I have not written about my figs for a while because I do not want to bore my readers. Sometimes it feels like my blog should be named Life is But Figs.
I have neglected my trees this year by not spraying with my homemade white oil or bagging the fruit, but the dry winter and severe summer heat that Sydney has suffered brought on vigorous growth and a bumper crop of fruit. Some were attacked by fruit flies but a surprising number reached ripeness unscathed.
It is impossible to photograph my trees with the iPhone; I need a proper camera with panoramic lenses. Anyway, I am a gardener, not a photographer.
A fig is ripe for picking when it hangs heavy on the branch; it droops from its own weight. The Black Genoa starts to colour, first in stripes then turns a dark purple. Sometimes a drop of nectar oozes from the opening at its end and sometimes you can see ants and other insects being attracted to it. Sometimes it split, either from having too much rain or being over ripe. It is a good idea to pick them then or, before the birds and possums and insects get to it.
Everyday I agonise over whether I should pick a fruit before the optimum moment; often I lose the fruit to the wildlife. If you want to grow figs, you learn to be philosophical.