“You may pick your own strawberries,” deadpans the man with the bullhorn. We’re let loose, allowed to run amok. A real strawberry field! The Beatles hadn’t been lying after all.

Ravishing cherry tomatoes, pale Japanese cucumbers and jade-coloured capsicum, all grown on fresh mountain water and air, crowd thick and wild in adjoining pens. They taste preposterously wonderful. Half an hour later, we emerge covered in crushed strawberry, and beaming.
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