I gripe about the cost of a coffee from a market square van in the Cotswolds and think of the Italians taking to the streets as a stand-up espress jumps from €1 to €1.50. The little cup on the zinc, a glance around at the pass-throughs and the staff. I’ve known those places many years, the magic of a single coin laid down on the countertop and a golden minute in the company of strangers. I’ll know them again but some prices set your standard – pitons and mooring lines – and it’ll never be one honey coin and a gruff nod again, I’ll remember the change.