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A YEAR IN ENGLAND’S EDEN
Benedict Macdonald
and
Nicholas Gates
Copyright
William Collins
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
WilliamCollinsBooks.com
This eBook first published in Great Britain by William Collins in 2020
Copyright © Benedict Macdonald and Nicholas Gates 2020
Map here illustrated by Sophie E Tallis
Copyright © Sophie E Tallis 2020
Illustrations here and here © Alamy Stock Photo
All other illustrations © Shutterstock
Extract from Ariel by Sylvia Plath here reproduced with permission from the publisher, Faber and Faber Ltd
Benedict Macdonald and Nicholas Gates assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008333737
Ebook Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008333744
Version: 2020-08-12
DEDICATION
For my parents, Ian and Liz Macdonald. The first of whom patiently helped make over a hundred bird boxes for the orchard. The second of whom patiently read through a hundred drafts of the book.
BENEDICT
For my family, who entertained decades of wild treasures – in various states of decay – being squirrelled around the home, freezer and garden with extreme patience and enduring enthusiasm.
NICHOLAS
Most importantly, for Nancy and David. Wildlife farmers extraordinaire, whose vision and horticulture created this orchard Eden long before we were fortunate enough to write about it.
Note: to protect the location of this extraordinary ancient orchard, some names and landmarks in this book have been changed.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Introduction
Apples and Bears: A brief history of the English orchard
January – Nick
February – Ben
March – Nick
April – Nick
May – Ben
June – Nick
July – Ben
August – Ben
September – Nick
October – Ben
November – Ben
December – Ben
Picture Section
Endnotes
Index
Acknowledgements
About this Book
About the Authors
Also by Benedict Macdonald
About the Publisher
Map
INTRODUCTION
Fiery mist shrouded the drooping furrowed trees. Woodpecker gunfire startled my coffee-primed senses. The song thrush chorus sang so loud, it soon became the jumbled chaos of a dozen raptures. The static fizz of a feeding starling gang carried from the fog-wrapped orchard floor. Well before the sun would rise, Eden was alive.
In a world increasingly starved of life, such moments are special. They burn into our senses. And there are some refuges so cherished, some places so important, some corners of our island so unique, that their wonders must be shared. The orchard is one of those places.
Haunted by creatures that may soon become memories – hedgehogs and cuckoos; dormice and bats – this orchard’s diversity eclipses that of most nature reserves or designated wild places. It protects, within its boughs, an ark of animals now almost impossible to find living side by side elsewhere in our dying countryside. Yet, like many of nature’s best-kept secrets, the orchard’s discovery came to me as a surprise.
The visit had begun with another painfully early start: pouring water on my own reproachful face, at five o’clock in the morning, in suburban Bristol; falling into my clothes, and car, then driving north to Herefordshire – the steam of coffee rising. With the sun yet to sail, I nudged my unwilling car into a disused farm gate, bound by twine and locked by ivy. And then – I peered beyond.
Beyond my remit to explore, the mournful sigh of a bullfinch sounded from the nearby hedgerow. Then came the chatter of a redstart. What? You’re not supposed to find redstarts here! ‘Cuck-oo.’ This, too, was the first time I’d ever heard this sound in an orchard. Then, the drumming of one, two, three lesser spotted woodpeckers! A sound of the older countryside, this chorus brought me to my senses. It was as if every vanishing song in England had been broadcast all at once. What started as a routine survey had transformed into a journey back in time.
Looking at my watch, it was still only six-thirty in the morning. Sharing my enthusiasm for this newfound refuge with its unknown owners this early in the day might not endear them to my quest to discover its secrets. Instead I opened my beaten green thermos and perched quietly on a gatepost.
The mist fermented as the amber sun burned the ridgeline of the Malverns. Finally, Eden’s curtain was lifted. This was, most certainly, an orchard. But in place of serried, planted ranks, chopped limbs and neat grass, lay a jumbled, magical chaos. Cutting the orchard in two, a hedgerow of two centuries ago had matured into a line of serpentine oaks. Enormous dead trunks stood where previous apples had perished; encrusted with bracket fungi and cocooned in nettles. The oldest trees were riven with the concentric homes of woodpeckers. The hedgerows were so thick, the sun shunned them: you could scarcely have driven a tank through their midst. This was an orchard gone wild.
