When modern and ancient collide, you expect a discordant note to be struck. But on Sunday, I went to a place where the ages were in harmony. For many a spring, during the all-too-short asparagus season, my dad has disappeared into the Worcestershire countryside and returned bearing bunches of the finest spears. For a man who hardly ever does any shopping, or indeed ventures out much at all, this is odd. “I have a supplier,” he’ll say, offering no further explanation.
I had long wanted to get to the bottom of this mysterious business, but then the season would finish and I would forget about it for another year. Not this year. Almost grudgingly, he showed me the way to his source: a drive-thru asparagus store. There’s a first time for everything. Love it. How John Constable would paint this rural scene, or Thomas Hardy describe it, or Edward Elgar set it to music, I cannot imagine. But I was enchanted.
