The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

I really need to head off to Louth and have a look at my orchard. I’m starting to dream about predatory rabbits the size of horses and hallucinating fruit trees on every corner. Last week I found a rotten apple in the street and spent at least ten minutes scouring the neighbourhood. I was hoping to go yesterday but forgot I’d promised to deliver a mattress to someone. Who wasn’t in, obviously.

Additionally, I think I’m starting to lose focus on the trees being the point of all this writing and it’s just becoming a waffley travelogue in which I don’t even travel anywhere. Despite all that angst, I think I’ve made some decent progress since the beginning of last year when I was hounded into actually writing instead of just moaning about writing. Here then, is a summary of where we stand and what needs to happen next.

Ticklepenny Orchard now contains eight trees between two and three years old. It sits in a fenced space in a field near Louth, in between the River Lud and a stable.

I have three more trees on order from the East of England Apples and Orchards project. They should be delivered around the back end of November but I’ll trust the experts to post them when they’re ready. That takes me up to eleven trees, leaving one vacancy. There’s plenty of space to expand but no point getting carried away just yet.

The trees have grown well and now stand around six or seven foot high although they’re still spindly. None of them have borne fruit this year but that’s fine. Wikipedia tells me it takes three or four years for a tree to start churning out delicious, sweet apples. Once they do, my plan is to buy a cider press so I can make my own scrumpy. Pending further brainwaves, that brew will be called the Ticklepenny Tipple. I thank you.

For the twelfth space, I’m considering buying a naked rootstock and attempting to graft in a branch liberated from a local orchard in an in-no-way illegal dawn raid. Which reminds me: I need to find a balaclava from somewhere. My dad doesn’t know he’s signed up for the operation yet but I’m sure he’ll tag along. He’s got the getaway truck and, more importantly, the keys to the orchard.

Grafting is best done in early spring so no rush to start sneaking about. I might case the joint a couple of times over the winter but that will be more to do with sightseeing than anything else.

Next up, the trees will need pruning. Again, that is best done when the weather becomes a bit more clement. Traditionally that’s Spring but these days your guess is as good as mine. It could be the beginning of February for all I know. The exact timing isn’t important: you just need to avoid cold weather killing off your new branches.

Over the winter, the ground might need weeding but I’ve got conveniently located family members for that. I can instead spend my time sat on my arse in Lincoln.

Much of my arse-sitting is currently devoted to my Creative Writing course. I’m slowly starting to recognise the voices of my fellow students. There are no faces beyond that of the course leader, a particularly wonderful bloke with a sort of complicated Swiss-Italian-English-German heritage thing going on. It’s clear that he is genuinely devoted to the success of his students and I already feel bad that I’m going to ruin his record.

Modern University is very different to my experience in the late ‘80s. Firstly, lectures take place online through webcams installed at the perfect angle to highlight my nineteen chins. Secondly, there appears to be some kind of expectation that the course will help your career, something I never encountered during my Politics and International Relations degree. To that end, and in order to make sure you can submit all your writing to proper literary journals, we’ve been advised to cease and desist from all online publications. Fortunately, the summit of my aspiration is that one day someone I’m not directly related to (harder than you might think in Lincolnshire) will read this blog and not refer me to some kind of counselling service. Consequently, the blog goes on.

Outside of Ticklepenny Towers (my house), I’ve been indulging in what I have recently discovered is called forest bathing. Forest bathing, at its most basic, is meandering slowly around woodland. I used to call this going for a walk but now I know better. The intention is to big up your mental health by paying more attention to your leafy surroundings. Put like that, it seems like a good idea and it’s definitely been improving my mood. After one recent trip I wasn’t even furious when someone cycled past me on the pavement.

I’ve managed to bathe my way through three local areas of woodland in the last week or so, although I’m incapable of maintaining the officially-prescribed glacial walking pace. Each forest afforded different opportunities to watch insects, breathe in clear air and rest my palms against the craggy bark of ancient Oaks. Once I even put my forehead against a trunk and stayed there motionless until the local squirrels emerged from hiding. I’m not even ashamed. I’ve found that walking slowly and staring at the foliage instead of the ground has helped me feel a genuine sense of escape from the rigours of work and the pollutant noise of the city despite not once venturing outside its boundaries.

The woods have their own characters. Greetwell Hollow is a deep and brooding place, full of hard-packed trails winding through disorganised trees. It’s a magical faraway place, ruined only by the looming corrugated factories to your right. If, like me, you’re virtually blind in your right eye this presents no problem but it might spoil the ambience for the hawkeyed amongst you. I spend my time looking for insects and wildflowers and definitely not imagining how cool it would be to ride a mountain bike noisily along the paths. That would be despicable.

Cross O’Cliff orchard is a more wizened place than when I visited it last year. There are promised work parties heading in to tend its trees but at the moment there’s a feeling of scorned rage. The trees are still beautiful even though every single one of them, bar Allington’s Pippin on the way in and a gaggle of Crab-apples in the centre, has been stripped bare. I enjoy my time there, particularly as it comes in an unexpected break from work, but I can tell the place wants me and the rest of my pink fleshy brethren gone so it can return to its slumber and solitude. As I pause near the exit to take a photo, it lobs a conker at my head. I take the hint.

There are trees on the South Common too, although they’re spread far apart in contrast to the concentrated woodage of the other two. The trees here seem more needy somehow, used to the attention of walkers and picnickers, keen to have you walk on by and notice their spreading branches. They put me in mind of a beloved old dog, eager to see you and desperate for affirmation. It’s a different vibe to Cross O’Cliff which more closely resembles a sour old moggy hidden away in a dark corner of the shed, ready to hiss and bite if disturbed. Which probably explains why it seems so familiar to me.

Anyway, that’s my experience of forest bathing. If all goes according to plan, I’ll be off to Louth on Thursday and I’ll write about the actual orchard next time. I can imagine you almost care.