"A happy thing to have around" writes Hugh Johnson in his International Book of Trees. Couldn't be better phrased. Here we are on a dismal day in the second half of November, and in a corner of the garden is a lovely evergreen tree/shrub, glowing with deep red berries. Not enough of them, of course. You could never have a heavy enough crop from the Arbutus or Strawberry tree. (Yes, you've read it before).
It is chiefly associated in this country with Killarney, and maybe in that region it fruits a little earlier. But late or timely, it is most welcome. And while the barely-ripe fruit still tastes of cotton wool, the really deep red berry is of a subtle sweetness with just a tang to it that you can never get in quantity enough. Why did we not plant half a dozen. But maybe the scarcity sharpens the appreciation.
They are cherry-sized with the roughened skin and dotted like a strawberry. And at the same time that the Arbutus bears fruit, next years flowers are in place, clusters of white, bell-shaped, or lily-of-the-valley shaped if you like. That's how Praeger sees it. The famous travel writer Mrs S. C. Hall is rather dismissive: "the berry has an insipid, though not an unpleasant taste."
Opinions differ of course. In a two-volume book, The Forest Trees of Britain, (1849) the Rev C.A. Johns, tells us that "a sugar and a very good spirit have been extracted from the berry; and the leaves, it is said, may be employed with advantage in tanning". The wood isn't great, but at Killarney "is manufactured into boxes and toys, which are sold to visitors." That, of course, was a century and a half ago. The author writes of the widespread Arbutus, including on the sides of Mount Athos.
It's a pity there aren't really enough berries on the tree to make jam or jelly with, so that you can have the Arbutus with you all year. The only available cookbook that gives place to it is Jane Grigson's Fruit Book (Penguin Cookery Library). If you've enough to make jelly with, she says, when straining off the fruit, don't be too backward in squeezing the last drop out of the cloth, even though it clouds it a bit. "Arbutus jelly is for pleasure, not prizes."