The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

Last month somebody I once considered a friend made accusations about the honesty of this blog, specifically alleging that it was impossible to dig a hole three foot deep with only two spades. “You need an angle to get the mud out,” he said. “What you’re describing just wouldn’t work.” Well, check out the picture and weep, hater. You southern types might struggle, with your science and your soft, workshy hands but us yellowbellies are made of sterner, more stubborn stuff. Point us at a job and we’ll get it done. With a stick. And maybe a hammer if it’s really difficult.

He went on to say that the journal style blog entries weren’t as interesting as the bus related adventures I’d banged on about in the past. At least I think he said it. Someone did anyway. Spurred on by outrage, I briefly canvassed the rest of my readership and it turns out that he’s right. They were mostly ambivalent but when I forced them to express an opinion, they both preferred the old school nonsense. With that in mind, I’ll try to include as much bus-related activity as possible from  now on. No, I don’t understand it either.

I’ve made several trips over to Ticklepenny Lock this month, checking on the state of the pond-shaft and my apples on each occasion. I’ve ended up harvesting fruit from the branches of three different trees: Dr Clifford, Peasgood Nonesuch and Lord Burghley. I had to cast aside a few specimens because they’d been partially devoured by insects and I’m not quite yet at the point where I’m prepared to share meals with things that vacation on horseshit. Barb ate them, obviously, because she’s proper rural but I’m just a wannabe who prefers not to take a chance on crunching into a maggot while he eats.

None of the crops so far have been sufficient to fill a carrier bag but, like a new mother with a mewling baby, I’m oblivious to any shortcomings and can see only perfection. If I want apples that taste like heaven, there’s always the Cathedral grocer where they sell Egremont Russets to people on their way to Waitrose. The Peasgoods actually taste ok; a bit bland if I’m being hyper-critical but firm and juicy. The skin on the Burghleys is a bit greasy but they have a nice shape and an attractive red blush. I’ll let you know how disgusting they are in a later blog. Apparently, you can store them until March without any noticeable change in taste which is either miraculous or testament to their lack of flavour even when they’re fresh.

My most recent trip home was prompted by some disturbing photographs sent through the ether to my knackered Chinese mobile. I was forced into action to rescue my appley bairns from twin existential threats: wasps (for whom I have a great deal of sympathy) and ten year old nieces (for whom I have significantly less). Wasps are important pollinators and can be trained to sniff out drug smugglers at airports (true fact, google it). Ten year old nieces demand your time, regularly hit you with cushions and don’t seem to care at all about international drug cartels and their effect on vulnerable population groups.

If I’d been able to get away with just throwing together lame diary posts, I could’ve spent the bus trip enjoying the last few pages of my book but instead I’m on the lookout for potential blog material. Annoyingly, the only other passenger has sat down behind me so I can’t see what comedy gold Linkisheer-isms he’s getting up to. We hurtle slowly past a series of informal bus stops in Sudbrooke (posh), Langworth (get your Estonian log imports here) and Bullington (alight here for Rand Farm Park) but no-one gets on. Things are looking grim. So much so that my other piss-poor blog, in which I slowly cycle to deserted and frequently locked rural churches, is starting to look almost interesting by comparison. Come on Wragby, don’t let me down.

Yes. We have a winner. A middle aged lady in country clothing climbs briskly aboard and sits down three rows in front of me. Disappointingly, she starts snoring about thirty seconds later. What an absolute let-down. The rest of the trip is a mix of silent frustration (me) and cacophonous sleep apnoea (her). It’s a disaster. I’ll have to make something up to amuse the fanbase.

Or so I thought. As we barrel down the leafy driveway to South Willingham, she reaches out and presses the bell. What on earth is going on? She can’t possibly live here and use public transport, can she? She’ll be ostracised from polite society. Her name will be mud. Maybe I’ve done her a disservice and she’s part of an underground leftist cell, undermining the Tory heartlands like mistletoe on an oak tree (thanks Billy). Come to think of it, I don’t even think her gilet is branded. Property is theft, sister. Fight the power.

Having said all that, it’s more likely that she just dropped one of her Land Rovers off at the mechanic and had to slum it back home. I bet her driver is self-isolating. It all makes sense now. Not even the rural aristocracy have escaped the ravages of covid. Any sense of comradeship I felt previously evaporates. The class struggle is back on. I’d still give my back teeth to live in the village though. It’s lush.

Soon, we plummet into Grimblethorpe and I briefly wonder if it was settled by the same fella that invented Grimsby. There’s a public information sign and a rare breeds butchery in the valley so maybe I’ll make a research trip out here at some point. It’s a pig of a hill though so I’ll have to shift some lard first.

Louth rocks, as ever. I get off in town for a change and walk down to the bus station. Between the two landmarks I pass about seventeen bakers, four butchers and possibly the now unrecognisably aged person of my childhood crush, Caroline. If I did, I’ll never know. Young love is such tragedy.

Anyway, that’s it. Journey’s end. I hope the bus enthusiasts are at least partially sated and I can get back to talking about apples next time. On which subject I should mention that I managed to save enough from the waspy hordes to make a cake (promising reviews from the family, soggy in the middle but not the fault of the apples) and some juice (not so great, recipe officially abandoned). The juice was four tenths Dr Clifford, a cooking apple that was probably slightly past its best, and the rest Peasgood Nonesuch, a dual purpose apple that had just come off the tree. The juice looked the part but was a little too bitter for my taste. It might be ok for cider but I wonder whether I’m better off with a pure eater in combination with a cooker for straight apple juice. Peasgoods taste ok and they’re fairly juicy but they’re not particularly sweet. They’re very large as well, which makes me suspicious that they’re more cooking apple than dessert job. I still haven’t made a better juice than the deep red stuff I got out of some Braeburns last year, which is frankly infuriating. Regardless of taste, I’m sticking to the heritage varieties. I’ll probably learn to like them.