Shaped rather like a quince, thought Archdeacon Thurgot as he admired the cooking apples ready for picking in the monks’ orchard of Durham Abbey.
Shaped rather like a quince, “These are unusual apples, Brother,” he said, pointing to a tree laden with the green fruit, and turning to his guide, the monk in charge of the abbey gardens, “what name do they go by?”
“Dog’s Snout, Archdeacon. I believe this variety was so called because of its shape,” he picked one of the curious apples and handed it to his superior, “see how it tapers similar to a hound’s nose? They are rather acidic, so the master cook uses them to bake pies. You’d be wise to avoid sampling it.”
Thurgot had more weighty matters to deal with and it was to distract himself that he had chosen to tour the gardens. He did not need
