As the Tories pick a new PM, I’ll be out picking strawberries

These are not innocent times. War in Ukraine, impending global climate disaster, a flailing economy and all sorts of shenanigans at Westminster: the world can feel like a troubled place. And while it probably doesn’t do merely to look the other way, sometimes we need to find comfort and nourishment in smaller, simpler things. Which leads me to strawberries.

Fruit is one of life’s marvels, a rare meeting of deliciousness with positive health impact. In some cases, it is even free: there are any number of blackberry spots near me, and I know a tree deep in a nearby wood that can supply all my cooking apple needs and then some. In my garden, raspberries grow in a tub outside the front door, ready to be picked by small hands on the way home from school.

Then again, fruit can also be an extravagance. Twice a week, a greengrocer sets up his stall on the high street, tables covered in fruit-patterned cloths piled high with the choicest fresh produce. The truth is, it’s not much cheaper than going to the supermarket; and probably more expensive in some cases. But the quality is higher, and I can’t resist.

Invariably, I come home after my twice-weekly visits and realise I’ve probably overdone it: strawberries, raspberries, blueberries and cherries jostle for prominence in the fridge; apples, bananas, peaches and grapefruit find a home in an array of fruit bowls on the kitchen window sill. But the children munch apples morning and night, snack on grapes in front of the telly, and open their lunchboxes to find tubs filled with raspberries. Nothing is ever wasted. The kids don’t yet know how lucky they are.

In a village not far from here, a farm runs a ‘pick your own’ operation. Peculiarly, despite living within a short drive of the place for 14 years, I had never been before last weekend. My wife had taken the kids a couple of times; on other occasions we had intended to go but been thwarted by bad weather or by missing the ripeness window. This time, we made no mistake.

Driving down the long track to the farm, I was surprised at how many others were going in the same direction – and by how many had already had their picking and were heading home. In the fields, there seemed to be dozens of people, busy gathering their bounty. I felt sure there would be nothing left by the time we got amongst them.

I needn’t have worried. The strawberries were like none I had seen before: enormous, shiny, crimson beauties, nestled beneath vibrant leaves on their bed of straw; the smell of them was intoxicating, nostalgic, soothing. Not only were there plenty for everyone, it was barely necessary to move more than a couple of yards to find enough to fill a decent-sized punnet. Some families were filling enormous baskets, piling fruit high, seemingly readying a banquet fit for royalty. New arrivals made their way to the fields with wheelbarrows, babies and toddlers enjoying a ride, like something from a bygone age.

Strawberry needs satisfied, we wandered into the tayberry section, picking a large bowlful. The children weren’t sure they liked these raspberry-blackberry crossbreeds, but I knew they might feel differently when the tayberries were lined up on a pavlova.

Ironically, given my tendency to overdo things on my market visits, we momentarily regretted not bringing more containers. With better planning, we should have made space for potatoes, onions and more besides. Then again, when we realised at the tills quite how many pounds of strawberries we had picked, I doubted we’d be eating anything else for days anyway.

Sure enough, this week has been a strawberry dream. The pavlova I made shortly after our PYO return was gobbled up quickly, with side helpings of extra fruit. I had strawberries with yoghurt for breakfast, took them to the office in Tupperware tubs to eat for lunch, then snacked on more when I got home. By Thursday morning, we had scoffed the lot: they had gone quicker than the prime minister. This weekend, as the Tories pick a new leader, I’ll be trying to ignore the political nonsense and will be in a south Bedfordshire field, picking something rather more delightful.