The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

Lockdown, amongst other things too weighty for a blog like this, has properly ruined the chances of writing almost-amusing stories about bus trips. Before Coronavirus (remember those times?), Lincolnshire Roadcars across the county were teeming with comedy locals for me to poke fun at from the safety of my ivory tower. Those days are long gone. These days, it’s all paranoid queuing in the bus station snatching sideways glances at the mask-free punters nearby.

They probably have their reasons. As long as they don’t run over and start coughing directly into my fizzog, I’m happy to let them crack on breathing fresh, clean air and enjoying the benefits of glasses that aren’t steamed up. Only a select few of the assembled crowd end up clambering onto the Louth bus and we do our best to spread out across the available plastic seats. Beneath their masks some of them might be sporting friendly smiles but I’ll never know. The journey from Lincoln to Louth is like sitting in a morgue which, ironically, the precautions are designed to avoid you having to do.

Having said that, Mother Lincolnshire still did her level best to entertain. Big skies, endless fields and swooping birds surrounded the bus. Ideally, I’d like to identify the species of bird but I’m as hopelessly ill-informed on that subject as I am on most others. I can fairly reliably tell the difference between bird, cow and sheep but, beyond that, I’m a disgrace to my yellowbelly heritage.

Anyway, I’m not going to moan about the nearly empty bus or the passengers staring stubbornly away from each other. I’m too grateful the thing is running. This is my first chance to head to the orchard since the government relaxed their advice regarding public transport. No matter how much I squint, it’s difficult to categorise the writer of a blog often seen by nearly seven people as a key worker or a trip to a pretend orchard next to half a canal as an essential journey.

The last thing I did at Ticklepenny was to replace the plastic sleeves around the trees with more robust affairs retrieved from some shady underground source. I made several more trips to Louth over the winter but there was never much going on. Out of season, fruit trees are inclined to do basically nothing. The harsher months are all about hunkering down, hoping you don’t get scoffed by local predators and waiting for the spring. In many ways, they’re a lot like me. Except I don’t do much in Spring either.

I had been planning on restarting my fortnightly visits some time around the end of March but no prizes for guessing what happened instead. I’d relied on the good will and kindness of my dad and Barb to look after the trees and to send occasional photos my way to keep my spirits up. Everything had looked good but I’d not seen much recently and I was starting to get nervous. I’d been told there had been growth, but also tragedy.

Dad seemed chipper when he picked me up in the Hilux even though I had to shift half a ton of brick dust and sandpaper in order to sit down. He mumbled something about a job he’d been doing but I wasn’t available for distraction. To the field, pater, and don’t spare the horses!

We were soon parked up at the entrance to the field, next to the sign offering passers-by free sacks of horse crap. I’m told it’s surprisingly popular but I’ve never seen much of a queue. Dad vaulted the gate and headed off to the kettle, giving me the ten minutes I needed to groan my way over the barrier with only minor damage to my self-respect and hamstrings. Once I was back on my feet and breathing like a normal human who hadn’t just completed a marathon, I wandered across the field and took in the orchard view.

It turns out that despite my lack of expertise and almost entirely due to Barb’s vigorous watering regime, the trees are doing well. I’ve got pictures to almost prove it. This is the second year of what will hopefully be a long life for each of them. With minor variations, they are all about 5 to 6 foot high and consist of a central trunk a couple of inches thick and half a dozen or so leafy branches. There are no signs so far of any fruit. No worries. For the time being, I’m happy just to see growth.

The ground around the trunks is a bit overgrown with thistles and other invasive plants but otherwise it’s all suspiciously idyllic. I made a mental note to come back soon to stick the weeds on a bonfire. We burn things a lot in the countryside.

It is worth noting that of the nine trees, the three bare rooters from the East of England Orchard project have done particularly well. If you stand strategically down the hill and leave your platform heels at home, they’re slightly over head height. Look, it’s true I tell you.

Sadly, one tree has fallen victim to the winter. Amongst the crescendo of bursting life and promissory notes of sour tasting greasy apple flesh, Ellison’s Orange has failed to thrive. He lies dead, bare trunk leaning listlessly against his plastic overcoat. Who knows what happened? There are no signs of attack and he sits in the same soil as the rest of them. Such is nature I suppose. The strong thrive, the weak move to Grimsby with the rest of their ilk. I’m kidding. I love Grimsby.

Fortunately for all concerned (me), I didn’t have far to look for a pick-me-up. Next door stood Ingall’s Red, which I’d been a bit worried about following rabbitgate last November. It’s a bit smaller than the others, sure, but it’s still going strong. Like the kid you laughed at because he looked a bit different and was made to attend Cub Scout church parade wearing Bay City Rollers trousers because my, sorry, his others were in the wash, he’s defied expectations to become almost successful. My brother the tree, I salute you.

What a day. It was all I could do to drag myself away and off to the Woolpack, where they were serving fish, chips and beer. Not necessarily in that order.