The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

I’ve been very much enjoying my newfound status as a genuine Orchardman. I’ve ordered a book on heritage apples and been back to the field once for a bit of a wander round. I’d been prepared to make gruelling bus trips over to Louth on an almost biweekly basis to water the trees but the weather has taken care of that for me. It makes me wonder what other labour-intensive parts of my life I could hand over to time and random chance. Combing my hair? Washing my pants? The possibilities are endless.

Last Saturday, the East of England Apples and Orchards Project, in conjunction with the National Trust and Lincolnshire Heritage, took over Gunby Hall near Skegness to bang on about apples and pretend they could accurately identify varieties brought in by random members of the public from nearby supermarkets.

I managed to scrounge a lift from foolishly generous ex-boss Simon and set off for the stately home with his family and luxurious car. It was warm, comfortable and able to stop at toilets on the way but didn’t have the unpredictable, plastic seat je-ne-sais-quoi of Lincolnshire Roadcar. I’m not knocking it though. The buses don’t run on Sundays so I’d have been knackered without the offer.

The journey took an hour and presented us with the chance to take a brief tour of Horncastle. Not brief enough, to be honest. Give me Grimsby any day. We parked about sixteen miles away from our destination and wandered towards the horizon, clutching an entirely inappropriate supermarket carrier bag that we hoped was full of rare breeds culled from Simon’s garden. Once inside the hall proper, I gazed on the assembled pomologists and their aged reference tomes. “Here we go,” I thought to myself (I’m not sure who else I was expecting to think to). “This is what I’ve been waiting for. Apple-obsessed real life geniuses with encyclopedic knowledge of Mesopotamian apple varieties and a professional obligation to listen to me.” I nearly shed a tear.

It later transpired that the geniuses in question were mostly old boys rounded up from nearby villages to come and tell punters that their apples were all Jonagolds (a sinister, lab-produced American apple variety designed for use in pies and apple sauce). Simon was crestfallen but claimed not to be too disappointed. I urged him not to abandon hope and pointed through the window at the stalls outside where Shaun D’Arcy Burt was selling fruit trees to passers-by. It seemed that whilst the mainstream Orchard Project had been offered room in the warm, the renegade non-Project members had been relegated to stalls outside in the Lincolnshire winter (or, to be more precise, early Autumn).

At this point, I should probably confess that I’m doing the gentlefolk of the Orchard Project a huge disservice purely for literary effect. They were without exception helpful, knowledgeable and friendly. I had some really fantastic chats and they seemed genuinely interested to hear about my plans. They were also happy that I’d ordered some trees from their website. Unfortunately, I need a villain for the piece, and they’re it.

Laid out at the end of the official room, the Projecterati had assembled a comprehensive collection of Lincolnshire heritage apples and I took some photos of ones that I’d got in Ticklepenny Field. They looked lovely. I can hardly wait to watch as nearby horses scoff next year’s crop before they’re properly ready for human consumption. Maybe I should electrify the surrounding fence and make the horses pay for it.

Once we’d had our fill of warmth and comfort, we headed outside for a tour of Gunby Hall orchard. It contained lots of nice but depressingly mundane fruit trees and some massive pumpkins on weird wooden pedestals (pallets). We eventually found a tree laden with Jonagold apples and compared them to Simon’s fruit. Both were almost definitely apples but that was about where the similarities ended. The Gunby’s fruit had long stalks and oily skin. Simon’s had short stalks and a crinkle-dry, almost arid surface. As we held the two fruit together for review, I remained unconvinced that we were reuniting long lost cousins.

Shaun would know. I urged patience and turned back to have a word with Manby’s leading apple guru. He was happy to help. First up though, he denied any real expertise. Second up, he raised a quizzical eyebrow and asked if Simon had polished the skin before bringing them in. Simon was quietly outraged. Probably. I couldn’t really tell. Nope, no polishing of any kind. Shaun took his word for it but wandered over to the nearby apple seller for a conflab.

She had a box full to the brim of Jonagold specimens, each one as waxy as the next. She said Simon’s apples were probably Jonagolds but the waxy surface must have been removed by polishing. On a shirt of some kind. Simon denied it but he was certainly wearing the type of clothes you’d wear if you were planning on polishing some apples. The experts asked again. It was like a North Korean interrogation. Simon’s children ran around the place, whooping and hollering as if they were either unaware or simply unconcerned about the risk of their father being blown apart by cannons. Or fed to dogs. Or whatever Kim Jong-Un did to that Uncle of his.

Two hours previous, I had watched as Simon took the apple from the tree and put it straight into the bag, but even I was beginning to doubt my recollections of the event. To my shame I kept my mouth shut when I could have bailed him out. Maybe he had polished it. In secret, when no-one was watching. I looked him up and down. To think a friend of mine would stoop so low. I was outraged. Sort of. I might’ve just been cold.

Simon, however, was adamant. No polishing had been done. He hadn’t even rubbed it with his fingers. The apple had been born dry, had grown dry, and would be eaten dry.

Finally convinced of my friend’s sincerity, the two boffins slowly and thoroughly checked the skin, shape, size, stem and basin (the bottom bit) of the apple and nodded sagely to each other. Neither had any idea what it was. They suggested he call it an Alleged Jonagold.

And not polish it next time he wants it identifying.

So that was it. The forces of science had been unable to identify the variety and all we had to show for our day out was some bits of cake and a steely determination never to go back to Horncastle. We can dream on. It’s probably for the best. Knowledge is the enemy of mystery.