The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

Wassailing is an ancient tradition that is enjoying a bit of a resurgence these days. In times of yore, groups of people would parade through towns and villages singing songs and serenading the Wassail Queen (some historians would have you believe it laid the foundations for what was to become carol singing). Eventually the bevvied up gaggle would troop up to the oldest tree in the local orchard and soak the ground with cider. There would be more singing, the clanging of pots and pans to scare off demons, and the ceremonial lobbing of toast into tree branches to attract a Robin, believed to be the guardian of orchards. That might be what people imagine when you tell them you’re off a-wassailing assuming they don’t just think you are mad.

Two years ago, when I first got my arse in gear to do some plotting and planning, I managed to rope in a friend, Amy, to play the part of the Wassail Queen. We made a bit of a do of it and ended up in a local pub afterwards, regaling disinterested onlookers with tales of our larking about. I even got an article published in an offshoot of Lincolnshire Life magazine. Last year I forgot entirely and, to be completely honest, I nearly did the same again this year. It was only when Amy contacted me to see if I was planning anything that I finally decided to dust off my singing pants and court a Robin. Amy planned on joining me but was forced to bail out on the day because she has a family, a job and actual responsibilities. Her disconsolate text message concession reminded me why I’ve been avoiding such things for decades.

So here I am, all on my lonesome, spurred on by the incredulity of family members who have asked what I was up to this evening, preparing for the parade. Actually, to be fair, none of them asked: I can’t stop banging on about it and they are kind enough to listen. The wassail cider is brewing on the hob. It contains all the right ingredients (cider, nutmeg, cinnamon, sugar and orange juice) but not necessarily in the right proportions because I’ve lost the recipe I used two years ago. The wassail toast is waiting in a plastic bag next to the toaster. The ceremonial bowl and hat are to hand and my lungs are full of the strains of the wassail song. I’ve not had to look that up; it’s been stuck on repeat in my brain for the last twenty four months. It sounds a lot like the old advertising classic A Finger of Fudge but contains references to apples, trees and making merry. It’s a modern day classic.

I’m not going to lie. I miss having a Wassail Queen to share the evening with. A small part of me is pleased because Amy has to drive for an hour to get here and the song has only got eight lines, but the larger part of me is profoundly gutted. I need to recruit some local friends, specifically ones that can be convinced to take part in farcical agricultural ceremonies.

I’ve saved a single bottle of the Ticklepenny cider we bottled a few days ago to pour over my oldest tree’s roots. I hope he likes it, even though it contains a bit too much sediment to make it really tasty. The oldest tree in question is Dr Clifford, the nigh on horizontally inclined cooker in the far corner of my plot. He was planted at the same time as six other trees but was allegedly a year older at the time. I think he’s nine, but I could be wrong. I’m sure I’d had my first taste of booze by the time I was nine, so it should be ok. As well as hoisting cidered-up toast into his branches, I’ll be bellowing the song and throwing my hat about in the dark as well. This is serious business. Without a robin to guard the orchard from pests, there’s a real chance that there’ll be no apples this coming year and no cider to wassail with next year. Nobody wants to see that.

Looking out my living room window, there don’t seem to be many people about. I’m not sure how long to give it until there’s no discernible risk of there being anyone around to hear me wailing and howling but I think I’ll be safe after seven. It’ll take me about half an hour to walk to the orchard if I stop halfway for a bag of chips.

It’s cold out but not forbiddingly so. Not like two years ago, blimey what a night that was. There’s a light mist sneaking in but the stars are still out and it’s comforting to have my way lit by Orion and the Plough. And street lights. Mostly street lights, to be honest. I got bought some hand warmers for Christmas but there’s no need for them at the moment. That’s handy because I think the charge has about drained away.

When I reach the cheery bright lights of the chippy, I plump for a medium bag and some curry sauce. They last me until I reach the edge of Louth but I hold onto the wrapper along the unlit, national speed limit stretch of road between town and field. It could have been sketchy  if I had a longer walk ahead but I’m only a  few hundred yards from the field.

Gloves on for the gate and a quick climb as close to the hinges as I can get without losing an eye to the overhanging sycamore tree. Torch on to disconnect the horse security fence. There’s no way I’m trusting my night vision when there’s electricity running through the white plastic cords.

Jack the horse looms out of the misty shroud as I tramp through the mud. He’s supping neat rainwater from a bucket and doesn’t pay me any attention. I’m momentarily taken aback as the trees appear ahead. Last time I saw them was the harvest and they were laden with fruit and greenery. Now they are flimsy spiky things of chaotically reaching bare branches. Nothing homely or welcoming about them tonight. Maybe they are just annoyed to have been ignored for so long.

Dr Clifford lurks furthest from the entrance, leaning towards the centre of the trees. The square plastic tube we used to protect him from rabbits when he was three is still there but it’s splitting apart under pressure from his girth. I should take it off really and let him breathe.

The first thing I do is pour some authentic Ticklepenny Tap cider over his roots, congratulating him for supervising the growth of a successful orchard. He was young to be given such responsibility but has done well nonetheless. There’s definitely a few of his apples in the mix but it’s a cocktail of every tree in the orchard. There doesn’t seem to be anyone walking the footpath nearby so I launch into a verse of the wassail song as I finish tipping cider everywhere and carry on caterwauling as I loosen the flask and pour steaming mulled cider into the official wassail bowl, bought for eight quid from the local antique/junk place. Once I’ve had my fill, I mop up the dregs with some toast and place it in the highest branches of the tree, hopefully to be noticed by a robin looking for a home.

I think again how much better it was to have someone else along, not least to record the event for posterity. I give up taking photos and spend a few moments taking in the trees all around me. It’s weird to think that I planted them. Or, more accurately, stood around while other people did the digging. I’ve not achieved much in life, but this is one thing I can leave behind when I’m gone.

With that melancholy thought, I’m about done. I spy a torch proceeding along the canal bank and launch optimistically into another rendition of the song. “Oh apple tree we wassail thee and hope that thou wouldst bear.”

Secretly, I hope the approaching midnight rambler will throw a hearty “Drink Hael” my way and I’ll be able to respond “Waes Hael.” We’ll probably become firm friends and grow mighty trees together.

The truth plays out differently and more predictably. The light flickers around a bit as he stumbles through the kissing gate and then disappears without a sound. It’s a shame but doesn’t spoil my evening.

“Waes Hael,” I whisper with one hand on the trunk of Dr Clifford instead. I like him better than most people I’ve met anyway. With my ceremony concluded, I nod at the horses and head for home.