Living and working near Mexico City and about to celebrate his ninetieth birthday is someone who in the past century, by personal intervention, saved more lives than anyone else in human history — about a thousand million people.

The green lobby hates his achievements. And you? If you belong to the 99 per cent of our countrymen who have never heard of Dr Norman Borlaug, you are as ignorant as I was about him before I went to Mexico to meet this man and make a television documentary about him for BBC Four.

Our discussions have helped me to make up my mind about biotechnology and GM food. A month ago I would have been alarmed by the leak that shows the British Government is about to give the go-ahead for the use of genetically modified crops. I used to view the intervention of science in agriculture with doubt. Now I see it as a reason for hope.

Dr Borlaug has been a key transitional figure in his field. He has spent his life on the cusp between traditional farming and biotechnology. He has concluded that only by the responsible application of science to agriculture can we save the world from famine. Since he won the Nobel Peace Prize 33 years ago, Dr Borlaug has stood at the centre of one of the greatest and, in its way, the most dramatic success stories in the history of farming.

Borlaug’s work saved the Indian sub-continent from mass starvation. In his 90 years on this planet its human population has grown from about one billion to more than six billion. Without the hybrid wheats it was Borlaug’s life’s mission to develop and promote among the world’s poorest farmers, few believe that this population could have been sustained.

It is as simple as that. Yet in the fog of mysticism, pseudo-science and sentimentality that fashion has blown in upon the rich, leisured and fat — that is, us — we forget our own history. Interfering in nature is what has put us where we are today. It is the reason you are reading this, the reason you can read, the reason you have time to read, the reason nine tenths of us are alive.

Let me begin in the single-room school in Iowa where one teacher taught children aged from age 5 to 17, and where Norman Borlaug began an education which took him into university, forestry, then agronomy. He remembers the abuse of monoculture in farming, the dustbowls of the Thirties, the disappearance from the environment of deer and wild turkeys, and the corn in his boyhood, standing As high/ As an elephant’s eye. The corn is lower today, he says: more productive hybrids have been developed. Crop yields are up; marginal land has been taken out of production; wild areas have been reclaimed for nature; and the deer and wild turkeys are back in force.

When he was a young scientist in the 1940s he was sent by the Rockefeller Foundation to run a project in Mexico. The country’s wheat harvests were being devastated by stem rust. As they shuttled between the climates of the highlands and the plains so that they could plant two generations each year and test results in both environments, Borlaug and his colleagues developed a drought-hardy, rust-resistant strain of wheat, then crossed it with a dwarf Japanese strain to produce a hybrid short enough to survive the wind and channel growth into grain.

Borlaug did not invent hybridisation. Mankind had started to do that a few thousand years ago when hybrid grasses thrown up by nature were gathered from the wild and developed under unnatural (ie, weeded) conditions in a wheatfield (ie, monoculture) and fertilised artificially (ie, with gathered dung). The dung was collected from genetically modified (ie, domesticated) beasts.

Borlaug built on what was known. He concluded that better hybrids could be produced in a more systematic way, and faster, and promoted among peasant farmers more successfully, than the world had yet realised.

He proved to be not only an effective scientist but also a charismatic salesman. Farming folk are the same the world over, he says: they want to see for themselves results produced on their own soil. Don’t tell them, show them; and do it on farms such as theirs.

From total dependence on wheat imports, Mexico had within a few years shifted to being to a net exporter of wheat. Though skilful, Borlaug had also been lucky. Maize is Mexico’s principal crop; he had been able to use the wheat sector as a sort of pilot for his approach.

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