Enraptured, I wandered along the lane, seeking the owner of Eden. As the lane turned a corner, the twin peaks of a hop kiln, a building designed for drying hops for brewing, towered into view. A raucous colony of jackdaws erupted from its summit. Before me lay the kind of garden you see in photographs from before the Second World War, or the kind of farm you discover in the rambling countryside of Europe’s oldest corners.
Whatever the purpose of the buildings, nature was firmly in control. The walls were thick with hungry, climbing creepers and rife with brambles. The flowerbeds began to drone with bees as the warmth of the sun broke over the garden. The first small tortoiseshells of the morning fluttered past, as they had done in my childhood.
As I reached a neatly painted door, suggesting that a human might also be at home here, I was startled. Right next to the door, surrounded by a duvet of down, a female mallard was sitting on her nest. Her demeanour made it very clear that she lived here as well. I edged nervously around her – then, double-checking that it really was an acceptable hour, I knocked.
English country landowners can be a distinctive and sometimes eccentric bunch. Some carry a strong dislike of anyone walking on their land, as if you might be trampling on their soul. Others simply ignore you, as you might pass by a sheep, nibbling quietly in a field. When a bright-eyed lady let me in, I wasn’t sure what to expect. After thanking Nancy for her time, I explained how I’d been surveying orchards for weeks – but as yet, found nothing like hers. I shared quite how many birds were singing in the dawn chorus, and how some of the special ones, such as the lesser spotted woodpecker or the cuckoo were, elsewhere, in critical decline. But as Nancy gently brushed the Mogster – a rug-like Norwegian Forest cat – from its favoured perch beside the stove, her quiet knowing smile made one thing very clear. Nothing I was saying came as a surprise.
Nancy and her son, David, knew exactly how special their orchard was – for the creatures whom they permitted to run it. The enormous dead stumps, beloved by woodpeckers, were left not through neglect but by design. The spiky piles of brash were left for hedgehogs: the surplus fallen fruit, to help thrushes through the winter. A fruit farmer, a cider-maker, Nancy most certainly was – as her family had been for generations. But the more I listened and learned, the more I realised Nancy was perhaps the best wildlife farmer that I’d ever met.
Nancy knew not only which trees the woodpeckers drummed in, but in which pile of fallen branches the local hedgehog spent his time. She kept the hedgerows thick and high on purpose, knew which part of her attic held lesser horseshoe bats, and where, in a few months’ time, the spotted flycatchers would nest in her wisteria. Nancy knew that no chemical had touched her land since 1930, and, believed that this might account for the extraordinary abundance of declining species in her orchard. Before we knew it, we had both worked our way through a pot of tea.
It had been an inspirational meeting, and now, cautiously, I ventured the question I’d been burning to ask. Might I be let loose into Eden? There was a pregnant silence – and then, Nancy agreed. After promising to feed back every natural secret of the land she owned – a promise we have kept to this day – I was set free. Like a giddy schoolboy, or Tigger, I bounded through the gate marked ‘no public right of way’ – and out into the orchard. Three years later, I would still be bounding around.
In 2014, I drove east to Suffolk, to work on the BBC series Springwatch. James, my producer, phoned me to explain that he’d paired me with ‘someone as fanatical about nature as yourself’. On arrival at our lodgings, I met Nick. In my car boot, I had a collection of old birds’ nests from the orchard. Nick was unloading a fine pair of antlers, which he’d collected in Ashdown Forest. We’d spend the next three weeks monitoring the wildlife cameras of the popular BBC series. Working night shifts, we’d wait on the edge of our seats for the badgers to come out. In this time, we traded all the stories of two people who’d been raising insects, and watching wildlife, since the time we could first read.
By early 2015, Nick, now a good friend, moved to Bristol to build his own career as a wildlife film-maker. Immediately, he asked where we would adopt as our new local patch. By now, Eden held me in its spell: ‘you have to see this place’, I told him.
For the next five years, we would drive most weekends through the empty, chemical fields and flailed hedgerows that constitute the countryside handed down to our generation. We would pass the ghostly apple trees of one-time orchards around Gloucester, and drive through farmlands so silent that absurd, confused pheasants were the commonest of birds. But we knew that when we arrived in Eden, everything would change. Nature was about to turn up the volume. We were determined to record her every note.
