Whilst wishing to avoid the inevitable and predictable prurience I have no option but to fling myself headlong into the mire of double entendre by mentioning that my first encounter with moist nuts was on our honeymoon some forty one Septembers ago. The happy event was spent in a beautiful old stone house deep in the French countryside, a different one to that in which we now live, but it was there that among the seeds that were sown, which grew and flourished, was the one that carried my dream of one day moving to France to live in a beautiful old stone house of our own. And there were walnuts: big ones, small ones, none as big as your head. Fresh walnuts, noix fraiches, are gathered from mid September to the middle of October. They feel rare and precious to me; soft and oily with a silky skin that must be peeled revealing the smoothest ivory flesh. Two individual, not identical, fruit are joined inseparably in a protective shell that fits them, and them alone. Only the fracture of that shell allows them to be separated. There never was such a honeymoon fruit.