The raspberries are gurgling. All 600 kilograms of them, packed into the plastic fermenter that’s been sitting outside under a carport for the last two-and-a-half weeks.

When the lid is sucked clean of its water seal, the fruit is revealed: a tight mass, faded pink and stippled with drupelets. It’s only when the cap is punched down with a shovel that they hiss and seethe. The raspberries are possessed by wild fermentation, carbonation racing through the bloody juice they’ve let. Their aroma billows promiscuously across the lawn, heady with carbon dioxide.