Soon, hundreds of pages of field notes, nest records and diagrams were pouring in. We realised that our one adopted orchard was in fact split into three distinct sections, all neighbours, similar on first impression but each holding their own personality and charm. Between us, we would slowly learn ‘The Orchard Rules’. How it worked. What drove its diversity. Who lived here, died here – and why.
Each year, we have witnessed, marvelled and been continually amazed at the true exuberance of our orchard’s wildlife. The wild bounty of a traditional orchard, we decided, is too special to be handed down in poems or written histories alone.
We will not be the last generation to hear the orchard sing. Orchards should, and must, live on. And so, we decided to share the wonders of this fading paradise with you. We want you, like us, to understand its inhabitants, to share their journeys, to live and laugh among the creatures of the orchard.
Told across twelve months, we want to share with you the richness of England’s Eden – as the changing seasons bring surprise, success and struggle. We want to unveil the beauty of our last, traditional orchards – through the wary eyes, and watchful ears, of just one.
But before we do so, it’s time to share another journey – and that is the journey of the orchard itself. So first, we need to travel far to the east, to a distant land and a forgotten time – where the English orchard’s remarkable story begins with a very hungry bear.
APPLES and BEARS
A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH ORCHARD
This orchard’s story does not begin with bucolic, cider-making monks in a Medieval monastery. Nor does it begin with enterprising Romans, grafting and planting apples in the Mediterranean. The story is far older, far wilder – and infinitely more unlikely – and it begins not with an apple but a bear.[1]
This orchard’s story begins in the world’s largest landlocked country: a country most of us will never visit, yet whose very name conjures a blank, mysterious canvas in our minds. Here in the Tian Shan mountains of Kazakhstan, lies a world so remote from the hills of our own island that its highest rocks are still scratched by the padded claws of snow leopards. Each autumn here, below the glare of piercing blue air and white ice peaks, a bushy, haphazard forest glows red as the seasons change. Strewn across the high montane slopes, there is something both familiar and strange about these woodlands to the European eye. The vivid colours of the trees, glowing in the mountain light, are more like those of Canadian maples. But these wide, bushy trees also have mistletoe on them. And hanging in their boughs, redder than any of the turning leaves, glow red, juicy apples.
Here lies original Eden. The apple trees growing on these slopes are those of Malus sieversii. This is the wild apple endemic to central Asia and beloved by the local people of the Almaty region, formerly known as Alma-ata, which translates as the ‘father of apples’. These are among the world’s only and last wild apple forests. Ancient trees, intertangled and intertwined, do not grow in the neat lines of England’s more orderly orchards, but cover the mountainside in rambling groves. Carpets of golden windfalls range in size from marbles to cricket balls.[2] By all accounts, their tastes vary even more. On one tree, the fruit may grow sweet and plummy: on the next, acerbic and bitter. Yet over millennia, the size and grandeur of these fruits has been altered and selected. And this is where the bear comes in.
These idyllic slopes, rich not only in apples but in berries, hips and haws, are a foraging paradise for a gardener long lost to British woodlands. Into these wild groves each autumn come dozens of brown bears. The mountain winter is approaching, and soon they must be tucked up, safe in their hibernation caves. First, bears must pile on the calories to see them through the freezing dark – and the Tian Shan apples provide them with just that. In spite of their urge to eat, bears are fussy foragers. Like us, they have a sweet tooth. Bitter apples do not appeal to a bear’s palate, and so, for many generations, they have chosen only the sweetest apples from this rambling lottery of fruit. The seeds of these juicy, sweet apples pass through the bear’s gut intact. Recent visitors to these mountains have found bear droppings burgeoning with apple seeds.[3] And the following spring, from each bear toilet on this mountain, bursts a new, slightly sweeter apple tree. Bears, then, have been cultivating apples far longer than the earliest orchard grower in Europe, selectively breeding the world’s apple trees long before they would make an incredible migration – from Kazakhstan to Kent and far beyond.
