Seeing beans in their pods is a novel experience for city slickers.
THERE'S something very satisfying about picking your own produce. I guess it has something to do with us urban dwellers being used to getting fruit and vegetables from supermarket aisles, sometimes already wrapped with plastic, sometimes already washed and ready to eat.
As I crouched down among the rows of strawberry bushes, turning the leaves gently around to find a perfect berry, finding it, plucking it, then gently lowering it into my box, I thought, "This is fun. Why haven't I done it before?"
I was stirred from my own thoughts as Kit, my travelling companion nudged me and asked whether we could eat a few there and then.
"I'm sure we can try one or two," I encouraged, adding, "just make sure nobody sees us."
All around the outskirts of London, many pick-your-own farms offer an invigorating rural experience and, for locals, a cheap and healthy way to stock up on groceries.
Garson's Farm in Esher, Surrey, is one of the largest. It is an enterprise that comprises a farm shop selling local produce, garden centre, cafe and - what I came here for - 40ha of pick-your-own fields.
And to think we nearly didn't make it here at all. Our journey from east London had begun pleasantly enough, on a warm and sunny Saturday, one of the best days of what had been a pretty mediocre British summer.
Driving over Tower Bridge with the windows down, we enjoyed a light breeze and views of the river Thames. So far, so good.
Fast forward an hour, we're still stuck in the London traffic. The, tragedy! The faint smell of something burning I'd noticed a little earlier is explained as smoke (or is it steam?) starts rising from my car.
Raspberries gleam like rubies in the sun.
Opening the bonnet, I stare at an over-heated engine with coolant boiling over. In all my six years owning this vehicle, it's never overheated before.
I call the AA (Automobile Association). Can they come? Yes, but it might take up to three hours.
"The day is ruined," I think to myself.
Out of nowhere, a saviour came. A Chinese man, in his mid 20s, walking along the road, asks: "Do you need any help?"
Kit and I nod in unison. He says he's Ah Mun, from Ipoh, and used to work with BMW cars.
Half an hour later, my coolant's been topped up with water from a house around the corner, he's inspected the engine, checked the radiator fan (and a few other things) and pronounces it roadworthy.
I don't know whether it's good fortune, divine intervention or London being full of helpful Malaysians, but we're on the road again.
At the farm, the best way to get round is by car. A track runs in a circuit past the crop fields, with numerous places to park.
Signs let you know which produce can be found and where, useful in ensuring you don't miss out on crops you want, and to remind you of the less glamorous ones on offer.
There are huts where you get containers for the produce, and where you return to make payment.
Despite a secret desire to dig out some spuds, I reluctantly drove by signs for potatoes and onions as Kit urged me on to look for berries.
The strawberry fields comprised tiny, verdant plants, no higher than a foot above the ground. We had fun rummaging around the shrubs, careful not to tread on the tender fruit, picking ones that were big enough, ripe enough and, in some cases, "cute" enough.
Raspberries grew on taller bushes and could be picked standing up. Content with our strawberries, we picked none but were happy walking down the aisles, admiring the little ruby red raspberries.
Kit is happy with her strawberries.
Berries aside, the sweet corn fields were an impressive prospect, their tall leafy stems ornamented by tassels at the top, inviting us to get lost in the narrow tracks separating one row from the other.
The pumpkin patch was another sight to behold, golden lanterns dotting the ground, partially obscured by leaves and vines.
"It's like cutting the umbilical cord," Kit joked as I used a little pocket knife to sever the woody vine from our chosen "baby".
For a moment I mused at the parallels between humanity and nature, and how intertwined our lives really were, how "cutting the cord" would end its current existence.
Then I thought about food. Half I would blend and make into soup, the other half I would chop up, sprinkle with olive oil and rosemary and bake in the oven to be eaten as a snack. Mmm?
Garson's farm boasts a wide selection of seasonal crops. From July to September, when the haul is at its peak, you may be lucky to find over 25 types - leafy greens, root vegetables, soft fruits and even flowers.
Some of the vegetable plots are not particularly big, and get plundered very quickly by those with local knowledge.
I was keen to get my hands on some broccoli, only to discover none left.
In and amongst the cauliflower beds, we again found that the best had been plucked and settled for a small one. To our dismay, we later found out that the price was the same, regardless of its size.
We ended our day with a walk through the garden centre and a visit to the cafe.
"Did you have a good day?" I asked Kit. She nodded, beaming. All in all, we hadn't really picked that much, but a lot of the pleasure was derived by just wandering around, seeing and touching the botanical delights on the farm which was - to us, at least - a novelty.
Keeping our fingers crossed that the car would hold up, we headed home in high spirits, refreshed by the country air and the promise of cooking what we'd picked with our own hands.
This article was first published in The Star on Oct 12, 2008.
