The garden will be steps from the kitchen door, and that distance decides the menu. A tomato that must survive a journey is bred for the lorry. Ours only makes a very short walk.

Which frees us to plant varieties the market gave up on. They bruise, they ripen at their own speed, and no lorry could ever carry them. All they ever asked for was to be eaten the same day.

The seed comes back too. What this ground gives us in summer is what goes in the following spring, and we will join the Italian growers who pass saved seed between them as a gift.

What the garden cannot give will arrive from inside a hundred kilometres, from farmers we know by name.

The distance from soil to table is a walk. Flavour is the evidence.