As young, care free kids growing up in rural back country New Zealand, the bountiful land around us was our supermarket.

The closest we ever got to a check-out was old Frank’s honesty box at the end of the neighbouring orchard driveway. And the tantalising, virgin fruits we devoured fresh from that day’s picking, were simply natures finest gift to a child.

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Juicy ripe peaches, crisp rosy apples, crunchy pears, tangy feijoas and succulent kiwifruit. We enjoyed those harvests like no other, especially when we took them home for mother to make up the secret family recipe juices. Naturally we thought they were the best, after all it was an era when no one had ever heard of additives. And preservatives were the domain of the gorged Kilner jars that contained the naturally sweetened, preserved fruit of a previous, plentiful season.

In the Autumn months that followed we would bottle that wonderful juice in any vessel we could find, set up shop at the orchard gate and wait for a thirsty, receptive traveller to come by.

No one made much money but that’s just what we did. Life was simple, life was good.