Forget stockpiling – I’m going to be growing my own, post-apocalypse

It is not that I doubt that post-brexit Britain will be the bravest of new worlds, surpassing the most sanguine prognostications of its advocates. But something is troubling me. A spark of anxiety, kindled by the gloomy musings of farmers and fishermen about their perishable foodstuffs, was fanned into full-blown misgiving by Mrs May’s use of the “S” word. We should, the Prime Minister said, take comfort from Government plans to stockpile food for a no-deal Brexit, as “we don’t know what the outcome is going to be”.

I find myself inexplicably uncomforted. Like Winniethe-pooh, my mind turns frequently to food – but while Pooh might have rejoiced at the sight of a store cupboard containing an ample supply of honey and condensed milk, I do not think I could be happy for long on a diet of tinned lentils, sardines and tomatoes, excellent though these things are in their way.

As the British Retail Consortium has pointed out, it is not possible to stockpile fresh produce. And while I remain unmoved by the prospect of a dearth of guavas or Mexican asparagus, I dread a potential shortage of those unglamorous but comforting staples: potatoes, onions, cabbage, carrots and leeks.

But if the spectre of food shortages (not to mention reports of contingency plans for the Army to deliver emergency supplies) conjure thoughts of wartime rationing, perhaps there is another, more creative wartime solution to empty supermarket shelves: self-sufficiency.

Twenty-first century notions of self-sufficiency tend towards the dilettante – garlanded with lyrical prose and Instagrammable pictures. The contrast with accounts by people for whom it was a necessity, rather than a picturesque hobby, can be startling. I am fairly certain that the accounts of gathering edible weeds by that redoubtable forager-cook, Patience Gray, in Honey from a Weed, her classic memoir of fasting and feasting, are more nourishing to read about than to emulate. And while a dish of pasta with cockles foraged from the Helford river remains one of the most memorable meals of my life, I wonder if the recipe for limpet fritters recorded in Florence White’s Good Things in England would adequately reward the exertions of the limpet-gatherer.

Still, the charm of growing your own is hard to resist, and last year I decided to find out whether the unpromising outdoor space at my partner’s flat – a narrow, windswept, northfacing London balcony – could be made productive. Oregano, mint, tarragon and sage flourished (though thyme languished). There were more chillies than we knew what to do with (The Constance Spry Cookery Book supplied a useful recipe for chillies in sherry). Tomatoes burgeoned. Only the courgettes refused to produce the promised glut (all advice gratefully received).

Made ambitious by this modest success, I find myself inexorably drawn to double-digging, espaliers, fruit cages and the strange allure of Gardeners’ Question Time. In short, I am house – or, rather, garden – hunting.

“What is this?” says my partner, bleakly contemplating the details of a converted barn, marooned in several acres of parched paddock. “This,” I say firmly, “is our future kitchen garden, orchard and nuttery.”

This is where Brexit is going to find me: planting my cabbages, and not worrying about fragile supply lines of perishable foodstuffs.