COLUMNIST

WE had an estate agent calling round the other day as we are sort of thinking of moving – but not immediately.

We have not seen an estate agent in decades so it was interesting to see how – if at all – the profession has changed.

The chap was charm itself – interested in our cottage, appreciating its total lack of a straight wall or cathedral-height ceilings. And he loved the garden, which sent him towards the top of my Christmas card list – if I sent them.

He described our back yard as a charming courtyard garden. It was looking particularly good with massed rows of plant-filled pots. But it’s still, in my mind, a back yard.

The back garden with its fruit trees, bountiful fruit bushes and veg plot had him in raptures. It’s a very, very far cry from the sort of garden people pay to walk around. But it’s a labour of love and anyone who appreciates it is on my hit parade rather than hit list.

It’s full of curiosities – some we planted, others were here when we put our roots down so many years ago.

I’m particularly smug about my medlar and quince trees – both unusual and both bearing the most wonderful waves of large white blossom in spring, welcome shade in summer, fruit and blazing leaf colour in autumn and excellent sculptural form in the leaf-less winter months.

The fruit is immensely versatile. Quince – rarely seen for sale over here but in every market in France – looks like a giant golden down-covered pear. It’s reputed to be the golden apple of Greek legend.

A bowl of quince will scent a room with their almost tropical perfume – but the fruit is inedible when raw. Cooked it transforms an apple crumble and makes a sublime, amber jelly. I am experimenting with concocting quince gin – no still required, just a bottle of spirit, some chopped quince and a modicum of patience.

The medlar is humbler in almost every way. It looks like a large brown crab apple with a very strange-looking top end that looks like an unmentionable part of a cat’s rear anatomy.

It needs to soften before it’s ready to eat. It’s left until it almost rots – a process known as bletting. At this stage the flesh purees itself so can be scooped out. Again – amazing for jellies or a fruit cheese.

Of course, the agent was not that interested in what to do with the fruit but his appreciation of the trees’ elegance was enough.

It got us thinking about how much our garden actually produces. It’s not huge but every inch is put to use. We are self-sufficient (almost) in salad potatoes and Roscoff onions; I rarely buy salad leaves thanks to the lettuce, endive and chicory; this year the tomatoes have been producing vast quantities of fruit from late June until Bonfire Night; there are 12 varieties of chilli; peppers; cucumbers and pickling gherkins; beans of every description; salsify (a long black root); carrots; chard and spinach; a rainbow of beetroot; globe and Jerusalem artichokes and Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

With all the commemorations this year of the end of the First World War, it made me think how self-sufficient we all had to be at times of conflict. Our gardens were productive, as were our parks. They weren’t filled with decking, barbecues and fire pits. They were useful.

There are groups doing great work to encourage those of us lucky enough to have a small plot to grow our own. So, go on: ditch the decking and get digging!

Our gardens were productive as were

our parks. They weren’t filled with decking, barbecues

and fire pits