Imagine being a child and growing up in a Greek town where each neighbourhood had its butcher, fishmonger, greengrocer. Where a trip to buy fruit and veg would turn into a magical walk full of colours and the scent of fresh, ripen produce. Where a quick visit became a 15-minute chat with the shop owner, because he knew you and everyone else in the area in person and by their first name and because of that he could point you towards the perfect cut of meat, fish, ingredients to make the required recipe. Imagine a visit to the grandparents turning into a tree-climbing game to pick up those delicious apples, those sweet oranges, those juiciest of mandarins, the deepest purple of cherries. Where helping grandma with cooking meant you got to sneakily try the new cheese she made, or the succulent olives she picked up from her olive grove, or the tastier tomatoes in the world she cultivated in her back yard. Imagine getting the flu and drinking the most aromatic mountain tea your mum has made, from the dried herbs she picked up during one of her country walks. Or being told off for eating that rubbish from a fast food restaurant.