By Ed Thexton
SUMMER fruits are to die for. The cherry. The prince of fruits. The crispness, the colour and then there is the taste. It reveals the peach as little more than a trumped up, if delicately flavoured, bruise merchant; the mango as a tropical want-to-be and the store-bought apricot simply as a perennial disappointment, somewhere between rock and mush.
We humans are not the only ones who relish the summer fruits. Arguably, the smartest bird on the block, at least around here, reckons them not too bad a thing, or at least that is what their flocking to the coastal indigenous shrubbery would suggest.
SUMMER fruits are to die for. The cherry. The prince of fruits. The crispness, the colour and then there is the taste. It reveals the peach as little more than a trumped up, if delicately flavoured, bruise merchant; the mango as a tropical want-to-be and the store-bought apricot simply as a perennial disappointment, somewhere between rock and mush.
We humans are not the only ones who relish the summer fruits. Arguably, the smartest bird on the block, at least around here, reckons them not too bad a thing, or at least that is what their flocking to the coastal indigenous shrubbery would suggest.