One of our favourite walks through the village takes us down to a track that leads to a farmhouse. So often, it’s at this point that we turn back and head home, but on a sunny September day it’s impossible not to linger.
There by the side of the track stands an old apple tree, the first of many. Its fruit, all rosy red, belong in a fairy tale. The apples hang from the boughs like bright baubles, while windfalls litter the ground below.
Spell cast, we stay, bewitched by the trees, old and gnarled, their branches thick with lichen.
Beneath them, in the long grass, still damp with dew, wasps buzz and butterflies flit – attracted by the fallen fruits. A faint sweetness rises from the ground to meet our nostrils. Summer’s end and autumn’s promise mingle there.
Along this short stretch of track so many different varieties of apple and pear have been planted; each tree bearing a different fruit. I wish I could name them all. And I wonder if anyone still knows what they are.