At some point a runner must have escaped me and now the wild strawberries are reaching across the garden, under the knobby knees of the Taunton Dean kale, through the tender green oregano, even anchoring themselves to the horrible fake grass. In the pot where they began, they have been fruiting happily all summer, with miniature berries that begin as knots armoured by tiny needles, maturing into a soft red-pink purse of barely-solid flesh, which can merely be pressed between tongue and tooth to savour the most intensely strawberry-flavoured pulp. When I forage around for one or two every other day, I often think of Charlotte Mendelson when she wrote of them, “If they were any bigger, humans would die of pleasure.”
archaeology AND gardening! yes please!!