This week, a visiting friend prompted an expedition down to the ruined building below our house – once a cottage, then a cow byre, and latterly the haunt of barn owls.
There were no owls this time, but we did realise that the trees beside it were plum trees, replete with small but tasty plums, ripe for the picking.
I had assumed they were the remnants of trees grown by the cottage’s inhabitants, but according to our neighbour (whose land it is), they have appeared since the building was abandoned. She was happy for us to pick what we wanted, in return for sharing some of the spoils. So yesterday I gathered the ones which hadn’t split or been feasted on by wasps, or already fallen into a nearby cowpat (this may explain the proliferation of trees, come to think of it).
There was going to be a third photo of them on our kitchen windowsill, in all their purple glory (I feel we have to keep up the instagram lifestyle from time to time), but I forgot about this until after I had converted them into crumble and we’d scoffed the lot.
The food you grow yourself is, by convention, always delicious, but the food which just grows itself is sweeter still…