Prose: describing a place

My prose piece, updated. I made a couple of minor changes, but I'm not entirely happy that I didn't get around to describing the tastes.

To the south of the West Orchard shopping centre in Coventry, sitting in the shadow of two vast concrete tower blocks which rise above everything else, is the quiet street of Market Way. It's out of the way of the big shopping centres, away from the bustling market and the lines of High Street stores – indeed, there are very few stores there besides a Poundland on one side and a titanic BHS on the other. In between these two retail giants there are silvery metal tables and chairs dotted around, gathering in pools like gossipy hens, because this is the place where the street vendors park their carts and ply their trade for the day.

As you approach from the north, where Waterstone's and Marks and Spencer do a roaring trade, you can see the quiet street, forest green wagons arranged on either side like a caravan stopping for the night. Progressing down the street tickles your nose with ever-changing scents: the sweet scent of slightly-undercooked, sugared batter from the donut cart; down to the warming, meaty smell of pork from the aptly-named Pork of the Town; quickly after that the strong smell of the German bratwurst cart's massive central charcoal fire, always a pleasure to stand by, sausage-in-a-bun in hand, as the cold days close in; following on once the strong charcoal scent leaves your sinuses, the falafel cart at the end bringing a touch of spice to the area, complemented by the freshness of the hummus and the smell of the herbs and spices used for their herbal teas.

Even at lunchtime the queues never rise above three or four people, outnumbered by the pigeons which mill around as aimlessly as the leaves on the ground and peck at pieces of dropped bread and biscuits. Compared to the surrounding streets and squares, Market Way is an oasis of calm, the sound of chattering shoppers in the distance blending with the blowing wind which hits you like a slap in the face, and the rustling of the trees and their bright green leaves, the only things in the street which are tall enough to catch the light which occasionally breaches the street through the gap between the tower blocks and the low roofs of the shops on either side.