Late-summer plums lend themselves to many recipes, but you can’t beat a nice cake
At the bottom of the garden, past the old well and the hazel frames of runner beans, was what we grandly called “the orchard”. Hidden among the pear and greengage trees, past the vast Bramley apple and two damsons was an ancient plum tree. It was my favourite tree in the garden, probably my favourite tree ever – its trunk almost bent double, too brittle to climb without snapping a branch and breaking a bone, its bark mottled with sage green lichen.
Each spring there was a mass of blossom and the petals would swirl up in a snowstorm when the wind blew. In late summer the fruit – golden, translucent, a haven for wasps – hung in clusters. I guess it was inevitable that one day, when I had my own garden, I would plant my own.