I went to Sicily to learn about Mediterranean horticulture as part of my degree. I’d agreed to work in an ornamental garden on a huge estate for six months, helping to grow crops for the local culinary school to use in their experimental Sicilian cuisine. One night a couple of months in, though, things got more experimental than I had bargained for.

I was sharing a cottage in the grounds with two other foreign students, an American and a Canadian. One evening, they returned from a foraging trip with some leaves they’d found on the estate, which they had identified as chard. They were already cooking when I got in from the garden. It was late and I was ravenous, and I ate at least twice as much of the boiled greens as either of the others. It was a good meal, slightly bitter, but that’s not unusual in the region and, seasoned with salt and a little lemon juice, it went down a treat.

For dessert, we had fresh blood oranges, but I took one bite and spat mine out – it was mouldy. The other two had the same reaction, but when we examined the fruit they looked perfectly fresh. Rinsing our mouths out with bottled water didn’t help, either – that had the same mouldy taste. We realised we must all be reacting to something we’d eaten, but as we tried to work out what, we became confused.

Taking deep breaths outside didn’t help clear our heads, and along with the disorientation, I felt suddenly tired, too. There were two Sicilians living next door who worked on the estate. We hammered on their door and tried to explain our symptoms. We showed them little bits of leaf left over from the pot and they gave us indigestion tablets, but as our symptoms intensified, they realised that wasn’t going to be enough. Within 10 minutes, they were driving us at speed to the nearest hospital.

The hallucinations kicked in long before we arrived. I was in the passenger seat, concentrating on simply trying to stay awake, when the road ahead of us seemed to narrow suddenly. I remember shouting, “Ahhh! Be careful!” and grabbing the driver’s knee, and him looking at me as if I was mad. The girls felt strange, but not as bad as me. It took an hour to reach the hospital, and by then I was suffering muscle contractions throughout the lower half of my body. I realised I wasn’t going to be able to get out of the car unassisted – my legs felt completely paralysed.

Inside, the doctors took one look at me and asked what drugs I’d taken – my pupils had expanded to such a size, they had swallowed my irises entirely. As I blacked out, the girls were describing the meal and the doctors were trying to work out what we had eaten. I spent the next 15 hours in a coma.

When I came to, I felt fine. I remember looking around and discovering I was attached to two heart monitors, a drip and a urinary catheter. I learned that the hospital, which was small, had called on the expertise of a big toxicology research centre in Parma. An antidote had been sent by helicopter, but it had been delayed by bad weather. A car had then been dispatched to complete the relay, while the doctors at my bedside had discussed how long it was likely to take the toxins to reach my brain – at one point, I had been given two minutes to live.

The culprit turned out to be a strain of mandrake, which is common in Sicily. I’d like to think I’d have been more cautious than my colleagues, but they’d picked young leaves – which are very chard-like – at a time of year when the telltale flowers weren’t visible. I don’t harbour any hard feelings towards them. The girls’ symptoms were relatively mild and they had both been discharged by the time I regained consciousness; I spent three more days undergoing tests. Ultimately, I was given a clean bill of health and told my sporty lifestyle may have aided my quick recovery.

I phoned my mum to fill her in on my misadventure, only realising the significance of the date as the phone was ringing. “Happy birthday, Mum!” I said. “Your present this year is to know I’m still alive.”

• As told to Chris Broughton.

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