The medlar knows something the other trees don’t: that patience has its own flavour, and it is worth waiting for.
Most fruit ripens and is picked at the height of its sweetness. The medlar does something stranger. It must blet — a word I love almost as much as I love the fruit itself. It hangs on the tree through October, through the first frosts, browning and softening in a process that looks to the uninitiated like decay but is in fact transformation.
Only after bletting does the medlar yield its extraordinary interior: the colour of toffee, the texture of thick custard, the taste of something that has taken its time.
I planted mine in February. It is very small. It will be years before it fruits. I find I do not mind. The garden has made me patient in ways I would not have predicted.
The medlar is already looking pleased with itself.