The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

I’m lucky to have chosen a hobby that is so extensively supported online. As soon as I got home from Wragby, I set about the task of identifying the specimens I had brought back with me. Easy life. My first port of call was applename.com, an online repository of apple varieties. Input your apple’s defining characteristics and the website will spit out a list of possible candidates. Ideally, you’re looking for a list of one so you don’t have to put any real effort in. You can keep entering features but they become more esoteric the deeper you go. Even I can have a stab at the colour and stem length, but I’m a bit less confident when it comes to the prominence of calyx petals. To be honest, I’m a bit shaky on colour: when does green become greenish-yellow?

Anyhoo, despite my limitations I soon end up with a name for my first West Torrington apple: Summer Rambo.

Hmm. Rambo.

That’s less Lincolnshire than I was expecting. I have a quick google (although I’m using the more ethical and less effective Ecosia) and check out some pictures of the Summer Rambo. It does look like mine but I’m still not convinced. A quick check of the website confirms my suspicions: it only includes American varieties. Applename.com is not going to help me, although I’d still recommend it to cross-pond pomologists.

Deserted by the internet, I resort to a more traditionally British method, namely, flicking through a book and having a guess. Fortunately, I’ve got books aplenty (4). The only Lincolnshire variety that vaguely fits the description is the Hunthouse Pippin: “Raised by the Rowson brothers in 1883, a small to medium size smooth skinned pale green-skinned apple. Ribbed and quite oblong in shape. Quite acidic.”

Mine is a bit ribbed and sort of oblong. The location seems about right. I might have it. I might not, but I might. I’m loath to eat it because it’s not really ready and I took it off the ground where it was lying amongst a pile of insect-ridden specimens. It’s a test of my scientific commitment which I immediately fail. To be honest, I’ve always been more of a superstition over science kind of guy so I think I’ll stick with my conclusion. In the world of scientific research, you’ve got to know when enough is enough.

Obscure fruit sort of named, it was time to squeeze my looming bulk (masked, natch) into the passenger seat of my brother-in-law’s swanky car and head off to Louth Navigation Trust’s Canal@250 Heritage and Arts Festival (day 2). I’m almost an interested party because the canal goes through our field and also I think there might be an ice cream van selling locally produced dairy products (there is).

Despite or perhaps because of the impending ban on groups of seven, there’s a healthy crowd assembled for the day’s shenanigans and it takes a while to apologise my way through the remote-control boat enthusiasts who have traipsed over from Cleethorpes. The boats are many and various and power across the surface of the water with varying degrees of flair. One of them looks like a swan. Is that allowed? Obviously its builder is a bit of a renegade. I try to pick him out from the assembled horde but they all look a bit rogueish to me.

With the exception of the guided canal walk, the rest of the action takes place on a sort of wooden jetty lining the front of the Trust’s converted warehouse. On offer is a rolling programme of music and poetry and the chance to lean on a bridge which seems only seconds away from giving up and plunging everyone into the roaring canal below. There are also photos and historical documents illuminating the canal’s ancient past.

The poetry is courtesy of the entirely wonderful Fee Griffin. “A canal is the story of a man telling a river the way to the sea.” Come on. That’s worth the entrance fee alone. You can even have a read yourself at louthcanal.org.uk. I get nervous sneaking my blog out to the internet even though I don’t tell anyone about it so reading poetry to an assembled crowd of ice-cream fuelled canal enthusiasts would fill me with mortal dread. Fortunately, Fee has won awards and is actually good at poetry so instead of rampaging towards her brandishing commemorative programmes and walking sticks, everyone listens attentively and responds appreciatively.

I manage to sneak a chat with her later on, distracting her from things that she might actually enjoy. She entertains my blog-wittering with good grace and suggests I consider a creative writing course. I’m not entirely convinced. You’d have to be pretty creative to call this nonsense writing.

The folk music is also great; an elderly solicitor playing the accordion and a youngster with half his head shaved playing the bagpipes and singing in German. You couldn’t make it up. I love it all. There’s something joyous about embracing the unusual. Rather that than playing squash or jogging through parks where you’re clearly supposed to just have a nap under the trees.

Anyway, happy birthday Louth Canal. I think the celebrations did you proud but I’m not going to lie, it was nice to get back home and cook myself some toast for tea. The day’s events had left me feeling sufficiently optimistic to risk a gobful of Hunthouse Pippin. Secretly, I was hoping it would be horrible so I could make a wisecrack about research being overrated but it turned out to be delicious: firm white flesh and a tangy, acidic taste, just as promised. I’ll be heading back to West Torrington, or at least the road leading thataway, as soon as I can.