The gales that swept the leaves from the lawns beside the footpath had shaken medlars down from the tree. It seemed a shame to let them go to waste so we filled our pockets.

Held in the palm of the hand a Mespilus germanica pome seems a daunting fruit, with its russet skin pock marked with corky pustules and crowned with claw-like sepals that remain attached and harden after the white petals fall.

And it’s impossible to ignore its puckered centre, which inspired its French name, cul de chien – dog’s arse. Add to all this the need for the fruit to rot before it becomes edible and the inevitable conclusion is that marketing medlars would be an insurmountable challenge when bright colours and skin perfection dictate public taste in fruits. It’s hardly surprising that no passersby seemed interested in picking them uppicked them up.

It wasn’t always so. The trees are hardy, bountiful, croppers when established, and, in mediaeval England, produced a valued winter food. Affluent Victorian and Edwardian households laid down jars of medlar jelly as a Christmas conserve.

Bletting, the process of allowing medlars to rot to just the right degree before they can be eaten, requires fine judgment. We left ours on the windowsill and for the first 10 days they remained wooden; then one firm press left a thumb indentation. We peeled away the skin, only to find the flesh still fibrous.

We waited another week, until they had the feel of soft leather bags filled with porridge when we squeezed them; just right. The contents had the consistency and texture of fudge, perfect for scooping out with a teaspoon.

And the taste? Well, it’s hard to describe as there are no exact parallels, but they were surprisingly sweet, like apple with a hint of lemon. Therein, perhaps, lies their charm; a rough, intimidating exterior with unexpected delicacy within.

With this discovery, mindful of Richard Mabey’s advice in his Flora Britannica that medlars go well with whiskey, and eager to make the jelly, we went back for more fruit this morning. There must have been well over 200 under the tree. Even the blackbirds had ignored them.