By Michael Hopkins
THIRD PLACE in October 2026 Competiton
The bush grew beside the door of the old chapel. The red bricks were weathered and mottled with lichen, their colour softened after more than two hundred years until they had begun to blend into the countryside. No-one knew how long the quince bush had been there.
I went armed with gloves, secateurs and a large bag. The thorns were plentiful and vicious, snagging my clothes and catching at my skin as I reached between the branches. Somewhere above, a blackbird scolded, then fell silent. I pushed deeper, feeling for fruit hidden behind leaves and thorns. By the time I had finished, thin lines of blood marked my arms among the scratches.
The quinces were hard and heavy in the hand: the colour of Golden Delicious apples, but shaped like large, knobbly pears, their skins unexpectedly smooth. Wasps had found a windfall already split on the ground, taking what I hadn’t reached in time. As the bag filled, the quinces knocked together, releasing their fragrance.
At home, cutting them took effort, the knife resisting the dense flesh. Their aroma strengthened as I chopped: apple and pear, with something floral and almost spicy beneath. As they simmered, the kitchen filled with perfume and the windows clouded with steam. The hard golden fruit collapsed into a cloudy orange liquid. I strained it, and what emerged was transformed: clear, deep ruby juice, glowing as the light caught it. Cooked again with sugar, it became jelly, sharp and honeyed on the tongue.
The chapel steps are hollowed, generations of feet having worn shallow troughs into stone that has outlasted them all. Moss has thickened in the mortar between the bricks. Yet beside the door, among its thorns, the quince bush still produces its improbable golden crop each autumn, indifferent to who kneels, who reaches, who is only passing through.
For a while, the scratches remained on my arms.
Judges’ Comments: This scene brings with it such a sense of traversing ecological time while also moving with the cycles of the seasons. We’re invited into the intensity of the zoomed in moment – being amongst the thorns, the scents, the tastes of the quinces and jam, the bloodied scratch – to the incomprehensible zoomed out moment – the centuries-old bricks being reclaimed by the countryside, the aged quince bush who has witnessed so much, the worn chapel steps.
Leave a Reply