The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

It’s been a while since I last visited my orchard. Maybe a double while, if that’s a thing. Back in the cold, dark days of January last year I went a-wassailing round the trees with a friend of mine but instead of blogging about it I sent it off to The Poacher magazine and braced for rejection. Shockingly, it turned up in print at some point but is now unavailable in newsagents. I don’t think they do back issues but you’re honestly not missing much. Maybe I dreamt the whole thing.

Wassailing, for those of you outside apple tree and Morris Dancing circles, is an ancient tradition whereby orchard types douse their apple trees with the remnants of last year’s cider, sing folk songs and leave toast in the branches of their most aged tree. It’s scientifically designed to attract the watchful gaze of the local Robin Redbreast, who was once believed to be an orchard guardian. If he liked your cider, he would bless you with a bumper yield and protect the apples from marauding Muntjac. Allegedly. It sort of morphed into what we know as Carol singing but is being reimagined by modern day hippies up and down the country.

Our amateur effort might have worked but I never got to find out because that was the last my orchard saw of me for months. I didn’t try again this January, but I regretted my indolence on the night, sat in my bedroom playing computer games whilst my guardian Robin perched in the cold dark, wondering if I was unhappy with his service. I was tempted to mooch down on my own, but I had forgotten to buy any cider. Besides, what’s a Wassail without a Queen?

That was fully sixteen months ago. With time, thoughts like “I really need to go to the orchard” were slowly replaced with “what am I having for tea” and “I think it’s time for a nap.” It’s funny how neglect and absence can sneak up and soon you’re not even missing something that was once a part of your life. Maybe even the best part of your life. I suppose that’s one of the evolutionary advantages of humans. If you start neglecting friends and family they can just mither you on the phone or turn up on the doorstep demanding tea and biscuits. Trees sadly lack the manual dexterity needed to master a smartphone and thus they end up sat alone and abandoned in the corners of fields. Which is a shame because, on the whole, I think I prefer their company to that of friends and family. Just kidding. Honest.

All of which nonsense brings us to last Friday morning, when the aforementioned Wassail Queen drove over to Louth because I promised her breakfast at the Indoor Bowling Club (quality breakfast barms and the best coffee in Louth).

“How’s the orchard?” she asked, after munching through her bacon and egg.

“Mumble, random excuse, mumble,” I replied.

And that was that. She’d heard enough. We climbed into her unnecessarily massive German car and drove down Eastfield Road to the trees. Clambering over the gate (at the hinge end, obviously) I fully expected to be met by a sorry looking clump of withered sprigs, dwarfed by a consuming forest of nettles and cow parsley. Anyone who has ever met me will be as unsurprised as we both were when I was proved wrong.

In my absence, the spindly twigs I planted in 2019 have grown into proper actual trees. The trunks no longer resemble upright branches and are instead bursting out of the dirty white sleeves we used to protect them from rabbits. I am instantly head over heels in love with the chaotic spray of branches. There is a not a globe shaped specimen in sight. More informed arborealists and yield-maximisers would be less impressed, but my love of trees comes from fairy tales and dark fantasy, not horticultural textbooks. My head is telling me I’ve done them a disservice by not properly grooming them during the past seven years, but my heart likes the fact that they’ve grown where and how they want. The end results speak to their distinct tree-personalities. No-one could look at them now and guess that they were once arranged in neat, homogeneous rows. There are a few branches that cross each other and that will need sorting out come the proper season, but I’ll not be swayed otherwise.

I’m shocked by how much Peasgood Nonesuch has grown, easily outstripping the intended constraints of its dwarf roof stock. Shorter trees make for easier harvesting but some of mine will be the sole preserve of migrating birds unless I manage to drag a step ladder down the road. Dr Clifford glowers in the corner, reminding everyone of his seniority. He was three when I planted him so he will be nine in the Autumn. Next year I’ll have a party. He’s not as tall as Peasgood but his branches are thick and gnarly, lurching sideways where Peasgood is all about self-aggrandising elevation. Ingall’s Red looks more traditional, almost as if it was me that pruned it and not invading rabbits. My heart swells with pride when I remember what a state they left him in. Buck-toothed gits.

Barb has not been as idle as I. There are two ancient wheelbarrows packed with colourful flowers and she has mown paths that allow access to the river. When my dad sneaks off to Yorkshire for gliding club shenanigans, she often camps here to be closer to her horses. I can’t say I blame her. There’s a bench at the eastern edge of the space, offering uninterrupted views of a green netted veg patch and the bumpy field beyond. The label on the back of the bench has been painted over but I’m sure its original owners couldn’t have wished for a better site. Whoever they are, they are welcome to visit. As long as they bring biscuits.

After a bit of a sit down to take in the view, I wander along the rows that are available to me, ostensibly looking for leaf curl and other signs of poor health but really just wanting to touch them. Me and Amy both have a quick go with the scythe but the sharpening stone is nowhere to be seen so it’s a bit of a forlorn task. It will have to wait for another day. For now, I’m just glad to be back home. I try to ignore the “I told you so” grin on the face of my alleged friend. She did tell me though.