The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

Some weeks ago, I received a text message from a friend who has been reading this blog since its inception. He said that he had been hiking with his brother and found an apple tree deep in the countryside near Wold Top, the highest point in Lincolnshire. In case I doubted him, there were three photos attached that purported to be of his hand holding a yellow green apple, covered in red blush. He suggested a hike out to the tree on the next convenient sunny day so that I could have a look for myself. Thinking back, it occurs to me that this setup would be a lot more intriguing if he had taken the time to send a telegram like in the Indiana Jones movie I’d just been watching. “Found long lost apple tree. Not marked on map. Fancy expedition and pint?” Mobile phones may have brought much utility but they have ruined mystery.

Anyway, we make plans and cancel them twice because he is busy and I like to pretend I am. Then, on a warm afternoon not three weeks since, he texts again, “Is next Monday ok? I’ll bring lunch.”

Next Monday is definitely ok. I’m doing nothing either on Monday or on any other day of the week. Bang on time, Simon rolls to a halt outside my ex-council house in his son’s car and unfolds himself from the seat. We are on our way to the village of Rothwell and ten miles of glorious countryside after little more than a speedy hello and an even speedier trip to the bathroom. 

“Haven’t you brought any lunch?” he asks, as I close the car door and yank more and more seatbelt from the roller. “I picked up a meal deal from the Co-Op.”

Realisation dawns that I have drastically misinterpreted his text message.

“No,” I say, barely disguising my panic. “I ate a massive breakfast so I’ll be fine until teatime.”

It’s at least half true. As is my custom these days, I didn’t bother measuring out my porridge and cooked enough for a family of three but even so there was very little chance of me making it to teatime without being reduced to begging for scraps or scaring foxes away from nearby bins. You don’t get a figure like this by skipping meals.

We drive onwards through the gentle slopes of the Wolds, listening to folk music and discussing the wonders of Yellow Belly county. At least half of our chatter revolves around how outsiders think Lincolnshire is flat but it really isn’t. We laugh at their ignorance and I scan the horizon frantically, searching for a village shop. There is nothing either by the roadside or in the village of Rothwell itself, which is doubly annoying because I used to have a friend called Rothwell and I regularly bought him lunch. So much for karma.

 A fever dream has taken hold of me during the journey that involves packets of peanuts and home-cooked sausage rolls. Suddenly it is clear to me that this walk will be my Waterloo. With food at least four hours away, I will inevitably fade away and die before we reach our final destination back at the car. At least I’ll die doing something I love; hunting for better apple trees than the ones I’ve grown.

Simon consults his map and leads us straight off road along a marked footpath. About twenty feet later, the footpath curves back to the road. We have gone about eight feet and are still within spitting distance of the footpath sign. Undeterred, we tramp onwards and are soon off road proper, wandering through frankly gorgeous scenery that regularly hampers our progress with photo ops. 

Unlike me, Simon is an organised soul and has recorded the location of the apple tree on his phone gps app thing. However, when we finally get there, it is nowhere to be seen. I’m not at all upset; these things happen and the views of rambling hills covered with sheep have been easily worth the suffering. There is a brief period of toing and froing as Simon reorients himself until finally he “remembers” that it was a bit further on. I’m not as convinced as he seems to be, Lord knows how many days I’ve spent searching for apple mirages, but it would be rude to doubt him out loud.

Besides, the views are truly magnificent. The deep Wolds are my favourite place on earth and what is laid out before my rheumy eyes is probably the best view I’ve ever had of them. The hills are broad and unhurried, flat peaks providing grazing areas for cows and sheep, all lined and emphasised by hedgerows and stone paths. Despite the fact that everyone knows Tolkien based the Shire on a village near Birmingham, this is the land of the hobbits for my mind. I even think I can see a couple of them in the distance, although later it turns out that they are normal sized people who are just far away.

Hazy from the views and delirious with happiness, we walk on. The trail leads gently up towards a row of trees, one each of all your traditional varieties: Elm, Ash, Oak and Sycamore. Last in line, furthest from our starting point but with the best view of the lot of them is an ancient, wizened apple tree.

It is a thing of beauty, a monument to nature’s amazing provision. Branches creep everywhere, crossing and even growing into their fellows. There are tiny sprigs testifying to ongoing vigour and other branches that have had their time and died. It’s beautiful, truly beautiful. Between the two of us, we drag away a blue plastic bin that would have been stocked with feed for pheasants that are all long since gone. Once it is out of the way, I embarrass the tree with an unnecessarily large number of photos but don’t get any that do it justice. At least they provide a record of its location so I can come back in the autumn and shamelessly raid it.

Almost reluctantly, we walk on along a well-trod path, looking for somewhere for Simon to eat his lunch. After a few minutes, we come across fellow hikers who are clambering hesitantly over a metal gate from the field next door. Before I can moan at them for using the wrong end of the gate, Simon strikes up a friendly bit of banter. They warn us that the path deteriorates into mud and mire a bit further on so we’d be best off carrying on through the field. There are regular stiles further down so we can return to the official path once the way is clear, reducing the chance of being hunted down by an irate landowner.

As unlikely as a mud bath seems in the heat, we take their word for it and climb over the gate. We’re not hurting anything by trespassing because there are neither crops nor visible livestock so I don’t think we’ll get much grief even if the farmer does track us down. Soon we happen upon a fallen log and decide to rest our weary bones. I close my eyes and smile whilst the world outside goes faster.

Simon breaks out his lunch and I start thinking about the nutritional value of eating bark even though I have quite forgotten how famishingly hungry I am. Fortunately, and to be honest I always expected this would be the case, Simon is decent enough to share his sarnie and snacks with me. I feel my energy levels climbing and I’m back in the game. 

As we eat, a mountain biker comes along the nearby path towards us. We warn him about the mud but he decides to trust to his tricked-out machinery. We both watch as he trundles happily along before coming to a complete standstill and having to sort of half-peddle, half-wade his way through the grotty bit. The murky pit is obviously no joke.

He is followed by a middle aged couple heading the same way. We warn them both but they look nonplussed and carry on regardless, bewildered at strangers talking to them. I think it’s fair to say that the fella looks a lot more defiant than his partner. He has a bit of a “don’t talk daft, a bit of mud won’t challenge my toxic masculinity” look to him. He soon comes a cropper. There are arms waving and fingers pointing once they reach the deepest pits. Simon thinks the polite thing to do is to walk over and advise them to use the stile they just passed. I think the polite thing to do is pretend I’m not looking and let them get on with it. I let him do his white knight thing though and he wanders over to help.

He comes back seconds later. The couple are still in the mud and still arguing. Eventually, the lady walks back a bit, crosses the fence, collects their dog and strides away leaving the stubborn bloke to wade onwards. When they first passed us they seemed vaguely content but there’s none of that now. If they are of the cohabiting or married variety, I suspect one of them will be sleeping on the sofa tonight. I ask Simon if he’s proud of what he’s done. He doesn’t seem as convinced as he was ten minutes ago.

Anyway, lunch is over and we move on. Most of the walk is behind us now and after a few more miles and a couple more parties warned about the treacherous conditions ahead, we get back to Rothwell. This time we come in by a different route and discover a bustling pub that sells not only beer but also crisps. No peanuts though.

Over the days that follow I enthuse repeatedly and boringly about the route and I’m conscious that I’m doing the same here, but it was genuinely fabulous. If you’re unconvinced by the beauty of the Lincolnshire Wolds, just give me a lift and I’ll show you all their glory. But next time I’ll bring some grub.