Back with the Spanish ships, that avoided the
British pirates in the Caribbean, came a bounty of new world products including
tobacco, tomatoes, chocolate and potatoes.
From the port city of Seville potatoes
arrived in Ireland via Basque fishermen. They landed on the western tip of the
Emerald Isle to dry their Atlantic cod catch. They were welcomed with open arms by the Irish women. They left. The potato stayed and was planted, fed, given nourishment and flourished.
Soon it was sneaked across the Irish Sea.
Sometimes stowed on board boats crossing the border or in the possession of navvy’s coming to
England to provide the sweat to plant the seeds of future empire.
On arrival the potato was greeted by natives
(turnip, cabbage and asparagus) with suspicion, and they were proved correct
when the potato started taking their nutrients, water and land. The indigenous
vegetables were in outrage but what could they do? The potato was more
versatile. It worked all year around unlike asparagus. It provided more
nutrients in return for the investment of time and fertiliser compared to the
low energy cabbage and offered better taste than the turnip. A counter campaign
was started to combat this foreigner – ‘British land for British vegetables.’
But the potato was stubborn. It liked the
peaty soils, wet climate and friendly insects of this land of no extremes. And
despite the natives campaign the potato numbers grew and grew.
Four hundred years later and the potato is
considered a native in its own right. A quintessential part of British culture.
Without which we would have no roast potato in our Sunday lunch or chip beside
our fish or creamy mash with our sausages.
It’s eaten on our beaches. It’s eaten in
the fields, and on the streets and upon our hills, and it will always be eaten.
And when in distant lands we eat our beloved potato we to will be reminded of home,
of England.
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