Can't give an exact quote or page number as locating my copy would require a major archeological expedition into the dim recesses of my pile of book boxes. (I'm under the delusion my little remodeling task will end and we'll actually get to move at some point in my life.) IIRC look in the chapter about vegetable gardening, but don't hold me to that!
A doo run-run-run, a doo run-run
A couple of weeks ago, I went to buy some fruit trees. I travelled to the world's most unprepossessing centre of biodiversity: Langley, on the outskirts of Slough. In the first half of the 20th century, most of London's fruit and vegetables were grown round there. The farms were supplied by specialist nurseries, which ensured that Britain possessed a wider variety of temperate fruit trees than any other nation. Two weeks ago, only one of them was left. In the 1940s, JC Allgrove's kept 1000 varieties of apple trees. It is still listed in the directories as one of Britain's great growers. But I was among its last customers. Since the owner died two years ago, the business has been run by a volunteer, Nick Houston. "There are bits of ground here where no one's been for 20 years," he told me. Recently, scrabbling beneath the ivy which now covers the orchards, he found a fruit he had never seen before. It was a Baumann's Reinette: the horticultural equivalent of a Faberge egg. "But I had no idea which bloody tree it had fallen off". Somewhere in the nursery there should be two varieties - King Harry and St Augustine's Orange - which even the national fruit collection doesn't possess, but he hasn't been able to find them yet. The land is to be sold. Nick will salvage what he can and run a business of his own, under the old name, to try to keep the rare breeds growing. He gave a one-word answer when I asked him what had happened to the business. "Supermarkets". Today the apples they buy are landing three miles from JC Allgrove's. Heathrow's first runway was built on strawberry farms and orchards. From the air, you can still see derelict greenhouses and the parallel lines on the land where fruit trees once grew. Richard Cox, the man who bred the world's favourite apple, is buried beside St Mary's Church in Harmondsworth, which will be flattened if a third runway is built at Heathrow.
Since the owner died two years ago, the business has been run by a volunteer, Nick Houston. "There are bits of ground here where no one's been for 20 years," he told me. Recently, scrabbling beneath the ivy which now covers the orchards, he found a fruit he had never seen before. It was a Baumann's Reinette: the horticultural equivalent of a Faberge egg. "But I had no idea which bloody tree it had fallen off". Somewhere in the nursery there should be two varieties - King Harry and St Augustine's Orange - which even the national fruit collection doesn't possess, but he hasn't been able to find them yet. The land is to be sold. Nick will salvage what he can and run a business of his own, under the old name, to try to keep the rare breeds growing.
He gave a one-word answer when I asked him what had happened to the business. "Supermarkets". Today the apples they buy are landing three miles from JC Allgrove's. Heathrow's first runway was built on strawberry farms and orchards. From the air, you can still see derelict greenhouses and the parallel lines on the land where fruit trees once grew. Richard Cox, the man who bred the world's favourite apple, is buried beside St Mary's Church in Harmondsworth, which will be flattened if a third runway is built at Heathrow.
[Anger management techniques employed: I am calm. I am rational. Breathe deeply & let it go ... let it go.]
[profanity laced rant excised]
Gosh.
That's unfortunate.
But I suppose it's more important to have a new runway at Heathrow than saving cultivars developed over a thousand years.
Please excuse me. I would like to go outside and scream for a wee bit. A doo run-run-run, a doo run-run
It's called The Anglo Disease. Can the last politician to go out the revolving door please turn the lights off?
