In medieval times it was used to explain the existence of cotton. Here in God’s Own Country, our harvests are legend. From John Mandeville to Gulliver, travelers flock to rhapsodise the fruits of our sun-kissed ground. The jewel in our crown is the Vegetable Lamb which springs skyward on a single artichoke stalk, pendulous limbs hanging slack from a fleece-blurred bloom. Each fruit is wrapped in a boll of whisked wool to protect it from wolves. When the monsoon smiles water pours from the pods like silk from a spool. The umbilicus bends to allow the lamb to graze as far as the cord goes, on nard and camomile. It circles daintily on hooves of parted hair. People in God’s Own Country borrow and sow, sow and borrow, attended by thrip and moth and worm all keen to help light traps and trenches overflow while our children fall like fruit from the neem trees, gasping for breath. Bees refuse to sting or swarm, and the last cows rock-and-roll and kick up their heels. Under the banyan a girl licks her lips and stares slow as molasses in spring.
