The air in the orchard has a mesmerising, citrussy smell. The pimpled green berries, just beginning to blush pink, cling in ones and twos to the thorny stems of the trees. Despite the drizzle and the grey sky, I'm elated. I pluck a pair of peppercorns and rub them in my hands. The fragrance comes quickly, perfuming the air around. It is overwhelming, so fresh and zesty, so redolent of wood and wildness. I close my eyes. And then I put some pepper between my lips. In its green astringent newness, it puckers my tongue immediately, and then, a few seconds later, the tingling hits. That incomparable tongue-numbing sensation of Sichuan pepper, a fizzing that starts stealthily and rises to a mouth-streaming, breathtaking crescendo that can last for twenty minutes, before it slowly, gradually dies away. It is stronger even than I expected, and I laugh in surprise. For years I have dreamt of tasting Sichuan pepper on the tree, and here I am, in Qingxi itself, my lips singing.

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