The pear trees stretch down the northern side of the house, messily pleached and hugged at their base by ginger and cardamon, and complemented on the opposite side of the path by a long unhindered bed of mint. It’s a slice of aromatic pleasure and, in spring, the breeze wafts the most delicious scent of blooming white pear flowers through the house. The walk starts with a Josephine and then wends from a Beurre Bosc and a Packham’s Triumph, to a Howell’s Howell and a William’s. It ends with a vaguely cylindrical Bay tree stretching up beyond the roof of the house – Martha’s home, the garden’s petite ring-tailed possum.