Picking apples

Late September brings a frost and then a blusterly gale. In between there is heavy rain. Early October sees the return of warm sunshine, and dry conditions, then a couple of nights when temperatures again plummet.

I think it’s time to pick the bulk of the apples.

They’ve not been at their best this year, held back by a wet summer, and too little sunshine. A few weeks ago one large branch, laced with fruit, cracked and fell to the ground. Not the June drop but the rainy September flop.

The crop is a bit blemished too, with mushy brown patches that soon spread. Intrepid slugs have made the ascent from ground level and are now gorging on the juicy, discolouring flesh.

There are some compensations. The pippins have been good to eat for a couple of weeks now, helped along by the frost. I have one every morning with my breakfast. Less good are the red Fiestas, which I’m not sure will come round at all. I try one or two straight from the tree, normally a real, juicy pleasure, but decide they need longer if they don’t hit the ground first.

The Bramley cookers are getting into their stride. I moved the tree to a sunnier location a few years back. Now the fruit is looking much better. Not too many, but for the first time, some large bright green apples, with dense flesh and good flavour. They’d grace any greengrocers stall.

Today I concentrate on the Melrose Whites. Very large and perfect for cooking, though they don’t keep for long. I stretch up to where the best apples always seem to be – just out of reach. I shake the branch and deftly catch two of the three that fall. I weigh up the ribbed shape of the Melroses, one in each hand. Likely developed by the monks of the famous Border Abbey, the flesh of the fruit is said to be as white as a Cistercian’s habit, whilst the skin is streaked with patches of red among a predominance of the palest greens. Here in my hands, a direct link to the Middle Ages.

Medieval or not, and even in a less good year, there is a real pleasure in picking apples, and no doubt, there will be more than we can eat or preserve. I fill the last of my wooden trays, satisfied I’ve got enough for our needs. Then I text Max, the local cider maker. He’ll be along in a few days to gather up the last of the harvest.