Glimpses of Eden

The apple barrel stood in the corner of the garage. I switched on the torch and eased myself past the car and bikes towards it. Blowing off the cobwebs, I lifted the lid. The rich, fruity aroma rising to my nostrils blew away the astringent smell of oil and old leaves clinging to the garage, and swept me back to the rosy months of summer and young autumn. Its glorious scent is always the apple barrel’s first gift. After this comes the caress of the straw as you feel your way inside for the fruit, followed by the touch of the apple itself, solid, cold but reassuring.

Then there’s the first bite, which I took before I’d even got out of the garage. Despite the dusty darkness, I could taste the bright sunshine and gentle rains that had slowly plumped and ripened the fruit. I could almost hear too, in the back teeth chomp, the bumblebees pollinating the spring blossom, the blackbird singing from the boughs. Stored here since October, the apples were still fresh. They’d come from my nephew’s old trees, at the bottom of the village, and like most traditional varieties, and unlike the modern supermarket breeds, were developed to both last and delight the taste buds. Closing my eyes, I took another bite. Here was a taste to lighten the darkest of January evenings.