If you've lived in Pleasanton for a while, you know that a trip to the Farmer's Market is rarely just "a trip to the Farmer's Market".

It's more like a laid-back, hometown adventure; a low-key, provincial odyssey of sorts. Rain or shine, the market is held year-round, every Saturday on West Angela between Main and First streets from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m.

As a new Pleasanton Patch contributor focusing on local wellness resources and events, I wanted to experience this familiar ritual with the goal of sharing the adventure with readers.

In my first article for the Patch, I wanted to also try to broaden the scope of the concept of wellness to include more subtle aspects of enhanced quality of life. So, here we go.

Rain or shine, the Farmer's Market provides delicious fresh produce, baked goods, vegan fare and nuts.

At the same time, a trek to the market, at least for my family, is part of a well-planned and well-executed healthful activity—the walk to, from and through the market is a fun and accessible light workout that even the smaller legs in the family can handle.

All the while we gobble on some fresh strawberries, nuts, English peas, various pastries from the bakery booth. A beverage on the patio at Tully's square usually caps the ritual.

Although we live only about a 15-minute walk from the market, we sometimes drive at least part of the way. An easily exhausted and, in turn, almost certain to be crabby, six year old (my daughter, Erin) and bags full of heavy produce can be a great incentive to drive at least halfway down.

When we get to the downtown area, we meet with many friends, who are always great sources for chatter. On one recent Saturday afternoon, even grey skies discouraging some regulars from coming out, was no exception.

There was Bret Wilbur, who I met at a Chamber of Commerce after-hours event, later training both him and his wife Stephanie. His son, Drake and my son, Ian, 9, are classmates. Isabella is their daughter, Ian was her first crush.

We talked about work and coaching calisthenics, he's coaching Drake's junior football league team. Stephanie and I firmed up the date of Alisal Elementary's big February fundraiser, which she organizes  and where my band provided entertainment for the event last year and will again next year.

Going through the market, we enjoyed seeing and smelling all the colorful, crisp fresh fruits and veggies, and, of course, some people-watching.

My son, who recently traded his braces for a retainer, noticed that Rosie, the organic berry lady, had braces with black and orange rubber bands in honor of the SF Giants' current run for the World Series.

Rosie was warm and engaging and happy to give me a second toothy smile and confirm her Bay Area team spirit.

Further down the street, we saw the "Gay 90's ghost" from the Museum on Main's Ghost Walk tour, which we had gone on the night before.

Just as we were calling it a day at the Farmer's Market, we ran into a man and his daughter, who was part of our Ghost Walk group. My son and I went on the walk, leaving behind extra tickets at the museum after my daughter chickened out and decided not to go.

Standing by the benches behind the vendors, Rob (whose last name I didn't catch) talked about the great time we all had at the Ghost Walk. He mentioned the good fortune of  getting tickets for free after "some people who were not able to use" theirs.

He said, it must have been "Karma," since earlier that same day they found a man's wallet, and turned it into the post office to be mailed to the owner.

I smiled as he recounted his conversation with his daughter of when the tickets were given to them.  Karma, indeed.

The whole encounter reminded me of why I love the Farmer's Market and the general upbeat tone among the vendors and patrons, its assortment of charming and talented musical acts, and lively conversation with friends and acquaintances both old and new.

All these ingredients, for me, and thousands of others, combine to create a delicious soup of healthy positivity.

Dan Taylor runs the website TriValleyWellness.com.