Heading for the hills, by Martin Kirby: Who gives a fig?

I rely on fig trees, for broad-leaf summer shade and to zap my
tastebuds and tummy twice a year. The experience is divine, the
consequences are unmentionable.
Between my office window and the lines of Garnacha vines where we
labour like mad dogs in our main fruiter stands, with bark like
elephant hide, a perch for birds, cats and children. We have green
figs and striped figs all around the old farmhouse, but this
particular tree with its purple fruit bears an avalanche of offerings
in June and again in September. If we don't take the harvest it falls
and explodes on impact, a feast for flies and a squidgy mess with the
adhesive attributes of dog poo. (Full story in printed edition).