A Morning at the Weekly Flea Market

Every Sunday, rain or shine, the car park behind the old Corn Exchange in Bury St Edmunds fills with tables, tarpaulins and trestle boards. By seven in the morning the first dealers are already walking the rows with torches, looking for overlooked pieces before the public arrives. The weekly flea market is a fixture of the town's rhythm, as regular as the church bells or the Saturday football.

Sellers pay a small pitch fee and set out whatever they have gathered over the week. House clearances bring boxes of kitchenware, old tools and framed prints. Some tables hold only vinyl records in plastic sleeves, while others are covered with costume jewellery, brass candlesticks and mismatched china. Nothing is new, and nothing has a fixed price. The morning is built on haggling, and most buyers know to offer less than the asking figure without causing offence.

Regular visitors arrive early with canvas bags and a list of things they hope to find: a replacement saucer for a 1960s tea set, a particular spanner size, a hardback copy of a childhood book. Some come simply to look, to walk the rows with a cup of tea from the catering van and listen to the low murmur of negotiation. The market is as much a social event as a shopping trip.

By midday the crowd thins. Sellers begin packing unsold items back into boxes and vans, and the car park returns to empty tarmac. A few late bargains are given away for a pound or two. Next Sunday, the same faces will return, the same tables will be set, and the search will begin again.