The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

Last time out I mentioned that I had been considering but ultimately decided against doing a course in Creative Writing. That wasn’t entirely true. If I’m going to carry on writing, I’d quite like to learn how to do it properly. For reasons that are beyond me, Lincoln Uni offered me a place despite reading my portfolio (this blog) and I start next week. It means a lot of work and a lot of faking talent but I’m pretty excited. I’ve got a few ideas for other blogs and bits, most of which involve me wandering haphazardly around the wolds. So that’ll be an interesting change of pace.

Despite all that, the most pressing matter remains this blog and my orchard. I’ve got three spaces ready for new trees and a dead stick where Ellison’s Orange used to be. Fortunately, the newly refurbed East of England Orchards project website is chock-full of photos, information and order forms for apples from all over the county.

Whilst I looked through the catalogue, I noticed that they had the trees listed according to flowering period and the like. It occurred to me that I might be best advised to organise my apples in a similar fashion so I know who’s pollinating who and who remains unlucky in love. The upshot of that academic exercise lurks just beyond the next paragraph break.

Despite making me feel like I was back in the 6^th form being bullied by my social betters and wishing a girl would give me the time of day, this was quite a handy piece of schoolwork. It turns out that Dr Clifford and Ingall’s Pippin could both do with a bit of moral support during the flowering period. Thankfully, the catalogue contains a selection of likely candidates. I plumped for Holland Pippin, Broadholme Beauty and a replacement Ellison’s Orange. The twiggy corpse of the previous sapling will be appropriately venerated. You have my word.

Buying new trees is a big deal but the week’s not been all internet surfing and takeaway pizzas. I also went on a bit of an expedition to Hartsholme Park in search of a giant crab-apple tree I’d found on the Woodland Trust’s website.

Any journey worth its salt inevitably involves a trip to the local bus station and this was no exception. There were lots of passengers lurking around, but most were wearing masks as per government edict. A fair number of them had opted to concentrate on preventing the viral spread through their chin and neck but I suppose it’s the thought that counts.

Twenty minutes later I climbed off the bus near Jarvis House, one of Lincoln’s very few tower blocks, and entered the park proper. With just a few steps and a skilful weave around a loose dog, I suddenly felt miles from civilisation. The trees loomed large and leafy and gently curving paths drifted off towards various parts of autumnal yonder. Some of the trees were colossal: they must have been around for centuries, dispassionately observing the comings and goings of Lincolnites ancient and modern. There were also a lot of them. I hoped the crab-apple was close to the path or I might not see it. Maybe there’s a sign. Surely the Ancient Tree Hunt Project will have left plinths marking their discoveries? Ha. As if. I spent the next several hours peering hopefully into the endless reaches of woodland and taking random turns on the various tracks and paths.

According to the Woodland Trust, and surely they wouldn’t lead me on a wild goose chase, the tree I was looking for is slap bang in the middle of the park. After skirting the perimeter for half a mile, I found a rough track leading hubwards and turned off in what I hoped was a more promising direction. Unfortunately, but not unsurprisingly, after a fair old while spent stooping my way under low hanging branches and stumbling over hidden roots, I found nothing. I decided to give up and return to the road more travelled. It took almost twenty seconds to realise that I was lost. Fortunately, my uncanny sense of direction saved me an hour wandering around in circles. Well, it saved me a couple of minutes of the hour.

Back on the main path I had a stroke of luck and bumped into an old friend from Louth who was marching into the park like she had an ass-kicking scheduled and didn’t want to be late. It turned out that she was hoping the company of trees and the occasional inquisitive squirrel was going to assuage an unhealthy dose of social media rage. I listened sympathetically but eventually managed to swing the conversation round to my mission. She directed me to the warden’s hut, suggesting that would be a good source of information and implicitly mocking for me for not heading there in the first place. I felt a weird mix of gratitude and frustration, not that I admitted it. It would be nice to see the tree, but I had been secretly hoping I’d sneak another content-free blog post out of a return trip.

Unsurprisingly if you’ve read any of the other posts in this blog, the warden confirmed that I was on a fool’s errand. There are absolutely no crab-apple trees in the park. Intriguingly, he said we weren’t the first people to come looking for it. There had been a party of three blokes not two weeks past who had met with similar disappointment. He suggested we go and have a look at the Black Pine instead: it’s rare, huge and, critically, not too far from his hut.

“Just don’t mix it up with the Redwoods,” he said, laughing at the thought of such an elementary mistake.

We took our leave and headed off towards the Black Pine as instructed. The warden had given us directions even I couldn’t mess up so a couple of minutes later we stood below its towering boughs, awed at the ascendant majesty of nature. Neither of us mentioned how red the wood looked.