On one of the hottest days last week, as I walked along the back of the herb garden where the Benton irises sit at the base of the breezeblock wall, I was suddenly aware of a strong scent, which at first I couldn’t place. Mingled with the musky spearmint of calamint and resinous tang of lavender was a warm, fruity perfume that stood out. The afternoon sun beating down on the wall had created a hot spot alongside one of the granite water troughs and it is at this junction, just before the steps to the upper level, that our Afghan fig is planted.

The unfamiliar smell was coming from the leaves of the fig. Green and floral like freshly cut hay, but with a distinct undertone of coconut. Instantly I was reminded that last summer I had dried some fig leaves to be used as a flavouring for winter desserts. As well as coconut, the flavour that fig leaves impart has something of both almond and vanilla and so lends itself very well to milk and cream-based desserts; panna cotta, rice pudding or clafoutis. But in the long-awaited heat of last week, what I immediately had a hankering for was fig leaf ice cream.

A perfectly ripe fig, picked fresh from the tree. Heat in the fruit and the energy of a long, hot summer caught in sweet, juicy flesh. I can think back to specific trees that marked a moment in time. On our daily walk to the beach in Andalucia, in a baking courtyard in Seville, a dusty, walled garden in California or standing alone in the boulder-strewn landscape of Greece. Surviving against the odds, but producing such succulent fruit despite the stark contrast of their surroundings.

The equivalent fruit in our moist, forgiving climate might be the pear. At its moment of perfection, they are the most delectable of cool climate fruits. You can taste that they love the land like figs love the sun. However, our quest as gardeners is to always push the boundaries and have what we know might be out of reach. So we experiment, in order to capture a memory, or outmanoeuvre the limitations of our site.