The last few weeks of winter can feel like a real slog. We’ve powered through the darkest days, but the mornings are still frosty, the wind still bites, and I’m still pulling on what feels like seventeen layers before I dare step outside. My phone is full of pictures of friends – or even “internet friends” – swanning about in European sunshine, a frosty frosé in one tanned hand and a juice-dripping peach in the other. Meanwhile, here I am in my thermal socks, trying not to drip tea down my jumper.

Don’t get me wrong – I do love the comforts of winter. A hearty Sunday roast with all the trimmings, eaten by the glow of a crackling fire, is one of life’s simple pleasures. There’s satisfaction in slow-braised lamb shanks that taste even better the next day. But every now and then, I crave a sun-ripened tomato that has never known the clammy chill of cold storage.

Intellectually, I know the logic of eating seasonally. It makes sense in every way – better flavour, more nutrition, lower environmental impact. I also know that modern supermarket systems have trained us to expect strawberries in July and asparagus in January. It’s not that I’m immune to temptation; I’ve been known to grab a punnet of blueberries in mid-winter just because they were on special. But when you actually taste a supermarket tomato in August? Let’s just say it’s a pale imitation of its summer cousin – watery, woolly, and just a little bit sad.