NEVER mind "bramble" or "blackberry". The collective wisdom of the columns and correspondence on this page has established, beyond all reasonable doubt, that both are correct. My wish is that the name will always be determined by local custom and tradition, rather than the dictates of modern marketing.

But where were the cooks to spot the howler in my piece speaking up for "bramble"? Flak from readers, short of personal abuse, I can take; it goes with the territory of a columnist. But my celebration of the bramble brought trouble from a quarter more to be reckoned with even than an editor – my wife.

A terse, handwritten note appeared on my desk: “I do not use breadcrumbs to make a crumble.” That was the crime I had accused Shirley of. Except that I didn’t see it as a crime when I noted that she took her “homemade breadcrumbs” with her on our autumn Lake District holiday, to make a crumble with freshly pricked brambles.

Though not a cook, our daughter in London was swiftly on to the clanger. She phoned to ask her mother: “What’s this in Dad’s column about you making crumble with breadcrumbs?” When news of the gaffe reached our son he failed to close ranks for the traditional unreconstructed male. “You’ve only been eating Mum’s crumble for 55 years,” he declared.

And often seeing it being made, I honestly must admit. The result looks like breadcrumbs. That’s my excuse anyway – plus that during the making my wife sometimes says: “I’m at the breadcrumbs stage now.”

For those as ignorant as I am/was, the breadcrumbs moment comes when plain flour and butter have been mixed together. Cook books allow use of a mixer, but my wife insists fingers give superior results. Add caster sugar and, hey presto, there’s your crumble. The most mouthwatering topping over brambles or gooseberries, it can even be frozen until needed.

With my mistake in print for all to see, I anticipated readers’ scorn. But the bramble/blackberry debate soaked up all the attention. Just as well since a wife’s disdain is more than enough. But the cloud appears to have passed. I’m hopeful there’ll be bramble crumble in the Lake District next month – though perhaps I’ll be told to make it myself.

BBC’s Countryfile last weekend investigated the huge potash mine planned for near Whitby. It raised the question of whether the ambitious production and employment forecasts were well founded. While conflicting answers were given, the item nevertheless, and quite incidentally, revealed a reason for caution. It was reported that the existing potash mine, Cleveland Potash, near Staithes, provides “more than half” the potash Britain needs. Not recalled was that at the planning inquiry that secured approval for the mine, it was confidently stated that the mine would meet Britain’s entire need for potash – and create an export industry.

WITH all too rare exceptions, cricket has lost its grip on the public. Last Sunday I was at a local game. Marooned in the scorebox away from the pavilion, I several times asked players and spectators who wandered over if they had any news of the Test Match. Had Australia wrapped up victory? Had rain saved England? No one knew a thing.