The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

After an eighteen-month absence there is a lot of work that needs doing to bring the orchard up to a respectable standard. It doesn’t take a Level 3 Certificate in Orcharding (available from the Permaculture Association) to spot that the trees have been neglected. Branches swing and cross haphazardly from leaning trunks, and everywhere you look there are impenetrable swathes of grass and nettles. Ingall’s Pippin is disease-ridden, at least on one side. Its leaves curl sullenly inward and the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that it’s never born fruit. Dr Clifford leans precariously as if he’s been gorging on his own fermented yield or there’s something in the hedgerow he’s desperate to get away from.

First things first though. There are sparrows chattering indignantly and I think I can spot the source of their ire. I’m sure Barb manages the birdbath diligently but she’s on holiday and it is now just a quagmire of brackish dregs and swollen pigeon crap. I stumble down to the nearby River Lud, convince myself that it’s running clearly enough, and fill the bath to overflowing. Hopefully the locals will leave me alone now while I crack on.

The more I consider the massed ranks of nettles, the more problematic they seem. I might be overdoing the anthropomorphic tendency here, but I can’t imagine the trees enjoy being surrounded by venomous leaves, let alone sharing their precious rainwater with the spiny pests. I’m almost certain I read somewhere that grass will outcompete young apple trees and needs to be cut back viciously for at least a foot round the trunks. If that’s the case, we’re in trouble. The weed-inhibiting mats I laid have long since been overwhelmed. Nettle Armageddon must be my number one priority.

Fortunately, last year my dad presented me with an authentic scythe that he had found in an abandoned barn and repaired with a non-standard metal handle. Less fortunately, it’s completely blunt. The sharpening stone is probably somewhere in the shed, but the alarm went off when I went in last time and I’m fearful of alerting the local constabulary.

I have a go anyway but I’m doing an awful lot of trampling things down and very little actual scything. Imagine a balding Poldark who has been trapped in a pork pie factory for ten months and then let loose in the glaring mid-day sun. It’s not a pretty picture.

After ten minutes of swinging fecklessly this way and that, my heart is hammering in my ears and sweat is dripping into my eyes. I retreat to the bench and have a bit of a rest. Desperate to delay further activity, I suddenly become an amateur birdwatcher and focus on a distant Buzzard that drifts into my eyeline. It floats majestically in currents and thermals that are beyond the limits of my perception but doesn’t spot any prey and eventually glides out of sight.

I’m not getting anything done whilst sat on my arse so after a few minutes respite I figure I might as well have another stab at the weeds. My technique is improving with practice, but my energy levels are going the other way. After a few more attempts to clear a path through the centre of the orchard, I haven’t got the energy to get back to the bench and just collapse on the ground. I’m immediately rushed by buzzing flies and tiny beetles but can’t be arsed to fight them off.

Some of the clouds above look fluffy and grey. The weather app on my phone promises nothing but there’s always hope. A bit of rain now wouldn’t go amiss: not only because I’ve not brought anything to drink and am too farty to drink river water, but also because it would give me a convenient excuse to head home.

The bird chatter is back. It’s starting to feel a bit derisive if I’m honest. After all I’ve done for them. Before a local badger decides I’m easy meat, I stumble to my feet using the curved handle of the scythe for support and expend the last dregs of my vitality on the nettles around Dr Clifford. He shows no appreciation.

With almost a tenth of the grass mangled in one fashion or another, I call it a day and make unlikely plans to return soon. There must be other orchard jobs that are less knackering.

Perhaps I could remove the plastic sleeves we hoped would offer protection from voracious rabbitlife, but most of them are obscured by weeds. The ones that I can make out look like they’ve started to split so I doubt that they are providing anything other than an eyesore at this point. Removing them would be something I could do whilst sitting down, which would be nice, but not until the nettles are gone. I park the idea for another day.

I survey the rest of the scene and the buttercup-strewn meadow beyond my borders. I’m minded to slyly annex another sliver of land, but I think it would be uncouth without prior consent. Additionally, I think the electric fence might be on and I don’t fancy finding out the hard way. I need enough space for a crab apple, a couple of pears and a plum tree, just enough to give the orchard a bit of variety. And maybe a beehive. That’s pie in the sky thinking though. Nothing here is urgent.

Somewhere back at the house there’s an erratically folded manila envelope containing some labels I had made by a Royal Appointee. Hammering in some pillars to fasten them to is another job that needs doing once the nettle problem is sorted. I’ve already got the varieties written down in a notebook for the fast-approaching day when I can’t remember any of them but still, it would be nice to put the labels up for posterity. Not to mention they cost me a fortune. I wonder how the trees feel about their human names. Is Dr Clifford aware that he’s named after William Ingall’s local GP?

My ruminations raise an interesting philosophical point. I’ve got loads to do but is any of it actually worth the effort?

Branches need pruning? Who cares about my arbitrary opinions as to what constitutes a good-looking tree? Trees in the wild stand impassively against body shaming.

Tree guards need removing? Peasgood and friends are doing a perfectly good job of bursting out of them on their own.

Weeds need cutting? There are no signs of restricted growth despite what I think I read about the power of grass.

Maybe I could strive and struggle for the rest of my days and none of it would make the blindest bit of difference. Perhaps I’d be better off just sitting down and considering the wonder of wild things left untamed.

There you go. Who’d have thought this blog would involve sneaky life lessons?