Florence's San Lorenzo markets finger their way from the main square into the surrounding streets, overwhelming the air with the smell of leather. By midday crowds fill every space between, around and even behind the stalls (where even more leather shops hide). Elbowing my way through the throngs, it took but a mere glance towards a coat or bag for an instant barrage to begin as the stall owner offered ‘the best bargains in all of Florence’. I felt so hassled walking through them I had no desire to buy a thing.

Luckily, my destination was a different market, the Mercato Centrale. Hiding behind the leather markets of San Lorenzo, these are Florence's main food market. Despite being housed in a huge building, I had to keep an eye open for a sign pointing the way.

Within, the smell of leather is replaced by the smells of fresh food. Stall upon stall are filled with the most amazing meats, vegetables, cheeses, breads, coffee… everything. Foods I didn’t recognise. Fish I’ve never seen, delectable cuts of meat. One cheese shop offered six different types of pecorino. The stall owners were happy to sell me just a few tomatoes, or a couple of pork, fennel and orange sausages. From other stalls I added some fresh bread, olives, cheeses and some delicious peaches. (I’d first discovered these peaches in a market in Naples: squashed and misshaped, they are the most delectable I’ve ever eaten.) Plus, cherries were in season.

There are also places to eat here, offering the freshest food in season. Locals sat crowded around the tables, washing the food down with local wine. Florentines know how to live.

Instead, my daughter and I returned to our AirBnB, which was an apartment above the markets. Of a morning I’d brew my coffee then watch the stalls being set up as I drank my espresso; of an evening, the opposite would happen. With the owners trundling their stalls across the piazza to be stored nearby. As dusk fell and oranges tinged the sky, swifts would fill the sky as they returned home to a skyline of terracotta roofs and chimneys.

When in Rome… we returned to our apartment, where I grilled the sausages as my daughter made a salad. As the sausages cooked we dipped the fresh bread in olive oil the colour of freshly mown grass while sipping on a glass of light red.

All this followed by the most perfect of Italian traditions: siesta.

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