a71Issue 58 October 2008
hile as a rule we
don’t like to blow
Wour own trumpet
here on our small island, there are
many things we excel at in the
United Kingdom. Stately homes,
seaside towns, Sunday roasts and
real ale are just a few proud boasts
that spring to mind. Yet there’s
one thing we’ve led the way in
for centuries, and that’s the art
of apple growing.
There are few experiences more British
than walking through a softly scented
orchard with dappled autumn sunshine
shining through the leaves. And in our
region, the climate is perfect for growing.
I’m not lucky enough to have my own
orchard, but I do look out onto two small
apple trees in the garden, one with cooking
apples and one with eating apples. Some years Sadly our age-old apple growing traditions are
there are very few on either, whereas other years, under threat, as a result of cheap imports from
I can’t pick them quickly enough. New Zealand and the USA. The perfectly round,
Not being an expert, I can only put this down unblemished variety is invariably favoured by
to weather conditions. Despite the rainy summer, many supermarkets over our own historic and
however, this year’s crop is respectable, while as tasty, yet sometimes imperfect offerings.
ever in October, the hedgerows near our house Thankfully there are several growers in our
are also groaning with the weight of blackberries. region alone who are bucking the trend and
The first apple and blackberry crumble – my thriving in these uncertain times. Turn to page
favourite British pudding – always symbolises the 52 to read their stories.
end of summer and the beginning of long winter And once you’ve digested that, next time you
nights, roaring log fires and frosty mornings. It’s fancy biting into an apple this autumn, support
so simple to make, filling the kitchen with the our regional growers by making sure it’s the
aroma of autumn, and of course it tastes just product of a British orchard!
fantastic with a dollop of ice cream and hot
custard. (I’m beginning to sound like Sean
Bird here, aren’t I?!) llaf
re
at
eni
her Wat
C
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