Peach
Memories, myths and Momotaro
I missed my friend Lesley’s party in Cornwall at the weekend. When I say party, I mean a 3 day event, and when I say 3 day event, I mean a mini festival, with people parking up in camper vans and pitching tents to make the most of the views overlooking St Michael's Mount. It's a magical spot, especially at night if there's a full moon ( star gazing chair provided).
On Friday afternoon the large kitchen is full of people arriving, greeting each other, dogs barking, children colliding, the table piled with food and drink. In the rambling garden, the camp fire is lit, lights are positioned; Roxie, an ancient and indefatigable collie will run around the fire, snapping at the sparks. Chairs are arranged in a circle, drinks made, guests take their seats.
There are traditions. On Friday night it’s a shared supper. At dusk, everyone gathers around the fire pit to watch an open air film screening. It's usually something joyful to sing along to. Yellow Submarine, The Blues Brothers or Summer of Soul have all had their moment. We share duties; rugs to go round when the sun goes down, enough to drink, logs to keep the fire going. If it’s a warm night some people may sleep by the fire. Others walk away from the fire to watch stars paint the night sky or gradually drift off to bed, leaving behind the murmurs of conversation.
Saturday morning might be a walk to the beach for a swim, or a chance to sit and catch up with friends.
On Saturday afternoon, there’s the infamous Trinity Cider tasting. Lesley’s partner Ritchie and their friend Deekey make and blend cider and this is the chance for everyone to taste and creatively judge around 10 different blends.
Saturday evening music sessions are led by the wonderful Daily Biggle (Ritchie on drums, and Lesley’s son Dylan on electric guitar and vocals).
After the live music, poetry, songs and readings, music plays all night. The hardiest keep going till dawn, watch the sunrise and either crash or go for an early morning swim. Those of us who've had a more sensible earlier night meet in the kitchen, dancing around each other, making coffee and breakfast. Sunday is a slower day. New people arrive, dogs greet each other, children head for the trampoline. It's about time for the other tradition. It’s time for me to make scones and jam.
My friend is part of a small co-housing group of neighbours. They have Sunday suppers together, share tools, look after each other. Lesley’s neighbours plant trees. Many trees. They have a solar powered hen house and a huge poly tunnel that houses, amongst other things a kiwi vine and a calamondin, a huge jungle of miniature citrus that's covered with fruit. Mine managed about 4 fruits before it died. They grow lemons and best of all, they have a beautiful peach tree. Luckily for me, peaches are ripe around the time of the party. If I'm lucky, and the tree is generously covered, I'm given the go ahead to pick the fruit. Often there are peaches scattered on the ground, perfectly sound and good to use.
It's one of my favourite memories, walking to the poly tunnel past maturing apple trees, and once inside, picking peaches to the sounds of the wind rustling leaves in the tunnel, bees pushing their way into fruit and vegetable flowers with muffled buzzing, condensation dripping, and bird song in the distance.
I've made peach chutney, peach cobbler, peach compote, peach jam and griddled peaches for a salad. It’s a delightful indulgence, one that I’m so thankful for, to be able to pick fruit straight off the tree, to feel the warmth of the peach skin, bite into the fragrance, and multiply that sweetness to share with a crowd of approving people.
On Sunday afternoon I make little scones, serving them warm with the jam and clotted cream to sleepy party people.
The jam is sharpened with lemon juice to taste. Sometimes I add lemon verbena leaves, rosemary or lavender. If there are no peaches, I'll make jam with whatever local greengrocers have to offer, the best being damsons or greengages.
The value of these peaches goes beyond the taste. It’s not about a search for perfection. Walking into the tunnel, seeing how the tree is. Picking the fruit, knowing the people who care for the tree, and sharing what I’ve made with them is integral to the party weekend cream tea.
.One of my earliest memories is from a book of legends; the Japanese story of Momotaro, the boy found inside a giant peach by a childless couple. As peaches originally come from China it’s not surprising that there are so many legends about peaches in Chinese literature, with the fruit representing longevity, and peach blossom symbolising growth, prosperity and romance. Chinese mythology has peaches of immortality In Japanese culture, peaches were thought to eliminate evil. In Korea, they’re the fruit of happiness.
Both Jane Grigson and
in A Taste of the Unexpected, mention the 17th century peach walls of Montreuil, on the outskirts of Paris for their legendary delicious peaches, served to royalty, and for the method of espalier training, pioneered by grower Monsieur Girardot. The search for the perfect peach isn’t my goal when I’m in Cornwall, but I understand the quest. Anything that’s imported is never going to be as good as the fruit that’s freshly picked. Peaches won’t get sweeter once they’re harvested. Here’s a fascinating search for the best peach from :-
When I worked in commercial kitchens, I can remember peeling peaches to accompany whatever the main course was in the directors dining room (the ‘ordinary’ workers got Shepherds pie.) I pureed white peaches for sorbets and for Bellinis, surely one of the best Summer cocktails.
Once I remember preserving a case of peaches, very carefully giving them a hot water bath to remove the skins, poaching them gently in a sugar syrup and being very pleased with myself. They tasted just like canned peaches.
The Japanese give rare peaches during their summer gift giving season, Ochugen. The white Shimizu Hakuto peach, can only be harvested during a two-week window from late July to early August, making it one of the rarest and most expensive in the world.
In the UK, commercial peach growers seem to be rare. Yes there’s a long history of peach growing in Britain, but mostly in the walled gardens and glass houses of stately home owners who could afford a team of gardeners which meant that peaches were a luxury. The onset of canning made the fruit affordable for the masses, together with the importation of fresh fruit. In 2018 the UK imported 79,233,800 KG of peaches and nectarines, mostly from Spain.
Researching how far back commercial peach trees have been grown here, an article cites 1936. Martin Fermor of Perry Court Farm in Kent grows apricots, nectarines and peaches in poly tunnels. You’ll find them at the farmers markets they sell at in London.
Next year. Cornwall. I’m missing my tree.
What a glorious read - and thank you for the mention. My perfect peach landed in my errrr lap as I sat in the trees' shade. Eating a fallen rather than picked peach meant it couldn;t have been riper...more of a drink than a food