The tree is groaning, branches touching the ground with the weight of fruit. We inherited a Bramley apple tree here, the British cooking apple which has come to reign supreme, usurping many other venerable culinary apples such as Blenheim Orange and Bismarck. In the nineteenth century a butcher called Bramley bought a cottage in Southwell, where he found a young apple tree. Cuttings from this tree were then cultivated and sold commercially, with Bramley insisting they bore his name. The original apple pips had been planted by a young lady gardener called Mary Ann Brailsford: her views on the subsequent success of the apple are unknown. And that success is down to the perfect golden-yellow fluff that the apple becomes when cooked: too tart to be eaten as a dessert apple, the flesh evanesces under heat to become a perfumed appley cloud, useless if you want the fractal perfection of circled apple slices for French-style tarts, but sublime for pies, cobblers and crumbles, and of course the obligatory accompaniment in this country to roast pork.
Apples have grown in this country for as long as language stretches back. Both Celtic and Cornish have words for the fruit, pre-dating the Romans, but most likely referring to the hard, sour indigenous crab-apple (malus sylvestris). Along with many other Roman refinements for this small soggy island on the outer edges of their empire, the invading legions brought different varieties of apples, resulting from the discovery of grafting and budding as means of diversifying fruit types from the East. By the Middle Ages, apples were widely cultivated here both for dessert and cider production, with a record of the old English Pearmain from 1204, and a culinary apple called the Costard sold in Oxford markets in 1296. Both types have now sadly disappeared, though the Costard lives on in the word “costermonger”, used now to describe market sellers in general, but then reserved for the purveyors of those fruits. As Neil describes in his piece on Tom Putt, we are now establishing some of the old varieties of apples here, taking advantage of - if not a surge - then certainly a swelling interest in countering the monoculture dominance of ten or so aggressively commercialised varieties (Braeburn, Granny Smith, etc). Meanwhile, I have no wish to do away with my Bramley - mainstream it may be, but it is still a glorious crop this year, with more than enough for us and the birds, wasps, hedgehogs and voles who also enjoy this glut.
Other parts of the garden are also in over-abundance. For years in the Gulf, we have looked and read enviously of the bumper crops of late summer, of all the problems of what to do with too many [insert fruit or vegetable of choice], of the myriad recipes and freezing tips, and of neighbours pretending to be out as you approach their door bearing another basket of lovingly harvested tomatoes/courgettes/beans/potatoes. And now, mid-glut, and for the first time in six months, here I am by myself. No vegetarian-leaning teenagers with insatiable appetites here now, and Mr Crossley, chief purchaser of vegetable seeds and guardian of the potager, back basking in the sunshine of the UAE. With a trim to remove the dying leaves, the squash are perfectly happy curing gently in the September sunshine, and the carrots have a while to go yet, but the beetroot and beans are about as big as you want them to be. Roasted with woody herbs and good olive oil, they are delicious - even every day of the week. I also had my first run in with the artichokes this week, when the preparation for steaming made me realise just how sharp the prickles on those those tough outer leaves can be. Pliny called the choke one of Earth’s monstrosities, but for what is essentially a giant thistle, it has the most delicious flavour and is more than worth a little preparation pain.
Unbroken sunshine has also meant a continuing gallery of insects, all busy in their own ways stoking up on energy rich foods. A few weeks ago we had clouds of peacock butterflies; now it is the small whites who dance over the garlic chive flowers, and a small copper arrived on the verbena bonariensis for replenishment. Speckled woods and commas have also popped up, confirmation hopefully that we are on the right track with the organic planting.
The bees and hoverflies continue to feast on the dahlias and golden marjoram surrounding the terrace. Most days I go out to deadhead the dahlias (both to extend flowering times and to reduce the weight on the plants) but end up leaving flowerheads untouched after finding bees dozing peacefully in them. Much better in my book to have a well fed, well rested bee than a tidy plant.
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