The actions of bears on the slopes of Tian Shan are a reminder of a question few of us might think to ask today – why do apple trees yield apples at all? Far from ecological goodwill, an apple’s fruits are, quite simply, an advertisement to would-be seed dispersers to plant its kindred far and wide. But while flowers can rely on airborne pollinators, and small seeds can be carried by birds, only far larger animals can be relied upon to transport apple pips, intact, over large distances. The latest research suggests that large-fruiting trees, such as our own native crab apples, as well as those apples of the wild Kazakh forests, developed, in the million-year time-frame, to attract the attention not only of large animals, but of giants.
Though horses, bears and boar, of Europe’s surviving fauna, are capable of dispersing apple seeds, a number of lost herbivores, such as the Giant Deer, are thought to have played an ever more important role in carrying and planting apple seeds over truly vast distances. Indeed, analysis of the Kazakh apple gene pool has shown that in the last ten thousand years, with many of the far-roaming Eurasian mega-herbivores extinct, wild apples would then have been dispersed far shorter distances than before, by smaller, more sedentary animals such as our bears.[4]
In an ecologically vast timeframe, wild fruit trees would have developed a profound ecological importance for Eurasia’s native wildlife, being planted and dispersed by giants. Even today, the high canopy spikes of Europe’s native crab apple trees are a striking reminder that straight-tusked elephants would once have posed an enormous nuisance to our fruit trees; browsing far higher than any living animal can reach. Yet at the same time, Eurasia’s once abundant elephants would also have planted apple trees across vast swathes of its land mass, by carrying seeds in their dung [5]
THE GREAT MIGRATION
Deep in the caves above the Kazakh apple forests, petroglyphs etched into the rocks remind us that its fruit glades were an Eden for early humans too. Long before the grafting and the unnatural selection of trees, people, with their fondness for all things sweet, would also have altered these orchards – in much the same way as bears. As cores were tossed away each year, slightly sweeter fruit trees, bearing larger apples, would have grown the season after: unnatural selection at work. But how, from this lofty world, deep in the Kazakh mountains, did the apple tree break free?
The next player in our early orchard drama is, most likely, a horse. Wild horses, now confined largely to Mongolia and referred to by the locals there as takhi, or ‘spirit horses’, once roamed widely across the steppes of Eurasia. But the Kazakhs had also tamed horses very early on. The latest evidence suggests that the Botai culture, of Kazakhstan’s Akmola province, was among the first to have the idea of domesticating horses – and were harnessing and milking these as early as 5,500 years ago.[6] If bears and Neanderthal foragers are responsible for the early selection of the world’s wild apple stock, horses most likely played a role in transporting that stock from its remote source – abroad. These domestic horses, of course, moved at human behest – and this is where the Silk Road comes in.
The improbable migration of the apple tree would never have happened at all were it not for the fact that the Silk Road came to pass directly through Almaty province. Here, it is believed that as the parched silk traders travelled through, they scrumped like schoolchildren en-route.[7] Travelling westwards, they would have planted apples with accidental abandon, as they tossed apple cores from horseback. Horses too, infamously fond of apples, would have transported embryonic trees in their dung. Over centuries, this protracted pomenary pooing procession would take the apple on an incredible journey. And so, from an obscure endemic of the Kazakh slopes, the world’s most iconic fruit tree is thought to have migrated westwards – and into Europe.
Only as recently as 2010 have scientists finally pieced together how a wild tree, confined to the mountains of Kazakhstan, expanded to shape the landscape, culture and literature of the western world. Sequencing the genome of the domestic apple, Malus domesticus, scientists unravelled a fiendishly complex network of 57,000 different genes. Tracing these genes back in time, it was found that their origins all lay in wild Kazakh apples. The apples we eat and cultivate today have descended almost exclusively from the slopes of Almaty. And virtually every cultivated apple growing in our country, and indeed across most of the world, has come to us from the bear-gardened foothills of one mountain range in Kazakhstan.[8]
Genealogical evidence proves that some trees, planted by now deliberately, would then have cross-pollinated with Europe’s native crab-apples. While the Kazakh apple genes make for large, plump apples, the crab apple’s genes contribute towards a more robust fruit. The world’s most successful hybrid had been born.
By 2000 BCE, the now domesticated apple had reached the eastern Mediterranean. