The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

When last we met, I was tentatively cycling through Grimoldby looking for a tree of interest that was allegedly hidden nearby. It was a promising lead, backed up by research into William Ingall, orchardman of these parts, and local historical maps found in murky corners of the internet (old-maps.co.uk).

As surely as night follows day and crushing disappointment follows every announcement of a new Star Wars film, part two of my Grimoldby expedition must follow last week’s part one, so here goes. If you hated that, you’ll hate this too so feel free to close your browser and forget how close you came to disaster. For those of you still around, prepare to learn what lies down Priory Lane and why you shouldn’t trust anything my so-called sister says.

I’ll remind you. An anonymous tip (albeit one with a name attached) suggested that William Ingall had left a gage tree, specifically Ingall’s Grimoldby Greengage (a functional name if ever there was one), down a footpath off Priory Lane. I was there to investigate, despite my sister denying that such a path even existed. Fortunately for all concerned, I’ve got a long history of ignoring her dismal advice.

Knees colliding with my chin, I cycled slowly down Priory Lane, searching left and right, high and low (but mostly low) for the mythical footpath. By the time the road had degenerated into a motley dirt track leading into some privately-owned arable fields, I had found only the cricket field path that my sister had mentioned. It would have to do. Using muscles developed during long years hoisting Apple Turnovers towards my gaping mouth, I lunked my trusty pedal-iron over what turned out to be the first of many stiles and set off across the pitch. There was an obvious and immediate lack of fruit trees but I carried on regardless. Reality and logic hold no sway over me.

The picturesque trail wound across several fenced fields and the succession of stiles became ever more problematic for my lardy bingo wings. To compound matters, the heat was starting to turn my baldy pate a worrying shade of bright red. I pressed on regardless and eventually crossed a cool little stream surrounded by less cool nettles. A couple more fields and the path ended on a wider road that I incorrectly assumed to be Eastfield Road. I turned left heading who knows where but, through sheer blind fortune, eventually emerged onto Tinkle Lane. Despite taking every wrong turn possible, I was in the right place. It was either an omen of future success or a piece of blind luck.

Sadly, there had been no fruit tree, gage or otherwise, anywhere near the path. I had met once again with failure. We were becoming familiar friends.

Dismayed, I headed back towards Priory Lane, pausing only to tour the nearby cemetery. I briefly imagined that maybe I could find Ingall’s grave and pretend that the trip was a success after all. No such luck. I wondered if there might be something interesting inside the church itself but I heard muffled voices and thought I’d best leave them in peace. No-one deserves to have their spiritual pilgrimage disturbed by me looking for the gravestone of someone I’ve no right to trouble.

Anyway, back to Priory Lane and my second forlorn circuit. This time I decided to walk rather than ride in the hope that going even slower would miraculously make hidden footpath signs emerge. Unbelievably for this blog, I met with success.

Opposite the cricket field hidden behind a dense hedge was a second footpath that my sister, who obviously hates me, had forgotten about. My pulse quickened. The path wound through beaming green foliage. This must be it. Thirty yards later I struck leafy gold. There, branches entwined with several other trees and almost hidden from view, stood fifteen foot of glory festooned in small green gages. Granted, it might not be the one I hoped it was, they all look basically the same to me, but I’d come too far to endure more disappointment. This would do. Inside, I cheered. Outside, I was still concentrating on wheezing.

I looked both ways to make sure no-one was watching and then reached into the undergrowth with my trusty clippers. I’d read online that I needed a leafy branch about 10 inches in length, so I had a quick root around and then cut off a promising looking option. It was a looker if I say so myself. A thickish root that split into two still sturdy branches and covered with healthy looking leaves. It even had a couple of baby gages on it. It might have been sacrilege, but I was pretty pleased with myself nonetheless.

Before any prying locals had the chance to grass me up, I eased the branch into my rucksack and vamoosed back to freedom. Fortunately for me, the path emerged on to the main road back to Louth and I was soon back on the bus to Lincoln. I spent the next hour researching the Thief Act of 1968 and the legal ramifications of taking cuttings from trees on public land. I think I’m in the clear but I could be wrong. The law is complicated.

The journey seemed to take an age (it always does on Stagecoach), but I made it home without further incident or arrest and planted my prize cutting in the shed.

“Please live,” I whispered as I backed slowly away.

I realise it’s not an apple and it’s not even particularly rare, but I need it to grow so I can bung it in the field proper and actually have an orchard. I’ve been writing this guff for nearly three months now and I’ve basically nothing to show for it. Honestly, it’s starting to get (more) embarrassing.

Tune in next week to discover the fate of the cutting. You can probably guess though.