Day Four: The Forbidden Fruit.

 “Today I discovered that apples are treated with more security than the Crown Jewels—and apparently, I can’t be trusted with sand.”

Today I was sent off apple picking in the walled garden with Derek. Derek is middle-aged and so serenely unflappable that I’m convinced he’s on some kind of permanent herbal sedative. If the apocalypse came, Derek would calmly sip his tea, raise an eyebrow, and carry on polishing his secateurs.

Our first task was a logistical adventure: collect the tools. We trundled off to the stable yard tool shed, where Derek handed me what looked like a medieval torture device but was, in fact, an “apple-picking gadget.” Imagine a small bag on the end of a long extendable pole—basically a fishing net for fruit. Add a flat hand cart and a stack of trays from another shed, and we were armed and ready.

Apple Picker.

Arriving at the walled garden, we immediately faced a great horticultural mystery: which apples, exactly, were we supposed to be picking? Derek, ever calm, left me perched on the hand cart (a surprisingly comfy throne, if slightly wobbly) while he went in search of enlightenment. Ten minutes later, he reappeared with Jim—the man I believe to be in charge of the walled gardens. Although, given Little Pete’s air of authority, I suspect the power structure here is more tangled than a patch of bindweed.

Once apple protocol was established, Derek took the pole-bag and began plucking fruit from the higher branches with monk-like precision, while I stuck to the low-hanging stuff. Being vertically challenged, my contribution was… modest. Still, the trays filled up quickly, and before morning tea we had the cart fully loaded.

Ready For The Fruit Store.

Now, here’s where things got unexpectedly cloak-and-dagger. Before leaving the staff room that morning, Derek had collected the keys to the fruit store. Yes, the fruit store. Apparently apples are such valuable commodities they’re kept under lock and key. Derek explained the lock wasn’t to stop theft but to ensure people didn’t absentmindedly leave the door open—the fruit has to be kept cool and dark. (Though personally, I think it adds a delicious aura of criminal intrigue to the humble Cox’s Orange Pippin.)

Inside, three walls were lined with beautiful wooden racks, two more ran down the centre, and along the fourth wall were sand benches. And no, these are not for emergency sandcastle competitions on rainy afternoons. They’re for storing carrots, beets, and other earthy treasures. (I’m slightly disappointed, honestly.)

Our job: sort and store. Derek, using his expert eye, decided which apples were worthy of long-term storage, while I took on the delicate task of wrapping each chosen fruit in paper and placing it carefully on the racks—no two apples allowed to touch, like socially distanced party guests. Anything blemished or bruised was relegated to the “eat first” pile, awaiting its short, tragic destiny.

By the end of the day, after a second round of picking post-lunch, we’d nearly filled an entire rack. Derek even told me I’d done a good job, which, coming from a man who appears incapable of fluster, felt like being knighted. Then he instructed me to pick one of the “second-class” apples for myself—adding, with surprising gravity, that I should keep it hidden and not eat it until I got home. Make of that what you will.

Tomorrow? I’ve no idea. But if I’m suddenly reassigned to carrots, I’m bringing a bucket and spade, just in case. ️