The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

After all this time, no-one would blame you for scepticism but, I promise you, I had plans for today. It was going to be either a day in Stamford at the Community Orchard site or, in the most dire of circumstances, a bus trip to Isaac Newton’s gaff near Grantham to see his apple tree, even though it’s some dodgy southern variety (Flower of Kent or some such. Who even cares?)

Instead, I received a phone call from one of our volunteers and discovered that I had to work. I’m not bitter. He got a free cup final ticket and I’ve still got the afternoon to do something.

Fortunately, my recent lack of activity has not been entirely passive. I have discovered two other things. First up, a website map directory thing with tiny little pin markers for every notable heritage tree in Lincolnshire (actually, it covers the whole country but foreign parts are not my concern). Second up (is that a phrase?), a list of orchards in Lincolnshire just waiting to be downloaded and pored over at my leisure.

I’m currently in the fortunate position of having unlimited broadband so downloading the orchard directory is no problem. I could download it twice if I wanted to. That’s the type of profligate internet roamer I am these days. That might change soon. I’m sorely tempted to turn my broadband off and invest the extra moolah in kebabs and baked goods. Modernity is the enemy, chaps.

Anyway, for now at least, I can download anything. The orchard list is mine and it soon reveals a frankly less than impressive three orchards. Cross O’Cliff orchard has already offered me an indecent amount of blog content, that’s number one. Number two is Stamford and you need a week to get there. Number three is today’s backup contingency plan; the Museum of Lincolnshire Life, nestled not two miles away on foot from Toogood Central.

“The museum has a recently planted orchard,” claims the entirely trustworthy document, “containing a collection of Lincolnshire varieties.” There then follows some contact details so that explorers who are not quite as intrepid as me can check their facts before setting off.

Forgoing caution and preparation, I’m off. I feed the cat, I download a suitable podcast to listen to on the way, and I set off up Frederick Street and towards Burton Road. I pass by the Minster School, bastion of elitist education and money-based pleb-baiting (in their defence they do a lot of good work for charity), past the cathedral (probably, the Sun’s a bit bright so I spend the journey staring at the ground) and then on to Burton Road with its camouflaged water tower and small selection of cafes. I could have a pie or an artisan coffee to mark my arrival from the dark hinterlands of Monks Road but instead I treat myself to a tin of Diet Coke. It’s rotten and I tip it down the next drain.

There it is. The Museum of Lincolnshire Life. Far be it from me to suggest that Lincolnshire life is itself a museum. No sign of an orchard on the outside. It must be behind the walls. Ah there we go, a courtyard. I can see the trees from here.

The museum is free and staffed by lovely volunteer types. They hand me a map. I scan it briefly and entertain a flicker of worry. No mention of an orchard. I pause briefly to fulfil social obligations and look at the displays in the shop and then dive out through the door and into the courtyard. There are two trees. One of them is not an apple tree.

Ah well, I’m here now. I walk round the exhibition and thoroughly enjoy myself. I even make eye contact with another visitor and don’t scowl at them when they smile. There’s a display for each room in a traditional history-based household and then one for each of the common shops. There’s a lot of stuff about tanks (we invented them here. It’s our cultural heritage) and even more about ploughs. It’s good. Lincolnshire is brilliant. I bet there are farms somewhere using older machines than they have in the museum.

Eventually I’m done and all that remains is the orchard/tree bit. I stare at it. I take photos. I scratch my head. I make my head bleed.

Before I leave, tail between my legs, I ask the staff whether there was ever an orchard here. I try to hide the crushing disappointment in my voice.

“There’s one tree,” they tell me. “It has lovely blossoms. Not at the moment though. It’s an Ellison’s Orange. It’s an apple though. Not an orange.”

“Thanks,” I beam back. “I’ll have another look.”

To be fair, it’s a proper beautiful tree and it obviously produces fruit because there’s a sign telling people not to help themselves. Its leaves are a lustrous green and there are sappy bits here and there. Somebody has cut one of the branches. There might be a reason for it but I like to call people like that gits. Just in case they are.

Ellison’s Orange, the Apple Register of the United Kingdom tells me, is a dessert apple first recorded in 1904 that can be picked from mid-September. Its raising was a joint effort on the part of Reverend Charles Ellison of Bracebridge, Lincoln and Mr Wipf, the gardener at Hartsholme Hall. It’s a marriage of church and state. Wipf is an interesting name. It may bear further investigation.

I think I want one. I wonder whether the curator will give me a bit of tree for the field if I make a donation. I wonder whether he’ll consider the type of change-down-the-back-of-the-sofa nature of my finances to be a decent enough offering. Probably not, but it can’t hurt to try. I’ll write him a letter.