Breakfast this morning consisted of marmalade on brown bread. I don’t think I’ve eaten marmalade for about three years. Not since before my mother died anyway.

She was the marmalade queen. Her preferred variety was Fruitfield Old Time Irish Coarse Cut. That’s got big chunky bits of peel in it. I spent my growing-up years loving marmalade, but always picked out the chunks. My mother wouldn’t hear of buying the fine cut.

I have the fondest memories of her sitting in her sun porch looking out at the magnificent Atlantic with her daily ritual breakfast of tea, toast and marmalade.