I have a funny little list in my head of things I've learned about moving to London that I might share here at some stage, in manner of Here is What I Learned in New York City. One of those things is that Saturdays in London (and this blog apparently, if the last two posts are anything to go by) are for food markets.
The Ropewalk/Maltby Street/Druid Street formation under the arches of the railway line to London Bridge is one such. It is crowded, but not quite as much of a tourist battle as Borough Market, and much more down to earth. Planks of wood are piled in corners and smoked salmon sides hang from antique coat stands – simple, artisanal, and satisfying.
Plummy chaps in Barbours and flat caps sell speciality chilli paste, the gin bar does a roaring trade at all hours, and in the French cafe at the end you can sit at communal wooden tables and drink fantastic coffee. If you're lucky, a French pastry chef in whites will appear with a plate of pale green marshmallow to pass around.
These days I have kind of come to accept the idea that when I wander around these places with a camera, everyone just assumes that I'm a tourist. The difficult part is when people ask me where I've come from, and I have to recalibrate, and remember to say that actually, here, London, is where I'm from. A whole new place.