Bach year, at the first hint of autumn, a fig is presented by a friend, or maybe two or three. These are not the purple figs displayed in cushioned splendour at one of the better fruit shops, probably grown in Andalusia, he suggests. They come, instead, from a backyard in Rathmines, green, and splitting with promise. He is very proud of the fig's long history, and his persistence in cosseting it.
The original tree grew beside the back door of the grand parents' house, but rarely produced fruit. The daughter took a cutting to her new house in Templeogue after marriage, planting it near the bottom of the garden but with no better results. Moving to her second house, she placed it beside the back door, at the cat flap, where, regularly it produces over a dozen Mediterranean fruit (her term) and, in a hot year like 1995, perhaps forty or fifty. The tree has fine, fleshy leaves which hide the fruit (Biblical allusion!), unless one looks carefully.
When the figs ripen, they ripen fast, so it's handy that the tree is so close to the garden door. One drawback the tree grows so profusely that the leaves block the sun from the kitchen. Still, a small price to pay, the owners think, for the illusion of southern Europe. One of the figs this year was all of five ounces, and lusciously purple and smooth inside. Green outside, of course.
The fig, experts tell us, needs to have its root system closely confined with walls of brick or concrete, and the bottom of the hole should be filled with brick rubble, almost solidly, while leaving adequate drainage. Then, of course, fill up with good compost or soil and, in the case of outdoor planting, some prefer the cold green house, mulch and water to give it a good start. Peaches one day, figs the next, more or less!