The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

I’ve got some pretty mixed emotions when I consider resurrecting this ancient blog. I always enjoyed writing it and I know there were at least three people who didn’t mind reading it just to make me feel better about myself, but the problem is the orchard. I just can’t bring myself to fall madly in love with the place all over again. It’s got everything I always wanted, trees, rabbits and even a nearby river to burble away while I feign industry, but it’s all a bit too civilised. The trees are in rows, neatly and evenly spaced for maximum fruitability and there are buildings and other people within earshot. It doesn’t feel like escaping.

What I need is somewhere wild. Somewhere a bit more like Cross O’Cliff orchard really, which manages to combine a troop of dedicated workers with the feeling that you’re the only visitor in a thousand years. I want to feel like I’m being watched by Ents and maybe an inquisitive squirrel, not by well-meaning humans with hybrid cars and smartphones.

So, the long and short of it is that we need to start seeing other people, my orchard and me. I’ll still visit, and I’ll always love you, but I need to step back a bit.  I’m off to the wild blue yonder. By which I mean halfway up the field and off to the right a bit. I’ll be back but I’m not sure when or how often.

Orchard Two will be a wilder place, somewhere disorganised and organic, where future generations might not immediately suspect a designer’s hand and instead think that a lorry overturned on the road, spraying fourteen different varieties of Lincolnshire fruit across the field and burying them at a suitable depth for propagation. It happens all the time in these parts.

That’s the plan anyway. I haven’t told the trees yet. I’m just trying out the words for size and effect. To be honest, I’ve been trying out the words for months now and it’s starting to get a bit ridiculous, so as soon as I wake up on Saturday morning and find some half decent weather waiting for me, I pull on my warmest socks and my second best hiking boots and head off fieldwards.

The field is pretty empty. There’s a dog walker in the far distance, but no horses. Barb must be off riding somewhere. My trees greet me with a sort of resentful disdain. I’m not sure what other types of disdain there are, to be honest. Cheery disdain? They all appear to be alive although a couple are leaning perilously to the side and a few have clearly outgrown their plastic sleeves. The undergrowth is pretty thick but not as thick as it might have been if Barb didn’t keep covering for my inadequacies as an orchardman by mowing. I think she camps here when my dad heads off on one of his lads’ weekends away so the neglect must prompt her to action.

I was planning on getting my goodbyes over with early doors but there’s no harm in enjoying a wander round the old copse first. There aren’t many apples left from this year’s harvest. Most have been scoffed by the local wildlife, which I’m pleased about really. I manage to scrounge two Holland Pippins and half a dozen decent-looking Barnack Beauties. I love the Barnacks fresh off the branch, but they should be stored until December for full wonderfulness. Shaun d’Arcy Burt, who sold me the tree, would curse me for defying apple preparation orthodoxy but I’ve always been a rebel.

Peasgood Nonesuch stretches defiantly skywards, a good couple of feet taller than anything else nearby but spindly and bare. She thinks she’s better than the scumbag dwarf-trees she’s forced to share the patch with. Ingall’s Red, bushy and fulsome but half the height of his friends cropped a decent number of bright red fruit this year but they’re all long gone. I remember thinking he wouldn’t make it after the savagery of a rabbit attack in years gone by but he’s done me proud.

My oldest tree broods in the far corner nearest the patch of weeds where my stepbrother tried to transplant some wildflowers he rescued from the Chelsea Flower Show. Dr Clifford lurches eastwards, two outstretched branches reaching threateningly towards Ellisons Orange next door. There is a dead pigeon on the ground nearby, feathers and blood everywhere, another victim of Clifford’s murderous rage. Only it’s not actually dead. As I approach, the ruined bird starts to flap one wing and crane its neck off the ground. It’s a heartbreaking sight for a sort of almost-vegetarian who sneaks the occasional pork pie like me. There are bloody holes in its flanks, probably from a fox ambush and there’s no way the poor sod is going to make it. I can’t leave it like this though so I put it out of its misery as kindly as I can and gently move its body to the nearby hedge where it can rest in peace. Or feed worms, like we all will eventually.

I’m gutted. I hate that something so vital and beautiful should end its life in such a miserable way. Who know how long it had been stuck in the cold grass, gasping for breath and waiting for its attacker to come back. The tabloids might hate pigeons, but they always look beautiful to me. Greys and purples that only nature could put together and crap so white it glistens. I always leave extra food out at home because I feel bad for them having to watch sparrows feasting on my bird feeders. I don’t even mind wiping their poo out of my birdbath every morning. Well, maybe I mind that a bit.

I’m left emotional and sombre by the dead bird so when I get home I load up my bird table with peanuts and birdseed and prepare to welcome the area’s pigeons. It’s what the pigeon would’ve wanted. Not really though. As Chris Packham continually points out, nature is harshly competitive and, if anything, this is probably just rubbing salt in its wounds. I realise I forgot to break up with the orchard and instead decide to carry on as if nothing has happened. I’ll still build my wilderness getaway but there’s no harm in keeping both mistresses going. I’ve got plenty of time on my hands if I can drag myself away from World of Warcraft.

I briefly wonder if the pigeon was left there as a metaphor for my blog. I’ve never been the type to take good advice lying down though so instead of putting it out of its misery like I probably should, I decide to carry on writing. No shuffling off this mortal coil for my writing career. Instead, it’ll fight for life until a probably-not-very-distant day when there’s only my dad and me reading it. Please come along. I need the moral support.