The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

Nature, Tennyson tells us, is red in tooth and claw. Interestingly, Tennyson went to the same school as me although I think he wrote those words long after he’d left. We probably studied in the same classrooms and scrawled graffiti on the same wooden desks. We haven’t had quite the same literary success. That’s as much proof as you need that education can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

What prompted me to remember the phrase (and google random facts about it to make me look clever) was a photo message sent to me on Thursday morning by Barb, official defender of Ticklepenny Field. Overnight, presumably with malice aforethought, local rabbits had attacked and eaten one of the trees in my orchard. They had scoffed the leaves, gnawed through the upper trunk and even chewed the stick it was leaning on for support.

She assured me that the tree would likely survive, albeit disfigured. Her well meaning words offered little comfort. People always lie to soften bad news, and doubtless this was no exception. The tree was probably ruined. I had nursed it for almost two months and now it was gone. It felt like losing a loved one. Only worse, much much worse.

With kebab bills mounting up, there was no way I could skip a day’s work to check on things immediately. I waited until Saturday and then jumped on the first bus I could be arsed to get up in time for. I sat disconsolate, knees crushed against the extra legroom priority seats in front, waiting for the spire of St James to hove into view.

As we aquaplaned our way along the country lanes, I began to wonder whether we’d even make it through the Wolds. There was flood water everywhere and puddles thirty foot deep (ish) confounding our progress. I couldn’t stop thinking about the field, the rain, the Louth Navigation Canal and the River Lud. There was a definite chance that the whole thing would be under water.

I was momentarily distracted as we passed through Burgh (pronounced Bruff, obviously) on Bain. The village boasts a church nestled in a graveyard littered with dead people (they often are). I wondered whether they deliberately put graveyards around churches to make Sunday morning punters think about their immortal souls. Probably. Us God botherers are sneaky like that.

The church is dedicated to St Helena who, Wikipedia tells me, definitely discovered the true cross. It would have been nice to pop in for a quick shufty. The bus stops helpfully to let an old chap get off, and there’s my chance, but right now I’m too bothered about trees to consider delay. Eventually we arrive in Louth and I disembark near the largest of the ninety three second hand bookshops lining the main street. How can such a small town support so many bookshops? It’s weird. Suits me though. Stephen King for a quid? Don’t mind if I do.

Dad picks me up in town and drives me to his house for a brew before we head to Ticklepenny. Bits of the field are flooded, causing me once again to consider installing a permanent pond. It would be left wild and untamed to encourage dragonflies and improve my Springwatch credibility. It’s a tempting thought but, once again, not the immediate matter at hand.

Eventually, I wade my way to the scene of the crime. The victim is Ingall’s Pippin, the smallest sapling in the outermost part of the orchard. The culprits savaged as much of the trunk as they could and then littered the ground nearby with poo (which has since been removed). The tree had been encased in a plastic tube that was intended to protect it from just this kind of frenzied attack. The rabbit must have somehow climbed up it to reach the branches. I looked suspiciously over the fence at the horses with their long, elegant necks and massive gobs. However, despite the suspiciously convenient removal of evidence, it probably was the rabbits what done it. I’m keeping my eyes on the horses though.

Do rabbits eat apples? If they do, scoffing the tree before it’s old enough to bear fruit is shortsighted at best. Don’t these rodents think things through? Leave it a couple of years and they could have had a plentiful supply of actual apples. Worse still, the trees are no more than twenty foot away from a stable stuffed with nutritious carrots.

I look down at the marmalised tree, briefly considering replacing it with a new specimen. My eyes rest on the teeth marks around the top of its stem. It did nothing to deserve such savagery and rightly demands better treatment from me. The assault will set it back a season but I’ll give it every chance to recover. I can wait a year if needs be. Trees are people too.

Me and my dad have a walk round the field to the Lock before we leave. It’ll soon be time for the cows to retire to their winter sheds but, for now, they are slurping contentedly from a puddle of murky rainwater. They present an appealing image of the balance of nature. Catastrophic flooding for mankind, unexpected liquid lunch for cows.

Back in town, I scoff a fish lunch with my mum at the newly reopened Mr Chips and then catch the 13.50 bus home. I planned on spending the journey appreciating the countryside as it flashed by but the bus’s windows are so filthy I can barely tell where earth ends and sky begins. Instead I decide to have a nap. Sleeping on public transport is a perilous affair if you’re getting off before the final stop but, fortunately, I snore so loudly I wake myself up every fourteen seconds.

I’m not bothered by the disgruntled glares of my fellow passengers. One of them has opened her triple breakfast sandwich pack and is eating the constituent parts one at a time. She is in no position to criticise me or anyone else.

Despite my intermittent slumbering, I manage to get off at the right stop with only a small amount of nap-induced drool in my beard. It’s been quite the day. I think I’ll treat myself to a cup of tea and a hob-nob. I can’t promise I won’t cry into my brew.