Propagate, propagate: a Worcestershire gardener uses army surplus metal pyramids to force rhubarb in 1962. (Photo: Getty)
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Who knew rhubarb had a dark side?

The dark underworld of West Yorkshire rhubarb forcing.

Even the kindest of souls would struggle to describe Jonathan Westwood’s West Yorkshire farm as a rural idyll. Instead of rolling hills and bleating sheep there are long, low sheds and the drone of traffic from the M62 and M1; just past the pigs and cabbages lie slip roads and raw new housing estates.

Yet inside those sheds, it’s still 1880. The smell hits me as I duck through a crooked Victorian doorway: warm and vegetal, almost rainforesty. Westwood switches on his torch, and rhubarb looms out of the gloom, ranks of spindly pink stalks and acid yellow leaves stretching back as far as the eye can see.

It’s a surprisingly unsettling experience for anyone who read The Day of the Triffids at an impressionable age and so I’m pretty keen to get out again, though not before he has explained that growers started raising the plants in the dark in the late 19th century, to keep the stems tender and sweet. With enough warmth and water, he says with enthusiasm, they can put on two inches a day. Shudder.

Slimy green tendrils of stewed rhubarb never held any fear for me at school, but I find these slender pink stems, shooting up in the silent darkness, strangely eerie. Legend has it that you can even hear “forced” rhubarb growing; its buds bursting, leaves unfurling, stems creaking. Fortunately, I don’t.

The farm sits in a triangle of land between Wakefield, Leeds and Morley which has been a hotbed of indoor rhubarb production for a century and a half, thanks to good soil, a frosty microclimate and (once upon a time at least) a ready supply of fuel from the mines to heat the sheds. Even the fertiliser is unmistakably local; as we drive round the farm Westwood points out great soggy piles of the “shoddy”, or wool waste, that he buys from a mill in nearby Dewsbury.

In the triangle’s heyday during the Second World War, when the government fixed the price of rhubarb to feed a population starved of fruit, there were more than 200 growers in the area. Many folded once bananas returned to Britain, and by the 1980s, Westwood recalls, sales were so poor that the biggest rhubarb grower in the area was ready to pack it in altogether – “and then we managed to get it into the supermarkets”.

This coup, coupled with a revival of interest in classic British cookery, saved the few growers that remained. Westwood sells everything he can grow under the Red Tractor badge and is hoping next year to extend the indoor season, which runs from November to April, to compete with the Dutch.

But it’s still not an easy business: the fuel and labour costs make forced rhubarb an expensive crop to grow. Westwood employs almost 40 people year round and some of them have been working for him for nearly 50 years. Everything, from watering to harvesting and packing, is done by hand.

With only ten growers still operating in the triangle, it’s little wonder the Leeds and District Market Gardeners Association, now in its 94th year, has had to give up the Best Sticks competition at its annual rhubarb dinner-dance for lack of interest. “I think I won it four years in a row – it was just embarrassing,” Westwood says, looking not at all embarrassed.

Indeed, the certificates are still proudly pinned up on the walls above his head in the cluttered farm office where he works with his sister and cousin. “Best box of Timperley”, “Best six sticks of Fenton”, they read – tributes to a vanished world where the Rhubarb Express ran nightly from Wakefield to the London markets.

I ask him what keeps him in the business. “Madness. Sheer madness!” he sighs, shaking his head ruefully. Yorkshire through and through, just like his rhubarb.

Next week: John Burnside on nature

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 05 March 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's power game

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Would the BBC's Nazi drama SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago?

This alternate history is freighted with meaning now we're facing the wurst-case scenario. 

Would SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago? Though the clever-after-the-fact Nostradamus types out there might disagree, I can’t believe that it would. When it comes to the Second World War, after all, the present has helpfully stepped in where memory is just beginning to leave off. The EU, in the process of fragmenting, is now more than ever powerless to act in the matter of rogue states, even among its own membership. In case you hadn’t noticed, Hungary, for instance, is already operating as a kind of proto-fascist state, led by Viktor Orbán, a man whom Jean-Claude Juncker, the president of the European Commission, jokingly likes to call “the dictator” – and where it goes, doubtless others will soon follow.

The series (Sundays, 9pm), adapted from Len Deighton’s novel, is set in 1941 in a Britain under Nazi occupation; Winston Churchill has been executed and the resistance is struggling to hold on to its last strongholds in the countryside. Sam Riley plays Douglas Archer, a detective at Scotland Yard, now under the control of the SS, and a character who appears in almost every scene. Riley has, for an actor, a somewhat unexpressive face, beautiful but unreadable. Here, however, his downturned mouth and impassive cheekbones are perfect: Archer, after all, operates (by which I mean, barely operates) in a world in which no one wants to give their true feelings away, whether to their landlady, their lover, or their boss, newly arrived from Himmler’s office and as Protestant as all hell (he hasn’t used the word “degenerate” yet, but he will, he will).

Archer is, of course, an ambiguous figure, neither (at present) a member of the resistance nor (we gather) a fully committed collaborator. He is – or so he tells himself – merely doing his job, biding his time until those braver or more foolhardy do something to restore the old order. Widowed, he has a small boy to bring up. Yet how long he can inhabit this dubious middle ground remains to be seen. Oskar Huth (Lars Eidinger), the new boss, is keen to finish off the resistance; the resistance, in turn, is determined to persuade Archer to join its cause.

It’s hard to find fault with the series; for the next month, I am going to look forward to Sunday nights mightily. I would, I suppose, have hoped for a slightly more charismatic actress than Kate Bosworth to play Barbara Barga, the American journalist who may or may not be involved with the British resistance. But everything else seems pretty perfect to me. London looks suitably dirty and its inhabitants’ meals suitably exiguous. Happiness is an extra egg for tea, smoking is practically a profession, and
the likes of Archer wear thick, white vests.

Swastikas adorn everything from the Palace of Westminster to Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace is half ruined, a memorial to what the Germans regard as Churchill’s folly, and the CGI is good enough for the sight of all these things to induce your heart to ache briefly. Nazi brutality is depicted here as almost quotidian – and doubtless it once was to some. Huth’s determination to have four new telephone lines installed in his office within the hour is at one end of this horrible ordinariness. At the other is the box in which Archer’s mutinous secretary Sylvia (Maeve Dermody) furiously stubs out her fag, full to the brim with yellow stars.

When I first heard about The Kettering Incident (Tuesdays, 12.20am; repeated Wednesdays, 10pm) I thought someone must have found out about that thing that happened one time I was driving north on the M1 with a more-than-usually terrible hangover. Turns out it’s a new Australian drama, which comes to us on Sky Atlantic. Anna (Elizabeth Debicki), a doctor working in London, pitches up back in Tasmania many years after her teenage friend Gillian disappeared into its Kettering forest, having seen a load of mysterious bright lights. Was Gillian abducted by aliens or was she, as some local people believe, murdered by Anna? To be honest, she could be working as a roadie for Kylie, for all I care. This ponderous, derivative show is what happens when a writer sacrifices character on the altar of plot. The more the plot thickens, the more jaw-achingly tedious it becomes.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 24 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The world after Brexit