The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

It feels like this blog is approaching a natural conclusion despite the protestations of almost one of its several readers. I’ve got space. I sort of vaguely know what I’m doing. And, perhaps even more importantly, I now have some trees that will soon start depositing apples amongst the piles of horse and cow poo that litter the field at Ticklepenny Lock. Once the trees are in situ, attempting to describe their glacial growth rates on a weekly basis would be an unacceptable level of tedium even for this nonsense. I might post occasionally about a particularly exciting development or discovery, but mostly I’ll be done and you can all find something better to read. Like the ingredients on a can of beans. Or the backs of your eyelids.

This week’s quest to finally acquire some trees did not get off to the most auspicious start. On Monday, my sister ‘fessed up that she’d neglected to order the apple trees she had promised for my 50th birthday back in June. Obviously, she is now dead to me.

Fortunately, despite the shameless indifference of my siblings, I managed to secure a meeting with Mr Shaun D’Arcey of Mr D’Arcey’s Heritage Fruit Trees on Friday, a long time hero of this blog. I checked the bus timetable (even though there’s basically only one bus a week back to Louth and I know the schedule off by heart) and arranged to scrounge my dad’s push bike to help with the last few miles of my pomological pilgrimage.

It was only when I was sat at my dad’s that morning, sipping on a brew, that he pointed out the problems inherent in carrying trees on a bicycle.

Fortunately for all concerned (me), the old boy was happy to drive me over in his Hilux. Proof positive that foresight and common sense are less important than you might think. Particularly if you know someone with a truck and time on their hands.

After raiding the local cashpoint for every scrap of remaining funds, I wedged myself into the passenger seat, sending unmatched work gloves and scraps of coarse grade sandpaper flying into the foot well, and we were off. Next stop Manby.

Driving straight to your destination without random detours and six minute delays at obscure rural road passing points lacks the romance of a proper bus trip but is definitely more time efficient. We parked up outside D’Arcey HQ minutes later and were soon shaking hands with the man himself.

Over the phone, Shaun had seemed informed and amiable. He was much the same in real life. My only disappointment, and it was only slight, was that he was wearing a North Face t-shirt instead of a flouncy renaissance style shirt.

He talked us through the various varieties of apple tree he had laid out on his front lawn, all on offer at entirely reasonable prices, and didn’t even mock me when I said I didn’t really care what they tasted like, as long as they were proper Lincolnshire.

We settled eventually on a half dozen likely suspects (basically everything he had on offer), hailing from Grimoldby and Stamford in roughly equal part. At some point in the future, unless I miraculously discover something productive to do with my time, I’ll start a list of what I’ve got. Then, next year, when these well known but nonetheless very-much-heritage varieties are growing and prospering, I’ll start attempting to graft and discover other types.

The three of us swapped stories of apple hunting for a good twenty minutes, while bleak clouds slowly gathered overhead and the wind grew ever colder. Eventually, stockpile of banal anecdotes thoroughly depleted, I could skirt the issue no longer. Despite all my shame and embarrassment, I needed to ask Mr d’Arcey about what happened at the Trinity Lane allotment and whether I could nick bits of the trees he had left there. The only problem was how to raise the issue without seeming uncouth or opportunistic. It was tricky.

Fortunately, where I was paralysed by manners and social awkwardness, my dad just asked him point blank. I braced for impact. We were basically asking if we could steal something from him that was probably not only dear to him, but had already been stolen once. It was like pouring salt into a papercut. Or is that what you’re supposed to do with papercuts? My nursing days are long since behind me and my medical recollections are sketchy at best.

Mr d’Arcey, however, simply smiled and said, “Of course.” They weren’t really his trees any more, if indeed man can ever really own a tree (he can, I’ve checked). In fact, he suggested we consider a dusk commando raid on the allotment. As well as securing a small clipping or two for me, it would allow him to label the remaining trees for the benefit of the other allotment owners.

Suffice to say, Shaun D’Arcey Burt is a gentleman and a scholar. I’m beginning to understand what Elizabeth Bennet saw in him. If any of you want some trees, hit me up for his contact details. I can’t recommend him highly enough.

Unpressured by time, Shaun (we’re on first name terms now) went on to recount several other stories concerning the time he was accused of fermenting anarchist rebellion amongst the previously timorous allotment owners and the true meanings of some of the weirder tree names. Alas, they must wait for a subsequent blog post. My dad is already concerned about the general paucity of content here and I don’t want to blow it all in one week.

Trees safely stored in the back of the truck, we shook hands, secured a promise from him to answer any future stupid questions I may have, and headed back to Louth. My six prime trees (Dr Clifford, Barnack Beauty, Lord Burghley, Ingall’s Pippin, Ingall’s Red and Ellison’s Orange) are now sat in the passage next to my dad’s house, sheltered from the wind by a seldom used Canadian canoe. As soon as I’ve got another day off, we can get them planted and Ticklepenny Orchard will be officially up and running. Exciting times. Sort of.