The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

Saturday was Bramley Festival, an annual celebration in the Nottinghamshire home of the legendary apple tree. Never let it be said that I’m not prepared to suffer for my art. Riddled with Gout, face contorting with distress at the almost noticeable pain in my big toe, I hobbled to the train station on Saturday morning with all the dynamism of a slightly apathetic glacier. It occurred to me as the bus trundled past me on Monks Road that I could have spared myself some misery by planning ahead. It then occurred to me that it might have been wise to check what time the train leaves Lincoln for Newark, or maybe what time the bus leaves Newark for Southwell. Or perhaps even whether Bramley Festival is still going ahead. Things seem to get cancelled a lot these days.

Unlike buses, which are wondrous and unpredictable devices, modern trains are boring and go too fast to allow proper consideration of the scenery their tracks blight. I gave up sightseeing almost as soon as we got out of the urban sprawl and resorted to reading a book, comforted by the prospect of new bus routes later in the day.

The hatefully comfortable and efficient train made good time to Newark. The approach from Lincolnshire doesn’t do the town justice. It’s all smoking chimneys and concrete industrialism, whereas once you get to the town centre it’s actually pretty lovely. It felt strange to get off the train in Nottinghamshire. I’ve heard tell back home that they’re all criminals and outlaws once you cross the Lincolnshire border, but the bus driver seemed nice enough when I paid him for a lift. I tried to offer him a coffee but he didn’t seem to understand my exotic foreign accent. His loss.

The short trip from train to bus station went past a local chippy where I spotted a fella swaying gently to and fro with a can of Carling in one hand. It was about half nine. To be honest, it’s just like being in Lincoln.

There’s a lot of glass involved in the construction of Newark’s bus station. The driver on the Mansfield service (via Southwell) asked me if I was going apple bobbing. He asked the next passenger as well. I took it as confirmation that Bramfest was still on and breathed a sigh of relief, promptly steaming up my glasses. Curse these masks and the minor inconvenience they continue to be in our fight against a massive deadly plague.

I took the seat next to the emergency side door. It offers extra leg room but you have the responsibility of making sure everyone is safely evacuated in the event of a disaster. Or is that just on aeroplanes? I felt inclined to leave my fellow passengers to their fates anyway because Stagecoach had blocked off the leg stretching area with a metal bar. Before we set off for Southwell, I extricated my second-hand mobile phone from the depths of my rucksack and turned off the Weight Watchers app. I anticipated there being a lot of cake in my near future and didn’t want the guilt associated with letting them down.

The other Southwell passenger was elderly and wore a wax jacket, like I would if I had the money. I tried to make eye contact to share a fraternal wink but, as I did so, he took a Daily Mail out of his bag and started reading. I looked past him and tried to pretend that I had been hailing someone outwith the bus. He gave no sign of having noticed my awkwardness. Perhaps we was too engrossed in his reactionary propaganda.

The bus wove its way through the Nottinghamshire countryside towards Southwell, taking a pleasingly pointless detour through a village called Averham. I’m far from an expert but it seemed to me that Nottinghamshire villages are planned and located more for the convenience of industry than in response to local scenery. None of the ones I saw on the brief trip out of Newark could rival the idyllic charms of Boothby Graffoe or Bag Enderby. Actually, I’ve never been to Boothby Graffoe but with a name like that, it must be pretty special.

I had no idea where in Southwell I was supposed to get off so I just alighted as soon as another passenger stopped the bus. Daily Mail man stayed on. I didn’t care. He meant nothing to me. As I wandered around town, I noticed that Southwell has a lot of those brown signs denoting places of significance. The local populace seem to be mad keen on advertising a workhouse. I’m not sure whether it’s still in operation or they just like to celebrate the historic exploitation of the masses. There are a lot of nice houses though: much like Louth, no two buildings seem to have been designed with the other in mind. I like it.

I accidentally wandered down Church Street, heading for the festival proper, and noticed a circular blue plaque on number 75 where, it turned out, Mary Brailsford had raised the original Bramley tree. My random route had suddenly turned serendipitous. Good old karma. The apple got its name after the house was sold to a Mr Bramley later on but should really be called Brailsford’s Seeding. The house next door is called Bramley Apple House. The pub down the road is called the Bramley Apple Inn. There’s a bit of a theme developing.

The Bramley Festival itself was taking place in the impressive local Minster, a beautiful building full of Civil War historicity that is way too momentous for a silly blog about orchards. The place was heaving, people were queueing to get in and have a look round at the various stalls. There was no mandatory entrance fee but the friendly locals suggested a donation of £3 and I was happy to oblige. In return, I got a raffle ticket that meant I could come and go as I pleased and was afforded entry to a church that would have made me swoon with the majesty of it all were I not a resident of Lincoln. Sorry, but the “Impressive Church” bar is pretty high these days.

The church hall was full of hipsters hawking their artisanal wares, including but by no means limited to gin, exotic spices, candles and chocolates. Weirdly there weren’t a lot of cakes and the ones I did find were full of extraneous non-apple ingredients like dates and walnuts. All good in their place, but I was after pure apple nourishment.

I wished all the tradesmen well but I wasn’t really there for luxury comestibles. I’ve got the local Co-Op for that. Spotting a trestle table littered with apple varieties I wandered over and was chuffed to find Roger Merryweather seated behind it, untroubled by most of the other sightseers. It was ironic that in a building full of people celebrating the Bramley apple, the descendent of the responsible orchardman should remain unmolested. I was in there like a shot, feeding him opportunities to tell me all about the apple’s provenance and sensational water content. As on previous occasions when I’ve managed to circumnavigate any restraining orders he may have put in place, Roger was a genuine delight to talk to. I told him that I’d enjoyed the lecture he’d given at the Civil War Museum two years previously and he nodded and pretended he had enjoyed chatting to me. Top gent. A genuine prince amongst men.

The place was even busier by the time I’d finished wasting Roger’s time and I seemed to have ended up fighting against the prevailing current of delirious shoppers. I gave up and let the throng sweep me twice clockwise around the stalls before making for the exit and seeking quieter parts of the town. The festival was great, but I was a little disappointed by the lack of apple trees for sale. I was hoping to pick up a Bramley’s Seeding for my orchard, even though it’s not a Lincolnshire variety. It’s my orchard. I’ll do what I want.