That first peach fell at my feet. Idling in the shade of the tree, drawn by the fragrant scent of its fruit, I was disturbed by a dull thud and the rustle of dry grass. The tree had ripened a peach all it could—and let it go. It smelled like heaven, sweet, rich and good. I inhaled its perfume as I do a good single malt. Eating a perfectly ripe peach is an experience: it is as much a drink as food. The juiciness as much as the flavour made me laugh; they are almost impossibly fine. I quickly learnt to lean forward, my mouth beyond my feet, to avoid soaking trousers and shoes.
Much of the splendour of homegrown peaches and nectarines is owed to being able to harvest them at their peak, rather than early and firm, many days ahead of perfection, so they can stand the trip to the supermarket shelves. Peach or nectarine will tell you it’s approaching its peak with its scent—you can smell it from yards away and nectarines will often deepen in colour as the moment to pick them nears.
Sadly, we can’t sit under the tree waiting for them to fall. Once that scent draws you in, it’s time to cup each ripening fruit in the palm of your hand and turn it with as little grip as possible; when it’s ready, it will drop with no persuasion. A gentle hand is vital. Don’t squeeze the fruit—any pressure damages the flesh accelerates decay and draws the wasps.
Denne historien er fra August 05, 2020-utgaven av Country Life UK.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
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Denne historien er fra August 05, 2020-utgaven av Country Life UK.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
Allerede abonnent? Logg på
Kitchen garden cook - Apples
'Sweet and crisp, apples are the epitome of autumn flavour'
The original Mr Rochester
Three classic houses in North Yorkshire have come to the market; the owner of one inspired Charlotte Brontë to write Jane Eyre
Get it write
Desks, once akin to instruments of torture for scribes, have become cherished repositories of memories and secrets. Matthew Dennison charts their evolution
'Sloes hath ben my food'
A possible paint for the Picts and a definite culprit in tea fraud, the cheek-suckingly sour sloe's spiritual home is indisputably in gin, says John Wright
Souvenirs of greatness
FOR many years, some large boxes have been stored and forgotten in the dark recesses of the garage. Unpacked last week, the contents turned out to be pots: some, perhaps, nearing a century old—dense terracotta, of interesting provenance.
Plants for plants' sake
The garden at Hergest Croft, Herefordshire The home of Edward Banks The Banks family is synonymous with an extraordinary collection of trees and shrubs, many of which are presents from distinguished friends, garnered over two centuries. Be prepared to be amazed, says Charles Quest-Ritson
Capturing the castle
Seventy years after Christian Dior’s last fashion show in Scotland, the brand returned under creative director Maria Grazia Chiuri for a celebratory event honouring local craftsmanship, the beauty of the land and the Auld Alliance, explains Kim Parker
Nature's own cathedral
Our tallest native tree 'most lovely of all', the stately beech creates a shaded environment that few plants can survive. John Lewis-Stempel ventures into the enchanted woods
All that money could buy
A new book explores the lost riches of London's grand houses. Its author, Steven Brindle, looks at the residences of plutocrats built by the nouveaux riches of the late-Victorian and Edwardian ages
In with the old
Diamonds are meant to sparkle in candlelight, but many now gather dust in jewellery boxes. To wear them today, we may need to reimagine them, as Hetty Lintell discovers with her grandmother's jewellery
