The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

A couple of years after I started work on my amateur orchard, East Lindsey District Council decided to copy me but to do it bigger and, in all fairness, better. In the summer of 2021, they announced a series of community orchards to be planted across the district. The initial tranche of ten included three in Louth, which seems unfair really. We got one in Westgate Fields, a local park on the edge of town, another in the town’s cemetery and a smaller effort in the Gatherums, a narrow strip of a park running parallel to the terraced houses of Kidgate.

Back when I was a child, I lived happily on Kidgate for several years until a house move necessitated by the arrival of my two sisters, something that I don’t remember ever being consulted upon. I’m not saying I would have said no, just that it would have been nice to be asked. I wasn’t popular enough at the time to hang out with the cool kids but I’m fairly sure neither me nor anyone else called it the Gatherums. It was Springside to us and always will be. Having said that, I’m ok with the name Gatherums too. According to my sources, it means a collection of miscellaneous items so it’s quite a nice way to describe a park.

Apart from its name and a poetic plaque screwed to the wall near the entrance, not much has changed since my childhood. In days of yore, there were two watercourses here; St Helen’s Spring at one end and Aswell Hole at the other. There was enough water pummelling through the area to supply an outdoor swimming pool on nearby Church Street until the nineteen seventies but now it lies closed and health-conscious townies have to rely on the shiny new leisure centre about half a mile away. I was a member myself for a couple of years but the only time I went was for a full English breakfast in the cafe.

The park is only a couple of hundred meters long but there are almost always people milling about. You’ll often see dog walkers who need to get done quick sharp wandering about here or maybe a gaggle of Jehovah’s Witnesses sat down on the seats while people walk past not helping themselves to a free copy of the Watchtower magazine. I think one said hello to me once but I might have imagined it.

Later on in the day, after the local schools have kicked out there are sometimes groups of bored youngsters milling around in the hope of something exciting kicking off; a new BTS video or something similar I imagine. I suspect it’s this latter lot who are about to become the villain of the piece but I don’t really blame them. I’d be up to mischief if I was still a bored teenager trying to impress my peers. 

Into this melting pot of semi-interested locals, the District Council poured five apple trees, unlabelled and, barring a bit of chicken wire, unprotected. I was initially excited and thought people would be keen to tend the trees and eventually help themselves to free fruit. Sadly, in this as in many other things, I was very wrong. Within the first year, two of the trees were vandalised and two more were callously murdered the following year. Council workmen in reflective jackets came in and removed all traces of the Gatherums orchard bar the one remaining survivor, sat as far away as possible from the seating area. It was probably the distance that saved it.

Even that lonely specimen now looks like it could do with a bit of love. I’ve seen it covered in blossom every Spring but I’m yet to see an apple on it. I don’t know what variety it is supposed to be but it must be one that lacks the ability to self-pollinate. To be honest, my heart breaks for it every time I walk through the park on my way to the record shop. I suppose it seems healthy enough and has other trees for company but it’s stuck staring at a car park and is perpetually thwarted in any plans it might make to spread its seed.

This year, with a spare rootstock waiting back home at Ticklepenny Lock, I decided something had to be done about the situation. I briefly considered trying to find a contact so I could ask permission, but a rebellious streak took hold in the last moment and I decided to help myself to a twig or two.

Although it’s generally legal to cut twigs from apple trees on public land, Louth is a conservation area and that muddies the waters a little. Just in case I do incur the wrath of the local constabulary, I ask my friend Stephen along so I can throw him to the wolves and save myself if needs be. Just in case he’s not keen on being the fall guy, I don’t tell him that he is one. It would only stress him out.

Our expedition begins with a welcome breakfast of veggie sausages and fried eggs round at Stephen’s house, a sort of Caractacus Potts wonderland of moving shelves and crowded workbenches. We then make our way to Springside and I take my pruning shears to the tree.

I don’t take much, just two pencil-sized twigs that were growing inward from larger branches. Too crowded a centre spoils air flow around the tree so I’m doing it a favour really. Obviously I speak to the tree in a calm and reassuring manner throughout the ordeal. It doesn’t seem particularly bothered. Maybe it’s just grateful for a bit of company. It’s a beautiful day so there are a couple of elderly types discussing times past in the seating area but they say nothing as we saunter confidently past them and away.

Instead of the direct route along Eastgate and then Eastfield Road, we take a slight detour and head along the canal towpath to the field. Stephen stops regularly in the mistaken belief that he can see a Kingfisher but I don’t bother looking. The chances of my bleary eyes focusing fast enough are vanishingly small.

My companion is in high spirits, remarking on how nice the walk is. He’s right; sometimes I forget how lucky I am to live in Louth. There’s countryside and nature everywhere and we’ve still got room for four chippies and a three screen cinema showing all the latest releases.

We stop off on the way to the grafting site to take a clipping from my oldest tree, Dr Clifford. Last week I was offered actual cash money for a bag of his apples so I’m catering for the new market by increasing my crop. No-one could accuse me of lacking business acumen.

The grafting process itself is hampered by the realisation that the scions I’ve taken are a little thinner than the planted rootstocks but I do the best I can to line them up and then hurriedly secure them with strips of wound freezer bags before anyone can tell me they won’t take. It’s my turn to do the cutting and notching but miraculously I manage to do it without severing any major arteries.

That’s it done. Five new grafts. Supposedly the Whip and Tongue method works eighty percent of the time so by rights I should have four new trees growing soon. I’m not convinced. I’ll be happy if one takes but, even if everything fails and dies, at least I’ve had fun doing it. Next year, I’ll be one year wiser and won’t plant the rootstocks before they are grafted and ready. You live and learn.

Incidentally, if you want to read more about the history of the Gatherums, including tales of brothels, beer and sacred waters, point your internet search engine at Caitlin Green and the Gatherums. That tiny strip of land has more history than you might imagine.