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Vineyard peaches (Weinbergspfirsiche)


And if you'll allow me to exult over foreign fruit for another day, the vineyard peaches (or Weinbergspfirsiche) that our vintner-cum-landlady was selling were a marvellous find, the blood oranges of the peach, I found myself thinking, as I sliced one open on Saturday morning. (The night before, we'd bought four for a euro out of the vintner's cheery green truck, parked in the courtyard.) Fresh, they're best for the surprise of their vivid red flesh, but their obdurate tartness means they're best enjoyed converted into jam. We bought our jars from an elderly woman just up the road from our holiday flat; she had a modest assembly of bottles displayed on her doorstep, and we had to knock twice before she came out to take our money. Oh, city kids exulting in The Countryside...

As a few have asked, I can heartily recommend the decidedly unstylish but clean and comfortable holiday flats offered by the Mainzers: We took the smallest one (which has the biggest balcony), and thought it a steal at 27 EUR per night.



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