The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

Before I rose from an extended lie-in last week, photos winged their way through the ether depicting actual apples on my trees in Ticklepenny. By the time I’d had my weekly cold shower and dragged on the only pair of jeans I can still get around my stomach, my excitement had reached fever pitch. It was finally happening. Ticklepenny Orchard is go. Some would say it’s been a long time coming.

Sadly for me, work has kicked off recently because the National Gallery inexplicably decided to display a massive painting in the middle of our grimy food bank for a week. The outlandish security concerns have had me working extra hours and almost paying attention at work. It’s been harrowing and not helped by an official embargo on telling anyone the painting is going to be on display. You try organising an event without being able to tell people what the event involves. Go on. I dare ya.

Anyhoo, the advantage of being a part timer is that even with a hugely increased workload, I still get  days off so last week I headed home to see my first proper crop. (I say “proper crop” because Dr Clifford arrived from the shop already bearing two humongous apples, but I’d be stretching it to claim any responsibility for them.)

Two years worth of trips on the number 50 bus haven’t dampened my enthusiasm for the sights and sounds of the Wolds. I never take anything to read because I prefer to stare out of the window and enjoy the scenery. Admittedly, my window gazing would be made easier if Stagecoach occasionally washed their buses but it’s still possible to occasionally make stuff out through the grime. On journey day, Lincolnshire was looking especially verdant: rolling green hills and leafy glades as far as the eye could see. I wish I’d been able to take a photograph of a field adorned with circular hay bales and flocks of scavenging crows but the grotty bus windows made it impossible.

Although there was nothing unusual about the scenery, I had a nagging unease in the back of my mind. Something was wrong. Suddenly I realised we were taking a different route eastwards from Wragby. We’d missed the turning in East Barkwith and instead of forlornly trundling towards South Willingham the bus was hurtling along the A157 straight towards Louth, potentially shaving minutes off our journey time.

Obviously, I was livid. If I wanted to go straight to my destination I’d learn to drive or accept one of the lifts my stepbrother occasionally offers me. I want to be off in the wilder yonder, rattling through villages so mired in wealth their only use for public transport is to ferry in domestic staff. This simply wouldn’t do. I decided to write in and complain.

Discombobulated, I spent the rest of the journey in a funk and barely even noticed when the spire of St James’ church hoved into view. Over the last few weeks, I’ve spent much of my leisure time watching a live feed of some baby peregrines that are being raised on the uppermost balcony of the church. It’s been a great diversion from the stresses of squeezing in afternoon naps around an almost 23 hour working week. I’ve loved watching the baby birds projecting streams of ivory poo across a historic building in between ripping apart thoughtfully supplied carcasses. I hope they leave the cameras on when some poor sod has to climb the steeple and clean up.

Despite the new route (which I later discovered was a blessedly temporary affair), we arrived at the normal time and I easily spotted dad’s Hilux waiting to pick me up. It’s the only one with bright blue hubs. To be fair, it’s the only one, full stop. As ever, the seatwells were overflowing with work gloves and bits of sandpaper but I managed to make enough space to sit down and we set off. The short drive through Louth was as pleasant as ever and I renewed my commitment to sell up and move home some time in the next year or so. Maybe after my pointlessly ambitious Creative Writing course is finished.

I’m biased but the Ticklepenny trees looked great. The grass around them was lush and strewn with buttercups. There was even a pair of adult Swallows arcing through the skies around the stables next door and Barb joyously pointed out a nest in the rafters. Three juveniles lined up and stuck their heads out, chirruping for insects. There were two more facing the other way but I couldn’t get a decent photograph and I didn’t want to stick around because the parents were obviously not happy with us being nearby.

Back amongst the orchard, it became apparent that we had a problem. Not one I would have noticed but it was obvious when pointed out. Two of the trees were covered with tightly wound leaves. Leaf curl is a common problem for apple trees, caused by either fungus, disease or parasites. A quick inspection of one of the infected leaves revealed tiny white mites chewing away on the tasty underside. It was a fortunate discovery. Mites are probably the least dramatic cause to resolve. Following the almost definitely reliable and well informed instructions we found on the internet, me and Dad split up and carefully removed the affected leaves. It left Ingall’s Pippin markedly denuded but better that than the alternative. If the manual deleafing proves unsuccessful, I’ll come back and spray the tree with a hose to blow the parasites off. I want to avoid chemical pesticides if I can.

We dumped the infected leaves in the compost paddock and left the mites to chomp away. I’ve nothing against them. Everything has a right to thrive so crack on tiny insects. Chow down, grow strong and be happy. But then sod off to some other poor sucker’s field if you don’t mind.

After removing the affected leaves there was just about enough time to get the remaining four capillary mats down and wander around a bit feeling proud of myself. With a bit of assistance from the folks, I’ve turned this small square of floodplain into an almost real orchard. In the process, I’d explored Lincolnshire, met some interesting people and become a pretend expert in apple trees. Seconds later, Barb ruined the mood by asking a basic question about tree roots: do they go straight down or spread out? I had no idea. I am officially the crappest orchardman ever.