THE HUMBLE QUINCE

A few weeks ago, my next-door neighbour, returning from a holiday in France, presented me with a pot of jam, curiously labelled simply Coings. My limited French was not up to translating this, but she soon told me that it was Quince. Now she must know me quite well, because quince jam is something I’ll die for. Not jelly, which you can find on the shelves at Waitrose, but jam, occasionally made by Tiptree, and apparently only stocked at high class provision shops or delicatessens. An elderly friend of mine in Norfolk, who makes all her own preserves, once told me that in her long experience men always prefer quince jam to jelly. It is something about its texture, its crunchiness perhaps. Anyway, put a jar of quince jam and a loaf of fresh bread in front of me and I’m like a dog with two tails!

Quinces originated in the mountainous area between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea, known as the Caucasus, and quince preserves are readily available in Middle Eastern markets. Cultivation began in Persia, and was favoured by the ancient Greeks, and it has been suggested that all biblical references to apples may, in fact, have been quinces.

Was the fruit of Eve’s temptation then a quince? And in the world of mythology was the golden apple that the goddess Aphrodite gave to Paris, leading ultimately to the Trojan War, really a quince? Now there’s a thought! The quince is first mentioned in English literature in the 13th century, and by Tudor times must have been common enough to be immortalised as Peter Quince in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. At that time quince marmalade was apparently a popular delicacy. The fruits were peeled and quartered and boiled in red wine, then strained and boiled again with honey and spices. After cooling and setting, they were sliced into pieces and served as a dessert. Yum!

In Victorian times every garden had a quince tree, and the wonderful aroma given off by the ripe fruits often acted as an air freshener in the drawing room of large houses. But, alas, during the last century it fell from grace as the popularity of soft fruit grew. What was there to do with those apparently useless, rock hard fruits? However, I don’t expect I’ll be the only one making quince jam in the autumn, though the thought of what peeling and coring the rock hard fruit does to one’s hands is frightening.

But the quince - the true variety, not the ornamental climbing version - is a beautiful tree. It doesn’t grow too big, and other than periodical thinning out, requires little maintenance. It comes into leaf early, and is always smothered in large pink blossoms, resembling wild roses. This year looks a good for quinces, the warm spring bringing out insects early to assist pollination. The pear shaped fruit is slow to ripen and covered in fur until it turns a beautiful golden yellow in October. And by way of a bonus the leaves turn gold before they fall.

There used to be an old quince tree in the garden of Winton House, but it has gone, and a young specimen in the Physic Garden succumbed to honey fungus last year. Besides my own, the only one I know in Petersfield now is on the side of a garage in Windsor Road, but surely there must be more. Let’s hear it again for the humble quince! Tom Muckley, June 2007

This article was originally published by the Petersfield Post

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