The night market

At the moment it’s 30 degrees in the shade and every market is an endurance test. We sup from frozen bottles of water and watch to see which wilts first the brittle holiday good humour of the tourists or the optimism of the trader attempting to sell flowers. Bouquets swoon the moment the sun hits them and shoppers stumble from stall to stall in a befuddled haze. No doubt visitors have heard about the famous markets of Provence - the wonderful linen, the fruits and the herbs - and feel that a market needs to be ticked off like a visit to the Palais de Pape or a glimpse of a white horse in the Camargue. But in August browsing in a market is for the masochistic - sensible shoppers grab their vegetables and head for the pool.

Thankfully there is an alternative. We’ve just started doing Cucuron night market. It’s a little like an evening at the theatre. The play starts in the cool of the day just before night falls and there are several acts, which gradually build to a dénouement.

Early on smoke rises from an empty grill, traders squabble over access to electricity, and a thin stream of people take their seats in the cafes. The smell of moules simmering in a drum, seasoned with parsley and cooked in wine drifts across the square. Tables of games - giant chess and miniature skittles - are set up and the punishing sun falls below the old village walls.

The crowds swell driven from villas and old village houses by the cool evening air. An illuminated corridor of stalls fringes the etang, reminding us of the Christmas market and how we sold mulled wine, clapped our hands for warmth and pulled our Santa Hats low over our ears. Now we’re in shorts and the main worry is how quickly the ice for our rosé will melt.

Rickety tables and chairs emblazoned with the name of the village, quickly fill with people clasping plastic plates full of food - aromatic lamb seasoned with the local herbs and served with a fragrant couscous or spicy Merguez sausages smothered in mustard and crammed between bread.

We sell wine by the glass and listen to the music bouncing around the streets - the flamenco dancers twirl by the etang, the horn of a brass band keeps a jaunty tune together, and the staccato beat of tribal drums echoes from a distant café. Small girls weave at speed between adults trailing nostalgia as the hems of their flowery dress rise high in the breeze.

Meals are finished, a jazz band floats on the lake and men in linen trousers and pressed flowing shirts clasp their partners hand and stroll amid the spot-lit stalls - examining leather handbags and sparkling jewellery - unaware that they’ve become part of the show. And then one by one as midnight approaches the crowds thin, leaving us, the traders to count the money and take down the stage. Islands of light remain around the etang, but with a final clunk the power is pulled and the vans move in.

It’s the best show in town and it’s free.