Stalls crowd every inch of this long, cobbled street, so close together that their canvas awnings overlap and turn the whole market into a kind of patchwork tunnel. Fishmongers shout over greengrocers, who shout over the man selling knives, who shouts over everyone. The ground is slick with things best not looked at too closely, and the air carries the mingled scents of salt, smoke and frying onions.

At the far end, the street gives way to the grey water of the harbour, where gulls wheel above the moored boats and wait for someone to drop something. Narrow alleys slip away between the warehouses on either side, and the market's near end comes out by the side door of Union Station.