England is, at this season, a land of plenty. You would not think so from listening to the news, about sales of new cars being at their lowest since 1966 (we won a World Cup then, medals now) and “economic” gloom and doom. But this is about the non-cash economy, about “produce”: apples and brambles and vegetables and fruit. There is so much that nobody even bothers to gather, like crab apples. They are left on the trees as decoration because we don’t as a rule bother with making jams and jellies. (Except I heard someone on the radio asking for a record for his wife who’d just made 160 jars of chutney for a good cause – 160 ! – but the event was cancelled becuse of the weather. Oh yes, in England this season we have plenty of rain.) We have plenty of everything but time.
Last week I travelled 150 miles to the far west of Cumbria, partly for the joy of camping by a waterfall (Eskdale, for those who know the ins and outs of that unfamiliar land); but also in the hope of finding some edible wild mushrooms. I was in the wrong places. I had to laugh at myself, because on returning home I walked to the end of our street to post some letters. And there under the hedge was a whole crop of “Sovi” (Polish for “owl”, so called for their scaly surface when opened out, reminiscent of an owl’s feathers), also known as “Parasol”. Fried in egg and breadcrumbs. Or with cream and chives, on toast. Hard to beat.
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