin-care products and candles to old tools, wool, hats, furniture, bric-a-brac, plants and dog meat. 

Eclectic to say the least, it’s a feel-good, down-to-earth place, good for an hour’s browsing on a Sunday morning.

We sometimes buy great bread from the Red Beard Bakery stall, but only if we’ve missed buying it on Saturday in town. Sometimes, too, we buy olive-oil based soap from the lady at the Cleopatra Soaps stall. The Soap Lady knows her stuff. Her soap is very mild and has the most beautiful soft perfumes. We usually have a chat if there aren’t too many people waiting to be served. 

Plant stalls are usually my downfall at markets, even when I’m determined to just look. I bought a South African lily, Spiloxene Capensis, which I wrongly assumed would be drought-tolerant. After further investigation, I’ve discovered that it grows in ’seasonally wet flats in the Cape region.’

It was flowering when I bought it, and I might have been so beguiled by its lovely flower that I didn’t hear the stall-holder tell me that it was a wetland plant. It hasn’t flowered since I brought it home, despite my tender ministrations and encouragements.   

The last time we went to the market, we were with visitors who were badly hung over after a late night involving too much wine. The market was hot, dusty and crowded, and the flies were out in force. Having shown restraint the night before, I had a good time but our friends looked a little peaky after half an hour of negotiating the crowds. We had to curtail our wanderings and retire to a comforting café.

It’s a strange place, the market site. Having a northerly aspect, on mild days it’s often freezing and on warm days it can be bakingly so. 

During summer, the best place is beneath the avenue of trees leading up the old railway station. The stalls there tend to be those of the market stalwarts who turn up in all weathers – even in the bitter depths of winter – to sell their wares.     

I love bumping into friends at the market, having a chat and catching up with goss. Sometimes the buskers there are worth listening to; sometimes they’re even surprisingly good.  

A couple of weeks ago we were privileged to hear an accomplished Apalachian-style folk trio, Flatfoot Henry, playing mandolin, fiddle and banjo.

If you get a chance to hear them, grab it. They’re a foot-stomping, high energy, low-tech combo who’ll make you want to dance, or at the very least tap your foot.

These days, whenever there’s a whiff of incense in the air, I’m drawn back to those youthful days spent trawling the market on Portobello Road. 

And while it wasn’t the Daylesford Sunday Market, it was good fun anyway.