The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

This has been a difficult post to write.

I am not into horse riding. Horses themselves I kind of like, in much the same way as I like most other animals. I’ve developed a grudging respect for the prodigious amount of crap they can produce per day and the ability of said crap to delight allotment owners, but it’s never been enough to convince me to try sitting on one. I’m not judging them that like it, I’m just saying it’s not for me.

A few weeks ago, Barb kindly offered a so-called friend of mine (she’s never read this blog and she forgot my birthday) the chance to go riding on one of the two horses that live in the field. Whilst everyone else was off having a wonderful time trundling along country lanes wearing high-vis gilets and pretending to be in control of a ton-and-a-half of indifferent muscle, me and my dad ninja-dismantled a fence that had previously demarcated the orchard from a scenic barbecue-and-seating area of riverbank. Everyone’s a winner.

Once the expedition was over and my friend/work colleague/casual acquaintance was busy making plans for more horse-bothering in the future, Barb’s ten-year-old horse Harry wandered over and started pushing her around with his massive long head. If I were of a Dawkinsian bent, I’d joylessly allege that he was just after food but I’m not, I’m an animal romantic (is that a phrase?), so I think he was expressing affection.

A few days later, my dad phoned to tell me that Harry was dead, put down by the local vet following a catastrophic and unlikely accident. There had been no alternative, but Barb was understandably devastated. I was gutted for her and for Harry. To lose an animal that seemed not so much healthy as well-nigh invulnerable following an unlucky throw of the dice seemed arbitrary at best and cruel at worst.

What do you say in such circumstances? I’ve read somewhere that Chris Packham, who is an expert on these and most other things, says he felt more connected to his dogs than he ever has to a human being and experienced their loss more keenly and more painfully. It was something to do with how animals are more honest and unguarded in their emotions and affections. He’s probably right. He normally is. Apart from that one time he said we should let pandas die out.

I returned home to find Stan reclining belly up on one of his seventeen fur-lined cat baskets (each one way more comfortable than the uneven mattress I have to sleep on). Desperate to feel connection in defiance of loss, I knelt down and pushed my face into his exposed stomach. It was supposed to be affectionate. It almost was for a second but then he ruined it by inserting his claws into my face and hands and stomping off into next door’s garden for a sulk. It’s fine. We all express love in different ways.

Anyway, here’s to you Harry. May the pastures of your afterlife be eternally green and pleasant. Even after you shit everywhere.

That’s not the only bad news this post is bringing (although this next bit is way less significant). Last time out, I reported that the good burghers of Louth had planted a sextet of community orchards across town so a few weeks ago I decided to see how they’re getting on. The answer, at least in part, is not too well. I’m yet to go back to the larger site on Westgate Fields but Spring Side has been thoroughly vandalised by local philistines. A couple of the trees are missing branches, one is missing its entire top half and there’s damage to the metal cages surrounding several others. I’ve nothing clever to say here except to wonder why you’d do it. It’s so depressingly self-defeating. The worst hit saplings are the ones nearest the seating area, so the vandals are not only despicable but they’re also lazy. Honestly. Bring back national service, that’s what I say. Not really though. I’m too woke for that sort of stuff. They probably just need an activity holiday in Wales.

Fortunately, my own trees are mostly out of reach of teenage iconoclasts. Getting to them would take the sort of effort their PlayStation-induced torpor renders nigh on impossible, and it probably wouldn’t get many views on Instaface anyway. Hopefully, for now at least, Ticklepenny Orchard is safe. All I need now is a few apples. Unfortunately, the chances of that this year have been blighted by the extensive frosts. Many orchard folk are predicting less than their usual yield and my usual yield is nothing. It’s not a promising outlook.

Ironically, the tree in my Lincoln backyard is littered with fruit. I suppose that’s the advantage of strategic breeding. Will they taste as magnificent as my first homegrown Lord Burghley though? Yeah, probably. As I was told at the start of this nonsense, there’s a good reason Lincolnshire apples aren’t very popular.

I’ve tried to make a little progress on my last few trips home. Last time out I did some weeding and laid down some flashy capillary matting around the trees. This was a tip I’d picked up from the community orchards and I wish I’d done it sooner. As well as retaining moisture for ongoing hydration and nourishment, the mats will hopefully stop quite so many weeds growing nearby and out-competing the delicate apple youngsters. I know it’s not strictly ethical to call plants the “w” word, but it’s my orchard and they’re not welcome. Sorry chaps. Bugger off to the rest of the acreage and fill yer boots.

Weeding day was not without its hazards. Exposing my baldy head to more than four consecutive minutes of sunshine inevitably meant a bus trip home with a headache and a glowing scalp. Overall though, it was a handy learning experience. As well as teaching me about the merits of sun cream, there were several other exciting opportunities for personal growth. Firstly, it turns out that you’re best off popping some gloves on and covering your forearms before you start wrenching out clumps of nettles from the ground and secondly, you should never, under any circumstances, climb over a gate except at the end where the hinges are. Especially if there are people watching. Trust me, it’s not worth the earache.

The work is not yet finished. I didn’t have enough matting for all the trees so I need to sneak back to the garden centre when they have some more in stock and I still want some tidy labels for the different varieties. Me and Barb have already started debating the location of Ingall’s Pippin, so I need to get that sorted as soon as possible. That’s for another post though. Hopefully, this time it’ll be less than two months in coming and less traumatic when it arrives.