Strawberry fields forever

Knysna-Plett Herald editor, Chris du Plessis reminisces about a passionate obsession with a plump red temptress.

The strawberry, much more so than the so widely hailed apple, is heaven sent. But it should not be taken lightly. And it is prone to deception.

For a start, it’s not a berry. In the same way we are asked to believe that the dassie is most closely related to the elephant, we are expected to accept that the strawberry belongs to the rose family.

With a name derived from the wild woodland version first cultivated in early 17th-century England — which appeared to be randomly “strewn” across the Earth’s surface — the strawberry is the Scarlet Pimpernel of the fruit world.

It was created inside-out with its most intimate sexual organs on prominent display. Unlike most fruit, the fleshy part is not derived from the ovaries, but rather acts as receptacle for many little ones (the myriad of tiny yellow knobs on the outside), each with its own seeds. The flower itself is downright deviant. It can function as either male or female when the time is ripe.

Even the pests that attack strawberries sound inelegant enough to feel at home in any garden’s red-light patch, with more than 200 regular irritants including varying sorts of slime mould (not my term), the dreaded verticillium wilt . . . and, God forbid, Rhizopus rot.

There is a reason the strawberry is so commonly mixed with legendary sex-accessories such as chocolate, cream and other dairy products that can be languidly licked off a willing surface.

But the strawberry is not all sweaty concupiscence.

Its heart shape, passionate hue and close relationship to the rose, all provide romantic credentials to counter any excess sexual exuberance. All this has made it the stuff of myth. In parts of Bavaria, for instance, country folk still tie baskets of strawberries to cow’s horns — as an offering to the elves who will ensure the farmers have healthy calves and milk in return.

For any red-blooded strawberry fanatic, Redberry Farm to the west of George is strawberry heaven.

It forms part of a district featuring strawberry fields stretching to forever. Started some 19 years ago by one Mark Miller as a commercial venture, it now hosts an annual strawberry festival, but on any given other day you can pick your own berries there, wander through the third-largest hedge-maze on earth, ride through the fields on a pony, or stick your kids in a huge big bubble-ball that churns around on the dam.

During the festival crowds converge there for all sorts of strawberry-related munchies, to browse the stalls or observe the amicable owner, complete with a sun-burned complexion not all that different from the fruit he promotes, fuss about to ensure a fun-filled day for everyone.

In the shop you can buy everything from strawberry body butter, jelly soap, hand lotion and bath jelly to strawberry-patterned bookmarks, candles, dishcloths, necklaces and earrings. Everywhere strawberry ice creams, slush, yoghurts, syrups and sorbets, as well as jams, condiments and salad-splashes, line the shelves alongside fridge magnets, baby-slippers, greeting cards, faux strawberry lips and the obligatory strawberry T-shirts. There’s a basket brimming with strawberry rugby balls.

And of course, Redberry’s very own strawberry liqueur, which you can purchase in large or small quantities and consume while wading through the strawberry overload. I chose the former option. A few of those and everyone is sure to appear friendlier and well, redder and competitors in the strawberry-eating competition start to resemble an audition line for a vampire movie.

It’s uncannily easier to meet people too after enough Strawberry liqueur. At one festival some years ago, I bumped into Bob and Ina van der Westhuizen who had decided to endow their strawberry liqueur with a combo name: Bobina (instead of Inabob for some reason). They plied their trade on a farm across the (Outeniqua) berg, they told me. I bought a bottle while the one-man band launched into ‘’Living Next Door to Alice’’.

Soon after I found myself on the little choo-choo train that runs through the strawberry fields. It’s a pretty sight featuring people merrily picking their berries in the sprawling croplands with the blue-green Outeniqua mountains as backdrop.

I wave to no one in particular like everybody else and can hear myself hooting with all the other kids as we go through the tunnel. I effortlessly make the decision to come here every day from now on.

But when I forge my way back in to the festival fray proper and wander past the tables with their paper plates full of half-eaten strawberry cup-cakes and chocolate-coated strawberry lollipops, I feel my berry obsession waning.

This is however before I witness a beaming blonde woman punting what looks like wiggly plastic worms filled with pink liquid. On closer inspection I see the head way exceeds the size of a regular garden variety invertebrate and realise it’s a smirking spermatozoon the sellers have opted to call Winkie. Those so inclined can screw Winkie’s head off, swallow the strawberry cream liqueur inside and wipe off their mouths with a satisfied grin.

Judging by the smile on the Winkie-woman’s face, people were buying lots of Winkies.

Swept up in the frenzy, I too succumbed.

Half-an-hour later, as I stood there with the other dregs of the party in the beer tent clasping my strawberry cocktail, I wondered if it was worth following my obsession to its logical conclusion.