The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

On the wall of what I call my office, but is really just a spare bedroom with ideas above its station, I have a map of the local area. It’s actually two 1:25,000 Ordnance Survey Explorer maps blue tacked together so that they nearly match up. I add a coloured pin any time I find or hear about a wild apple tree and make plans to transplant them all into my orchard. Whilst I might not recover any authentic lost varieties, at least I’ll have an orchard that represents the area.

This week, as the murky grey of Winter grudgingly ceded ground to the slightly less murky grey of Spring, I decided it was high time I started the work of grafting the pinned trees onto some rootstock I bought from a recommended dealer. I’ve earmarked one for my mum’s back garden crab apple but the other four are up for grabs.

I decide to start off with a tree near the village of Legbourne that my friend Adrian told me about. I went on a scouting mission last June but never made it back to test the fruit so I hope it will be worth the trip today. It’s not far from home but I can sling in a diversion to turn it into a hike worthy of the name. I don’t, because I am the lazy sort, but I could if I wanted to.

I fill my rucksack with tools and snacks because a fella needs sustenance when he’s adventuring and wander down to the covered bus stop. Two quid later, I’ve got myself a window seat behind someone with headphones larger than her actual head and I’m on my way. There’s no official stop where I’m hoping to get off but one of the good things about living out here is that bus drivers are normally happy to drop you wherever you want and so it proves today. Thanks, driver.

I’m soon wandering down Furze Lane, a mostly pristine strip of road beside a narrow stream. In the distance is a white-haired dog walker and it slowly occurs to me that being followed down an obscure country lane by a bearded ne’er-do-well might not be her idea of fun. I deliberately start hanging around to take in the views, hoping to put some reassuring distance between us. She eventually reaches a spot where a footpath crosses into the field and brings her back this way but on the other side of the stream. She seems more confident now that there’s water between the two of us which is fair enough because I do look like I might be allergic to it. Once she’s gone, it’s just me and the fields; meadows to the right and shining oil seed rape to my left. 

I peer off into the distance, hoping to spot the spire of St. James church to the North West but there’s nothing doing. It’s a bit of a surprise because the thing is humongous, taller than any other parish spire in Britain I think. I end up catching sight of it later on when I’m nearer the Manby end of the lane. I’ve seen it a million times, even been inside occasionally, but it’s always a welcome sight, emblematic of our town. When I was a young ‘un St James was considered too posh for the likes of me but now the Church of England’s standards have dropped, either due to a steady liberal tide or an increasing desperation for custom, I can wander in with only an occasional look of mistrust. The times they are a changin’.

Back to the present. Several of the trees at the side of the road are covered in blossom and there are tidy clumps of daffodils every so often. What a time it must be to be a bee, assuming you can look past the existential threats posed by pesticide, hedgerow erosion and global warming.

I’m making slow progress, not least because I keep stopping every few hundred yards to take snaps on my dying smartphone. I could have come on my bike but then I’d be barreling along, wind blowing across my naked scalp, at speeds of up to eight miles an hour rather than taking my time. I think Lincolnshire looks better the slower you travel through it. In the wolds where I live, all you’ll see from a car is an endless swathe of green, but stick on your walking shoes and you’ll start to notice things that would otherwise pass you by. Hares bounding through golden fields, ladybirds crawling along verdant leaves or wildflowers that will take your breath away. It’s everywhere, I tell you. Nature in all its glory hidden from the speed obsessed. We’re not for you, I’m afraid. Hurry on past and don’t tell your friends.

Okay, that’s enough poetic musing about the appeal of Lincolnshire. I’m here at the bend in the road, staring at half a dozen trees and wondering which one I need to attack with my pruning shears. Maybe a better arborealist than me could distinguish between the options but with neither fruit nor blossom to guide me, one tree looks very much like another. I dig out my smartphone and fire up the plant identification app, just like they would’ve done in ages past. All it needs is a photo of a leaf or a bit of bark to go on. Sessile Oak. Move on. Field Maple. Nice but no thanks. There we go: Apple. It’s the one I would have chosen had I been forced to stick my neck out but that counts for nothing without the courage of my convictions.

Fortunately the tree is road-side of the fence so it’s fair game to opportunistic grafters like me. I snip off five small upward shoots that could’ve done with being pruned anyway. Each one is roughly a foot long and about the width of a pencil. They should do nicely. Spoiler: they don’t. It’s a long time since I’ve held a Staedtler HB and I’ve forgotten how thick they are.

The tree itself is a lovely specimen, crusty branches twisting this way and that, unfettered by human ideas on what is right and proper. The trunk is thick and gnarly with clumps of green moss littering its bark. I rest my hand on an appealing branch and consider its lifespan. There’s probably a branch here from every year of its life, all doing their own thing and growing where they will. I wonder how and why it was planted. There’s a barn but no obvious farmhouse nearby. Maybe it was knocked down after the tree-planter left it derelict.

Rather than heading back to Legbourne, I carry on down Furze Lane and come out just this side of Manby. If I knew of a pub lunch there I’d be tempted but instead I turn left and head along the main road, using the grass verge in lieu of a path. There’s a good deal of traffic here, hurtling along with a cheery disregard for the speed limit. When there’s nothing coming the other way, most cars veer into the other lane when they approach which is kind of them.

Not all of them are so obliging though. I feel sucking air as a van passes hairily close to me, harshing my mellow and extracting a spray of choice words that I immediately regret. The villain is passing a larger van around the outside of a bend despite cars heading in the other direction. He must be in a rush. I don’t quite catch the name on his van but I can see that he’s a Painter Decorator by trade. It’s not enough information for a scathing Google review.

As soon as I leave the main Manby Road, I’m back amongst the peace and quiet. What cars do go past do so at a reasonable pace and with a wave of thanks for me standing aside. There’s still a lot of litter though. Flattened cans, plastic bottles and a flat wooden stick that I guess was once the handle of either a Magnum or a Solero. Hopefully it was a Solero. Those are the ice creams you reach for when you’re having a good day.

I cut across the fields from Stewton Lane to my council estate on the eastern edge of Louth, dawdling before the start of the footpath so I can let a dog walker build up a decent lead on me. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice in one trip. It turns out that I needn’t have bothered. She gets held up as her black labrador paws at something on the ground. She manages to tear it away but now I’m awkwardly close. I can see the dog’s prize is a dead rabbit. Later on I’ll regret not stopping and giving it a proper burial but the lady is waiting for me to pass before the next section of footpath so I double my pace and oblige.

At the end of the path, I pass a tree that looks like two trees hugging. Lovely stuff. Someone should write a fairy story about it.

I get back home with my official step counter reading a little over ten thousand and a half dozen promising sprigs sticking out of my rucksack. Not bad for a fat lad. I reward myself with extra cheese for lunch.