There to stop anyone feeling embarrassed, you soon became surplus to requirements if things were going swimmingly. The most plausible origin of this peculiar phrase is that it stems from the chaperone using the excuse of picking gooseberries near the potential lovebirds as they walked around the spring garden. This gooseberry scenario I can live with.
My fondness for gooseberries is magnified by their arrival as spring thinks about summer, when few other fruit are in season. To me, the start of gooseberry season encapsulates being in this country at a particular time of year as much as blackberries, wild garlic and strawberries do. I know that, when I’m picking those first sharp fruit, the heady perfume of the elderflower will have just replaced the school-crayon scent of cow parsley in the hedges and field margins, the swifts will be screeching and, in normal years, the first Test matches of the summer will be being played.
As with other sharp fruit, we don’t eat as many gooseberries as once we did. Our gooseberry enthusiasm led to dozens of horticultural shows dedicated to them and, in the mid-1800s, more than 400 cultivars were recorded; now, there is only a handful of shows and varieties available, but, for those who grow and eat them, the enthusiasm remains.
This story is from the {{IssueName}} edition of {{MagazineName}}.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber ? Sign In
This story is from the {{IssueName}} edition of {{MagazineName}}.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
Tales as old as time
By appointing writers-in-residence to landscape locations, the National Trust is hoping to spark in us a new engagement with our ancient surroundings, finds Richard Smyth
Do the active farmer test
Farming is a profession, not a lifestyle choice’ and, therefore, the Budget is unfair
Night Thoughts by Howard Hodgkin
Charlotte Mullins comments on Moght Thoughts
SOS: save our wild salmon
Jane Wheatley examines the dire situation facing the king of fish
Into the deep
Beneath the crystal-clear, alien world of water lie the great piscean survivors of the Ice Age. The Lake District is a fish-spotter's paradise, reports John Lewis-Stempel
It's alive!
Living, burping and bubbling fermented masses of flour, yeast and water that spawn countless loaves—Emma Hughes charts the rise and rise) of sourdough starters
There's orange gold in them thar fields
A kitchen staple that is easily taken for granted, the carrot is actually an incredibly tricky customer to cultivate that could reduce a grown man to tears, says Sarah Todd
True blues
I HAVE been planting English bluebells. They grow in their millions in the beechwoods that surround us—but not in our own garden. They are, however, a protected species. The law is clear and uncompromising: ‘It is illegal to dig up bluebells or their bulbs from the wild, or to trade or sell wild bluebell bulbs and seeds.’ I have, therefore, had to buy them from a respectable bulb-merchant.
Oh so hip
Stay the hand that itches to deadhead spent roses and you can enjoy their glittering fruits instead, writes John Hoyland
A best kept secret
Oft-forgotten Rutland, England's smallest county, is a 'Notswold' haven deserving of more attention, finds Nicola Venning
