By Jonny McCambridge

Copyright newsletter

There are plenty of things I could be doing if I can find the motivation. The danger is that the prized time could be squandered lying on the sofa in front of the telly. The grass on the front and back lawns could do with one more cut before winter tightens its grip; but I baulk at the effort involved in dragging the old mower from the shed. The broken kitchen door is still awaiting repair, but I am concerned the job is too big and my intervention will leave the situation worse than it currently is. Then there is the little crab apple tree at the front of my house. I’ve written on this page before about how it is my pride and joy and provides an annual bounty of fruit. But in my current mental state I feel weighed down by the responsibility of tending to it. It is heavy with fruit, the apples are starting to drop and lie lightly upon the grass. I must take care of it. I need to ensure that the fruit is preserved and not wasted. I sigh as I pull myself from the sofa. The work has to be done. It has been raining heavily overnight and the lawn is saturated. I have worn the wrong shoes and soon my socks are in a damp state. I groan as I bend down to pick up the apples on the grass and deposit them in the large silver bowl. I begin to pluck the remaining apples from the tree, counting as I do so. There is no compelling reason why I should keep a running total other than it intrigues me to do so. I wrote on this page a few years ago about how the tree had once produced more than 900 apples in a single harvest. More than one person suggested I was exaggerating. I shrugged my shoulders; the maths is undeniable. I savour the unfulfilled prospect that some year the little tree my wife planted might produce 1,000 pieces of fruit, so I continue with the counting. I am not long into the task when a woman who lives around the corner approaches. She inquires if there will be a jar of jam for her this year. I nod my head and we chat for a few minutes before she continues on her morning walk. I take my time plucking the crimson orbs from the tree and examining each one individually. I have no doubt there are quicker, more efficient ways to complete this task. This, however, is my way. There has been a lot of sunshine this summer and I am impressed both with the size and the purity of the colour of the crab apples. I spend so much time admiring them that the pile in the bowl grows more slowly than it should. Despite my natural clumsiness, I try to engage a light touch, as I am keen not to damage the delicate tree. At one point I pluck an apple and feel something moving in my hand. I loosen my grip and a pretty red and black butterfly gratefully escapes. I watch as it flutters off towards the creamy, grey sky. Soon the couple who live across the road approach. For a long time, we didn’t really know each other. Last year I gave them a jar of jelly. A few weeks later they returned the jar filled with home-made fudge. We are on friendly terms now. They want to see the new apples and I promise that another jar will soon be on the way. I work my way up the tree. Most of the apples are fine, but there is the occasional smaller one in the shadows which has not enjoyed the warmth of the sun. I consider if, like the fisherman, I should throw the little ones back, but quickly reject the idea. I want to bring them all in. Just like my son, the tree is stretching upwards at a prolific rate. For the first time, I have to employ a step ladder to get the fruit from the highest branches. The apples which are the hardest to reach are the largest the tree has ever produced and I spend a silly amount of time admiring them. The silver bowl is now full and overflowing. As I drop the apples from the ladder more and more land on the grass. I have to go inside to find a second container. As I bend over to scoop up the fallen harvest I accidentally pick up the smallest snail I have ever seen, with its shell not yet developed. I gently set the little fellow down in another part of the garden. The sun is finally starting to break through the morning clouds. I’ve been at the task for more than 90 minutes and am covered in a thin film of sweat. I consider how much I am enjoying the work, how the lethargy of lying on the sofa is a distant memory. A man who I don’t know, but who I’ve seen in my estate before, is passing and stops to say hello. He tells me he lives up the road and has fruit trees in his back yard, including pear and quince. He asks me what I will do with the bounty of scarlet apples and seems surprised when I tell him they will become jams and jellies. I promise that I will bring him a jar. It is only after the man leaves that I realise I didn’t ask his name or which house he lives in. I am unconcerned because I know I will see him again. I make a final check on the tree, plucking the last few pieces of fruit which I missed first time. There are 1,093 apples in the 2025 harvest.