When I was little and living in Oman, we used to visit a village called Wakan, perched up high on the edge of the jauntily named Gubrah Bowl. (I've just Googled Wakan and slightly wish I hadn't ... the stony pathway up through the apricots, dates and pomegranates didn't used to have a handrail and neat steps or - heaven forfend - a tourist office...) My very favourite photo of my parents was taken under a powder-puff bower of pink pomegranate blossom above Wakan. I remember lining up the shot and saying please smile nicely. My Dad is super tanned and sporting his very own eternal brand of khaki-on-khaki chic and Mum is rocking a Pentax, an Hermes scarf and Jesus sandals. That photo has sat on my bedside table since I was 9.
Poor old Persephone always piqued my sympathy where most women in Greek myths left me cold. Who can resist a pomegranate, right? I think she did pretty well to stop at six seeds. If I'd been as hungry as she was, we definitely wouldn't have a Spring or a Summer.
Anyway, imagine my delight when I discovered that the name of my favourite fruit only means Apple of Granada!
And the people in charge really know how to celebrate their apple... it's all over the place.
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