Just a few feet from our back door is the tropical equivalent of the magic porridge pot. A sweaty, leafy explosion has overwhelmed our Polycrub and it’s threatening to engulf the whole croft. The kitchen is doubling as a refuge for homeless seedlings that can’t find a spare scrap of soil among the unexpected profusion of lettuces, spinach, herbs, strawberries and courgettes. It turns out this green-house/ polytunnel hybrid knows it onions and it’s on a roll. The onions, carrots, tatties, asparaguses and cauliflowers are vying with each other now for space as they blossom into ridiculously fulsome versions that would be unrecognisable even on a Waitrose shelf.
With such an embarrassment of riches on my back doorstep I’m blushing to admit that last weekend I neglected my watering and weeding duties with the ironic purpose of joining a foraging course.
To be fair, I booked my place long before our wee bit of Argyll decided to go all Amazonian on us. My faith in our crops must have been pretty low, though, for me to part with good cash to root about in the soil for the meagre calories available along our local coastline. But there I was on Saturday, organic cotton tote bag and complete ignorance at the ready.
Yes, it might take a while to get properly chubby on the fruits of our foray into forgaging, but under expert tutelage we discovered an amazing richness of edibles all around us.
Who knew that one of the most common weeds growing in all corners of our garden hides a sweet and creamy wee nut at its root, or that sea spaghetti is genuinely tastier straight off the rocks than anything a bag of Napolina can offer. With a couple of important/ poisonous caveats, our lovely guide opened the doors to a world where most things underfoot or sprouting from a hedge belong in a salad bowl. Big pink rosehip petals were tossed in with plantain leaves, delicate wee cuckoo flowers, meadowsweet, sea aster and orache. The upshot was an amazing lunch featuring our foraged salad, but bolstered by Blue-Peter-style things they’d made earlier including nettle soup, seaweed oatcakes and frittata filled with wild greens.
Our little group learned just how much nature provides so readily and abundantly even without the protection from the elements that we provide for our cossetted indoor veggies. Speaking to participants during and after the course, however, there was one jaggy wee thorn among the edible roses; each of us had a partner, spouse or offspring that would run a mile from any weed we proffered on a plate.
These same relatives would scoff anything from a plate, slate or wooden board in a trendy restaurant, but any offerings from us they’d treat as potential arsenic. I’ve read a lot of Agatha Christie in my time and listen to some great country music where scunnered wives slip something fatal into the whisky. A scattering of hemlock leaves in your salad could have similar results and have Hercule Poirot on your case in no time, so caw canny with your foraged five-a-day. My next venture scouring the wilds for nourishment might be dicier. I’ve signed up for some fungi foraging later in the year – hoping to avoid anything too trippy/ lethal, but this might be one to invite the husband to join. I’m a massive advocate for lifelong learning, but still doubtful that us old dogs can be taught new tricks. Fingers crossed that the worst outcome will just be a bit Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds-ish rather than lead to us orphaning the kids. Maybe I should start training the younger generation in veggie jungle management just in case.
The Softer Crofter 