Porchetta, Sort of

We keep returning to the same farmhouse, in a remote corner of Umbria, not densely populated and almost devoid of tourists. Market days seem to change somewhat capriciously. We have driven thirty or forty kilometres over precipitous rough-tracked roads to discover that there is no market because it is only fortnightly now or has moved to Wednesdays. Just as bad, some of the markets consist only of miles and miles of cheap clothes and household goods, at the end of which may be a couple of vegetable stalls and one selling admittedly rather good cheese. There is one huge consolation to these somewhat disappointing forays: there will almost always be a porchetta van. I am happy to queue for these slices of roast pork, often packed into a bun or simply sliced and wrapped in paper, with some of the contents actually making it back home for lunch.