There are courgettes and beans, bright yellow flowers and bright pink pods. The beans – borlotti, broad, and dwarf – have yielded disappointing crops, but that hasn’t spoiled the pleasure of growing, tending, and picking. These simple acts mark a return to doing what we enjoy most, now there are no more contractors to deal with.
In the front garden, an old greengage tree, easily unnoticed, has come into its own, as if to acknowledge this return to living; normally. From its branches hang small, rubber-ball-like fruits.
Some have a scaly covering, others have begun to ooze a syrupy substance that hangs from them, solid, like the beginnings of icicles. Let that deter others, for there are plenty that are good for eating, their bright green skins smothered with a bluish bloom.
I picked a small bowl full. They are sharp and sweet. Little home-grown treats, which, in truth, have taken no work on our part at all.
The remainder, too high to reach without a ladder, will have to wait until the weekend.