This is the first of a new style of journal-like blog entries that I’ve been inspired to try after reading too many books by John Lewis-Stempel. The plan is to intersperse them with my normal adventures but, so far at least, adventures have been notable only by their absence. Still, by cunningly setting a low bar right from the start of this blog, I doubt anyone’s going to be disappointed with the new format. If this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back, no hard feelings and I appreciate the fact that you’ve stuck it out this long.
Thursday, 5th
This is the month. By the end of August, I should have an actual crop of actual apples steaming in my muggy hand, ready to be turned into a whole host of unhealthy desserts and cakes. The branches of Dr Clifford and Peasgood Nonesuch are positively groaning with several fruit, almost enough to fill a non-reusable carrier bag like the ones you get from the corner shop. I’ll have to hold my horses though; Dr Cliff can be picked at the end of the month but Peasgood must wait. Honestly, the delay is killing me.
Today’s trip back to Louth doesn’t involve anything very exciting. Barb has mown the grass around the orchard so it’s all looking very presentable. I grab a couple of photos to update my half-hearted progress picture diary. To be honest, the trees are all fairly spindly and spread out such that the orchard doesn’t really look like a coherent whole yet. With time it will come, I guess. Patience grasshopper.
Monday, 9th
If the bus slows down in East Barkwith, it’s because an old boy by the name of Nigel is getting on. The weird hydraulic bus lowering device kicks in and he slowly and painfully manoeuvres his walking frame up the step and towards the nearest seat. My mum claims that he’s called Nigel and just comes to Louth for a coffee and a wander about. I am jealous. I want to be his friend. What’s my mum got that I haven’t?
He used to wear a visor during lockdown but he’s maskless today. No worries. I’m sure he has a good reason. There is a brief flurry of rain as we pass through Burgh-on-Bain (pronounced Bruff). The weaker right-side-of-the-bus passengers lurch upwards to close windows despite the stickers forbidding it. Me and Nigel (or was it Kevin?) are made of sterner stuff. The rain stops seconds later, and I bask in the cheery glow of self-righteousness. Tragically, a rogue raindrop has sneaked in from the cold and smeared itself across my glasses. The choice is stark: leave it in an annoyingly prominent position or wipe it off and thereby remove the film that prevents misting up. It’s the Kobayashi Maru, but worse. I make no apologies for the Star Trek reference. This is my blog and I’ll do what I like. You should look it up on YouTube though. Kirk is cool.
We reach the field later. There is nothing going on except nature. I might have pulled up a weed just to show willing. I can’t remember for definite.
Saturday, 14th
I’m heading to Louth but today apples are not my concern. Instead, I’m spending a day riding around the Wolds for my new literary misadventure; a blog about rural churches that ties in my other two chief loves: bicycles, and wasting my time doing things no-one is interested in. If you thought the orchard stuff was pointless this will blow your socks back on. The new blog will be called Of Wheel and Wold: there’s probably a way to find it if you’re desperate.
I do get a swift look at the trees before I head home. Everything looks fine. Dr Clifford looks ready for picking but it’s difficult to tell. I can’t remember how big the sample apple was when I picked the tree up a couple of years ago. The sense of anticipation grows. For me at least.
Wednesday, 18th
For the last few weeks, I’ve been fighting a frankly heroic battle against gout. Today, just as the symptoms were coming under control and I could walk as far as the Co-Op to buy some crisps I made a startling discovery. Apparently, apples cause gout. It’s crushing news. Maybe it’s not gout. After all, who am I to make such a diagnosis? There are probably loads of inflammatory conditions that cause pain in your left big toe.
Tuesday, 24th
After a miserable day at work, I stop off at the Korean takeaway on the way home. It’s good food but there’s never quite enough. I decide to order two portions and disguise my gluttony by getting noodles with one and rice with the other. When I’m asked who the other portion is for, I panic and claim it’s for my brother’s girlfriend. He’s away at work and I’m taking her meals. I could’ve said it was just for a random friend but if I’ve learned anything from Donald Trump it’s that you should always make your lies as extravagant as possible. Go big or go home.
I peel open the first package once I’m home only for Jo, the aforementioned brother’s girlfriend, to walk through the door. The truth spills out. I don’t really believe in karma, but I do believe in an omnipotent superbeing with a vicious sense of humour. Should I offer her the second meal? She doesn’t seem to want it. I compromise and stick it in the fridge for tomorrow.
Jo is a horticulturalist with a long history of mollycoddling plants back to life after I’ve done my best to kill them. I show her the apple tree in my garden and ask her if she knows why the fruit is all so small. They look more like plums, but I’ve cut a couple in half just to check and they’re definitely apples. Jo shrugs and eats one. It’s an inspiring display of courage, rewarded only by a slight creasing of her brow.
“They’re quite bitter” she says. “But the juice isn’t too bad.”
I try one myself. She’s not wrong. They could be juiced. Suddenly I have a use for the bucketload of tiny red apples. And none of that would have happened if I hadn’t lied to the takeaway lady. That’s karma, that is.
Saturday, 28th
The time has come. Today’s the day. Those bad boys are coming off the branch no matter what. You’re not really supposed to pick apples until they come off with a gentle twist but I’ve had enough. There were eight apples to start with and one has already fallen to the ground to be consumed by non-rent paying animal life.
Whilst my dad angles the camera to get the least offensive view of my paunch, I pose dramatically and sort-of-gently pull them off the tree. The lowest hanging piece is mouldy so I’m left with six intact apples. They boast some extravagant ribbing around the blossom end, or the arse of the apple as some parts of the internet insist it should be called and have a good weight to them. Six apples weigh just under three pounds. It’s not much but it’s a start.
After the harvest is complete, we erect a saltire of canes to help support one particularly heavily laden branch of Peasgood Nonesuch. I should really investigate the proper spelling of the variety. My almanac lists at least four and says they are all fine.
After I’m done with my trees, we sink a one spade wide shaft three feet into the ground at the centre of where the old pond used to be. I say we but really I just watched. The clay below the surface is a rich, claggy black colour which should hold all the water nature can throw at it. We cover the shaft with a paving slab and leave it for a week. Ideally, when we come back in a few days it will have filled up naturally with clear and crisp water. If not, we’ll help it out and see if it can hold water. Exciting times. Particularly if you like ponds. Less so if you’re not bothered.
Once I’m back home in Lincoln, I hide my pickings in the safest regions of my dingy garden shed. I’m sure I remember Mr d’Arcy saying you need to leave most apples for a couple of weeks to mature before trying them, but I can find no corroborating evidence on the interweb. I decide to leave them for a week just so I don’t have to rush up to the supermarket for some eggs while my gout is still playing up. Besides I’m on holiday next week so that will give me more time to bake.
The Appeal of Mrs Toogood 
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