Potting shed marrows

Prop styling: Tony Hutchinson

First crop of Purple sprouting broccoli from the garden

Purple sprouting brocolli

Summer, 1997

It was probably around midnight when the taxi dropped me back at the village. As the car sped off, a beam of headlamp briefly sketched out the silhouette of a large object, slumped across the other side of the road. I swayed over to the shape - it was a dead badger.

It may seem stupid in retrospect, but such was my state - one of inebriation, that I immediately became consumed with grief. What a sorry waste! There he was, homeward bound to see Mrs Badger and the kids, and some bastard hit him! My duty soon became apparent. How could I let it suffer the cruel indignity of being slowly squashed into the tarmac by the morning traffic? I quickly resolved to fetch a shovel, scoop it up, and lay it to rest in the hedge. It was the right thing to do. As if being dispatched to The Great Set in the Sky by a Fiat Uno (possibly) wasn't enough!

Still seething at "Man's selfish disregard for the natural world with his roads", I plotted a wobbly course through the back garden and grappled around in the darkness for the shed. Ten minutes later, my fingers found the handle of a spade resting among a pile of bamboo canes. Stumbling back outside into the still night, I was ready. Tooled Up, as it were.

It was a big old beast, but I managed to slide the spade underneath it. A fish slice would not have sufficed. I barely noticed a pair of headlights appearing in the distance - too important was the task in hand. The low rumble of an engine got louder and louder; I figured it would pass me by. Probably just a grumbling father, dragged out of bed to pick up his daughter, keen to get back home. To my horror, at the point at which I lifted the badger up to waist height on the spade, the car pulled up next to me and a window wound down. John Turner, who I knew from school, peered out cautiously through the open window.

We chatted briefly, exchanging light-hearted pleasantries about our respective evenings. I may well have quipped that I was, "well pissed". Yet for some reason neither of us mentioned the fact that I was elevating a dead badger, three feet from the ground, with a rusty piece of gardening equipment. Perhaps it was an unspoken mark of respect between us, a tribute to innocent life lost? It's more likely he thought I'd beaten the poor creature to death with a shovel. Even after all these years, if we bump into each other in the street, the subject's off-limits. As the car pulled away, I slipped Old Brock carefully into the verge and hot-tailed it to bed. My work here was done.

Wattle corner

Wattle Corner sits less than a mile from Stone in Oxney in Kent, nestling on the horizon as one winds up the narrow road from the village. A shroud of branches all but conceals the 17th century house from the roadside; patches of weathered brickwork flicker briefly into view as you pass.

It's here that my childhood friend John Davis and his parents used to live over twenty years ago. Although I didn't really think about it until recently, I'm sure that the years spent exploring the house, its garden and the surrounding countryside with him helped shape my passion for food and a love of the wild.

Vast open fields fall away towards the River Rother on the south side; dense woodland resides to the north. The wood was stocked with pheasant for the game season; I once had the bright idea of attempting to poach one (homemade bow and arrow being the rudimentary weapon of choice). This idea quickly dispersed when the gamekeeper chased us out of the wood, brandishing a twelve bore. Terrifying. Nevertheless, there were often a brace of birds hanging in one of the outbuildings back at the house; lord knows where John's mum got them. The butcher's probably, like most people.

I'm cautious about rose-tinted skews on the past, but this place genuinely felt like it was a cook's paradise. An old orchard sprawled alongside the house; gnarled, lichen-covered apple and pear trees blossoming excitedly in the spring, then creaking under the weight of heavy fruit come late summer. Espalier damsons crept up the south face - or were they plums? Can't quite remember. Then there was the vegetable garden.

John grew and tended everything (startlingly impressive in retrospect - we were about 9 at the time). The garden was filled with neat rows of carrots, potatoes, beetroot, broad beans, lettuce, fennel - to name but a few. I'd never seen a globe artichoke before, let alone eaten one. Clumps of wheat and barley swayed in one corner, gooseberry, raspberry and blackcurrant bushes crouched in the other. The greenhouse was full of young seedlings in trays, waiting to be planted when their time came. I think the deal was that John grew it; his mum cooked it, which seemed fair enough – she was a great cook.

The house was sold, the family moved and John and I sadly lost touch. Such is the way I guess. That garden was amazing though. It's still the benchmark in the back of my mind as I sort through a pile of seed packets, preparing to get our little veg patch up and running again. I've knocked the poaching aspirations on the head though. For the time being anyway.

Baby courgette and lime linguine

Serves 2

250g Linguine

Olive oil

4 or 5 Baby courgettes

I Red chilli, deseeded and finely chopped

1 Large garlic clove, crushed

2 Limes

A handful of basil leaves

Parmesan cheese, to serve

Get the linguine into a pan of boiling water. Use a pastry brush to oil a griddle
pan before placing on the heat. Slice the courgettes on a slant and sear on both sides
for about 5 minutes, turning once (the courgette slices should be scorched with
griddle lines). Put to one side on a sheet of kitchen roll. In a seperate pan,
soften the garlic and chilli, before stirring in the drained linguine,
griddled courgettes, a drizzle of olive oil and the juice of one lime.
Season well. Serve with basil leaves, a generous grating of Parmesan and
lime wedges on the side.

Potatoes

Baby courgettes

Beetroot from the garden