"These are a late variety, grown in the garden," he explained as a large colander full of the black beauties was deposited on the kitchen table.

There's always a duck in the hedge. Turned out it wasn't me he was after. He had designs on borrowing the tractor. Turned out there was some technical hitch, so all we could offer him in exchange was a few eggs.

They were a poor-looking half dozen. Only the hens that lay white eggs are in action at the moment – the others are moulting – and they just never look as appetising as the brown. For starters, they always look a bit grey and mucky.

We never seem to have hit a happy medium with our egg production. Just as we haven't with the fruit trees in the orchard where the feathered friends live. It's either feast or famine.

On reflection, we could have sent back some apples. But then, if our benefactor has brambles he's probably got fruit trees. The Victoria plums have done particularly badly this year. Last season there was such a glut there were crumbles, jam, and chutney. It's been a bit thin on the sloe front as well. Bottles of cheap gin are at the ready but there just don't seem to be enough berries to make it worthwhile.

We didn't get any soft fruit – apart from about 10 gooseberries (certainly not enough to make a pie) – from the dozens of plants the Husband bought at an auction. Regular readers will remember the jaunt to buy a tractor. But, as bidding went through the roof, attention was turned to plants and he got auction fever. Redcurrants, blackcurrants. You name them, we got them.

Enough, it had seemed at the time, to open a Pick Your Own sideline. But no, not a single berry this time around.

Runner beans and courgettes have come our way from another neighbour. Some raspberry canes from further down the road. We sent some horse muck in return, much to the daughter's disgust as she's planning on selling it. Signs saying "pony poo" have been made by the enterprising seven year-old who is determined to price it at a £1, which seems on the steep side.

"He's not just any pony," she says defensively, hinting at the long-held notion that he might be a secret unicorn.

"I know he's not grey, like most unicorns, but that doesn't matter if you've got magic powers."

This complete and unconditional love for animals is very endearing. I've been to see a few horses for sale and only ever seem to be struck by their bad points – not good in traffic, dodgy legs, etc – rather than their inner beauty.

Anyway, it's time to transform those brambles into something for tea.