It’s 37 degrees, and the Thai summer sun is beating down from a near-cloudless sky. As my ride drives away, I shade my eyes from the blinding light, and take in the scenery from under a cashew tree, its bright red fruits drooping down generously from above.

Depending on who you are, the word ‘bergamot’ is likely to elicit different associations. If you’re a tea-lover, maybe it’s the delicate aroma of Earl Grey tea. If you’re into perfume, perhaps it’s the warm citrus groves of Calabria. If you were around in mid-1980s Thailand - it’s probably the popular anti-hair-fall shampoo.

As a child growing up in New Zealand, I would always look forward to the days when we would host dinners for our Thai family friends. I would invariably be sent to the pantry to retrieve a coveted can of jackfruit, or khanun, and be in charge of releasing the soft, yellow, fleshy ear-shaped fruits from their syrupy metal prisons.

On a clear day in Mae Kon, Chiang Rai, we pass through a mysterious iron gate opening onto a long, tree-lined path. Discovering ourselves ensconced in lush farmland, interwoven with centuries-old virgin forest - we ascend a small lychee-tree-covered hill, to find Khamdaeng – a fair-skinned lady nearing her 50s – about her work in a humble, but spotless, kitchen. With no makeup, her long, black hair in a pony tail - the beauty of her youth still glows through the smile lines around her eyes.