The spasm that is our strawberry season is over, four weeks and two hundred and eighty kilos later, leaving me feeling much like I felt after England’s World Cup exit: anguished and relieved. There is a transcending vibe of relief coupled with joy, though, in all we do at the minute. Every year, as the growing season enters my peripheral senses, I worry that climate change will have hit the point of no return: that we’ll be dealt mild damp summers, followed by mile damp winters, ad nauseum, and that The Seasons, that elemental pattern that brings the organic grower such happiness and possibilities, will be consumed forever in the oil of greed. This year, not for the first or last time, nature has given us another chance, and with such grace.
The Entrance Field isn’t as complete as I’d like by high summer, and sadly we can’t blame the weather or the businessmen for this, just self-induced hiccups in planning and propagation. On the other hand, this has given us, and our bee brethren, the unplanned wonder of the wave of azure flowers of the bolted Treviso chicory. The salads are strong and untired, the “tropical salads” in the glasshouse looking especially at home in what for us mortal humans is wilting heat. Growth in this area has been impressive across the board: the annual Bean Sweepstake ended in a dead heat, all our climbing Borlottis crossing the two metre high-wire finish line on the same weekend. Photo finish technology was not something we imagined necessary to install, though I am pondering whether to erect cricket nets to prevent these intrepid clamberers breaking through the glass ceiling.
The cucumbers also started pouring over the top this week, and Aimee, Hannah and I started trying to coax them down again on our weekly tomato and cucumber training rounds. The former are throwing out side shoots less vigorously now: they’ve taken shape and the fruits are changing traffic lights where we’ve pruned back the lower branches. So we are approaching that point at which, in our East Anglian partner Grahame Hughes’ words, “the tomatoes are tamed”.
The Taming of the Tomatoes is a memorable concept, but one I’ve struggled with over the years. Whilst on the one hand, it sums up what a gardener does to plants quite niftily; on the other, like many I see problems caused by the extent to which the wild and free have been forced to the far periphery of the modern world, and regard organic farms and gardens as wildlife corridors back into our homes and hearts.
A reading from The Little Prince at Annie and Ben’s wedding last weekend finally saw me at ease, possibly helped by the Prosecco:
“I cannot play with you”, the fox said, “I am not tamed”.
Little Prince: “What does that mean – tame”,
“It is an act too often neglected”, said the fox. “It means to establish ties, If you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world…”
“I am beginning to understand”, said the Little Prince. “There is a flower…I think she has tamed me…”
Our heritage tomatoes, saved from seed year on year, sown from seed in freezing February, potted on, fed on Hawkwood compost and London clay, pinched and supported to dizzy heights and lights, are unique in all the world.
Fine summer days; tomatoes: these things have a way of reworking the ties, bringing us back. Taming us.