It may come as a surprise to some, but rhubarb is actually a vegetable, technically speaking. Or rather it used to be, back in the day. And then in 1947 the US Customs & Excise reclassified it as a fruit. On what grounds I’m none too sure, but such are the ways of the US Customs Service.

Is rhubarb a vegetable? Or is it a fruit? Do I give a damn? Do I give a hoot? Whatever the botanical orthodoxy, it’s difficult to see rhubarb as anything other than a fruit now. The flavour, clean, sharp and lip-puckeringly acid, shouts ‘Fruit!’ at the top of its voice. And the colour, too, a kind of iridescent Day-Glo pink-to-red I has more in common with fruit than the vegetable world. Of course, you use it with mackerel or John Dory, and it makes a lively dance partner with pork in various shapes; but it’s always a sauce, not as a vegetable in its own right.

Not that it matters. I love rhubarb for its own sake. It is the harbinger of the new season, and like sorrel, that other, sharp-flavoured, heart-warming early developer in the veg patch, holds the promise of delights to come. It’s also the most uncomplaining of fruits/vegetables. You plant a crown or set (rhubarb varieties have such delightful names – Timperley Early, Fulton’s Strawberry Surprise, Hawke’s Champagne, and Glaskin’s Perpetual – many honouring rhubarb heroes of former times) in autumn or spring; feed it properly with well-rotted compost; and sooner or later up pop the distinctive stalks under their protective cloche, year after year. If only all the inhabitants of my veg plot were so little trouble and so dependably productive. Then it’s just a matter of twisting off a few stalks, slicing off their leaves, which are poisonous, a quick rinse to get rid of any earth and they’re ready for transformation.

My own rhubarb won’t be ready for transformation for a week or two, but those lovely, slender stalks are already bringing a dash of colour to shelves in supermarkets and greengrocers, thanks to that phenomenon known as the Yorkshire Triangle, a corner of that great county that has laid claim to be the primary rhubarb producing area of the country. It may have shrunk in recent years, but it was generally accepted as being defined by Wakefield, Morley and Rothwell marking the corners.

I’d love to invent a romantic explanation to match the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle, but the truth is that the Rhubarb Triangle owns its existence to pragmatism, canny practicality and the proximity to the railways. The claggy soils of that part of Yorkshire are particularly suited to growing rhubarb that helps the crowns or sets as nascent rhubarb clumps are called, to get a good start in life before they’re moved to sheds where, once warmed by coal, also abundant and cheap in the area, they grow in total darkness (I believe in soot provided by the railways back in the day), until the elegant pink fronds rise up ready for harvesting.

Because the forcing sheds were conveniently close to the railways and in some cases actually were old train sheds, the rhubarb could be harvested, packed and whistled away down the track overnight to the markets of Covent Garden, Brough and Spitalfields in London. There was even a Rhubarb Special Express that ran each night from Ardsley to London until the winter of 1961/62. Small wonder that Yorkshire rhubarb was honoured with PDO (Protected Designation of Origin) by the EU in 2010, complete with a yearly Rhubarb Festival in Wakefield. Although the growers may not be as numerous as they once were, I only hope Yorkshire Rhubarb will continue to receive the recognition and protection it richly deserves in our brave post-Brexit world.