The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

My dream has always been to find apple trees in the wild and to transplant them somehow into my orchard near Louth. It would be nice to find a variety thought lost but the chances are remote and these days I’d be happy just to add a tree I think looks nice. There’s one near Wragby that I’ve been visiting regularly for five years and I’d love to give him a home. I sometimes imagine that he’s the lost Lincolnshire russet Old Man of West Torrington but he’s probably just something random. There’s another one down a winding lane between Legbourne and Manby that I briefly hoped was Mrs Toogood, but I think she’s more likely to be off near Stamford, if she’s anywhere.

Whatever the provenance of these iconic (to me) trees, the only way I can get them back to my field is to learn how to graft branches. Between me and that lofty ambition lurk two potential pitfalls. Firstly, I don’t know how to do it, but I hope to solve that problem by attending a National Trust grafting workshop at the end of the month. Secondly, I don’t have any trees to graft on to. All eighteen of mine are already spoken for and although it is allegedly possible to graft multiple varieties onto one tree, there’s something about it that doesn’t sit right with me. It wouldn’t feel natural to pluck Ingall’s Red from one branch and Ingall’s Pippin from another.

Instead of opting for hodgepodge trees, I’ve coughed up for five bare rootstock that are labelled by Ashridge Nurseries as Malus Domestica semi-vigorous. Semi-vigorous sounds about my speed on a good day. Left to their own devices, they would probably grow but wouldn’t ever produce fruit. By grafting on a branch pinched from another tree, I should be able to reproduce the fruit from the donor. It sounds easy. Not easy enough to convince my dad that I’ve got more than a remote chance of success, but easy nonetheless.

However, before I can graft anything anywhere, my new friends need planting in my riverside plot, so I seize the first available clear day and head down to the field with a bunch of spades and my old Dunlop Wellington boots. Along for the ride is my dad who is there to help with the digging (by which I mean, do most of the digging) and to make sure I don’t plant anything in the wrong place. If the new trees further restrict the Environment Agency’s access to the river, they’ll stop maintaining the banks and hedgerows for us. Or something like that. I can hear my dad explaining it to me but all I can think about is planting trees and becoming a famous writer.

I think the old boy is also justifiably concerned about the implications of my orchard expansionism on his own workload and wants to keep an eye on me. He has very little faith in me maintaining the area myself and expects to end up taking over in a couple of months. It’s an outrageous slur, based only on everything that has ever happened previously. Harrumph. Can’t a man turn over a new leaf? Even when it’s a new leaf he’s been turning over for the past five years?

I’ve planted trees before and pretty much know what I’m doing. Spread them out, clear the surrounding grass and water them well. The biggest problem for me will be rapid onset Raynaud’s, reducing my otherwise healthy hands to lumps of unresponsive dead flesh. I’ve got gloves and a USB hand warmer but it will still be a (very short) race against time as soon as I drag my hands out of my pockets.

Not wanting to waste our hour of sunlight, we crack on with digging as soon as we get to the field by scrambling over the river and up the bank. The Lud is deeper than I’ve ever seen it before and almost looks like a real river. I so wish that I could plonk a bench down on the bank and sit watching fish sparkle in the Sun but it’s a forlorn hope this side of catastrophic global warming. Each time I get one tree in the ground and compact the earth around it, my inclination is to take a rest, maybe have a brew and enjoy a leisurely period of contemplation. I never get the chance though because my dad has the work ethic of a North Korean labourer and whenever there’s a lull in activity, he starts another job. I haven’t got the heart to let him do all the work and I’m way too ashamed to ask him to slow down. By the time I’ve planted five trees in small holes (the majority of which he dug), he’s taken all our gear back to the car, moved four fence poles and cleared the riverbank of brambles.

I’m feeling positive about the new trees despite how insecure they look. The soil here is lovely and I’ve mixed in some top notch compost, bone meal and mycorrhizal fungi the internet advised me to use. I think the fungus supports the tree roots and funnels nutrients to them. Or something like that. Apparently fungus has enjoyed a symbiotic relationship with trees for thousands of years so who am I to doubt it?

Mindful of the predatory instincts of the local rabbits, I’ve surrounded each sapling with protective green wire mesh that I bought years ago from Louth Garden Centre. It’s not until the third tree that I realise how much easier it would be to wrap the mesh around the tree rather than slide it down over the top. I’m a learner, just not a fast one. I quite like the look of the wire sleeves but they’re a bit flimsy until I tie them to a supporting cane.

To be honest, the new trees certainly look like they need as much support as they can get. A couple of them are not much more than sticks with a few stringy roots at one end (which is, to be fair, a fairly accurate description of any tree). At least there’s no chance of me planting them upside down. As of now there’s not much trunk to graft onto but hopefully the National Trust workshop will show me how to do it without decapitating them.

Whilst I’m digging and rolling wire sleeves, my dad takes a few action shots on his camera phone in the entirely mistaken but flattering  belief that someone might want to see a photo of my ugly fizzog. It’s nice of him to offer though so I pose away and try to look like I know what I’m doing. I doubt it works.

Soon everything on site is done and, amazingly, the Sun is still shining. It buggers off back behind rain clouds the second I close the passenger door on my dad’s ancient Hilux. The first few raindrops look almost appealing as they hammer on the windscreen and little do I realise that I’ll soon be sick of the site of rain. I’m glad that for once in my life, I’ve taken the first opportunity to get a  job done. Maybe my dad is starting to rub off on me.