A major fault of mine that I have battled for as long as I can remember and still haven’t shaken is that inherent sense of reservation about approaching and simply asking. Perhaps it is the fear of being ridiculed for having asked, the fear of a response that is unexpected. It is a bit tragic really, considering how important it is to query; it’s one of those great gifts of humankind that helps us overcome particular instances of uncertainty with a usual binary response: yes or no. Of course, it’s always harder to ask when the request is something larger than the words itself. Thankfully, today marked a positive step in the right direction. In fact, it was a positive few steps in the opposite direction. And as it would seem, sometimes we need to backtrack and re-analyse our actions with a pattern of fresh thinking to get the results we really want.
We decided on a fond and chilly afternoon to take a stroll. The world was our oyster – at this point in time, our ‘conquered’ world spans the length of familiarity of the local neighbourhood and a bit further beyond. Today was a time to take a few snapshots of the turning liquid amber leaves and to capture a bit of fresh air. Never in a million lifetimes were we expecting the idiosyncratic unexpectedness that is endemic to the suburban town. Where else would you find the spirit of the joie de vivre in its nativity?
The story begins as Jasmin and I caught the elderly gentlemen entering his home through the side-gate and greeted him, moments after I remarked at the size of the pomegranates weighing down the branches that supported them, past the fresh-faced limes and indecisive green and gold oranges and the new lick of paint over the wall covering some unsightly graffiti. Our cameras were slung over one shoulder in a lackadaisical way that probably made us look like tourists dissecting the broad streets of a sleepy suburban town. More than enough times we’ve been stopped and told to delete our photographs by cranky neighbours unhappy with our trigger finger. This time was different, we weren’t interested in taking photos. It was a time for commerce. Despite our shiftlessness and obvious hesitation, he smiled in a flush, sheepish way and made more of an effort to talk to us. It was apparent that he knew why we stopped even before we had vocalised our desire.
A whitewashed sign on plywood hangs over the chicken wire holding the fruits in place from the birds. With a sky blue paint and a neat typeface it reads ‘Local Natural Honey – New Season’s”. We have passed by a myriad of times and forever been impartial to it. ‘One day, we’ll have the courage to knock on the door and ask about the birds and the bees’, we’d say to each other. We made the transaction and purchased a kilo of dense, home-produced honey from a grateful seller and each grew a smitten smile. A rotten day turns into a sweet retreat at the prospect of a jar of Nature’s natural syrup: especially one as golden-brown to the light as this one.
We quizzed him briefly about the location of his bees and passed a compliment or two about his amazing garden. It was truly a safari: birds, a cat and a dog, a double-lock up garage and patch for vine-tomatoes, zucchini and butternut pumpkin. It is here that the city met the gardenscape. “This is nothing like the stuff you buy in supermarkets,” he remarked with a self-assured grin. “I keep the bees in an estate just down the road… away from the public who used to complain about the humming of the bees and their stings”. It made me wonder if this was an example of the quintessential labour of love.
I contemplated whether this jar of honey would make a wonderful gift for someone. Of course, this was a short-lived thought that quickly left my mind. We rushed off home with that same pep in our step, put down our cameras and went straight for the spoons in the drawer. We each savoured a tinge and let it linger, waiting for the profusion of flavour to be released. It didn’t take a moment of pause before it became overwhelming. Possessing all the qualities of a good wine and standing upon the soapbox of a rather highly self-respecting connoisseur, it is a honey that is best described with an overall rather robust tartness reminiscent of preserved figs and the fragrance of muted eucalypt with a lingering sweet mint on the palate and overtones of burnt caramel. It holds on the tip of the tongue and into the inner cheeks long after consumption; a bit of a pleasant surprise discovered after eating a kiwifruit soon after. This is a kind of honey that doesn’t have to be one’s last meal before the execution chamber; at a humble price from a humble family, within proximity of a hungry neighbourhood, there is always going to be time for repeat visits.
While there’s no possibility of starting an export business to share this wonderful experience with the readers of this post, I’m sure your imagination is geared up enough and your mouth salivating at the prospect of tucking in. If nothing else, two moral messages arise from a dissertation about honey: there’s more to your neighbourhood directly outside your door than you realise. It is a real eye-opener to see how well we co-exist in our built environments. And secondly, it is a reminder about the potential for fruition at our fingertips. Developing this kind of hybrid ecosystems in which we are made compatible with elements of nature and with the modern world really do make us feel that bit more complete.
The Wild Thyme and Sweet Pea project found its roots when it was plucked excitedly from the garden, washed briskly in a basin of water and lovingly left out to dry in a soothing marinade of vision and ambition ... More »
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Love the photos, and love the fact that you both got up the courage to stop :) Kind of like being on the road, but in your own city. Love it!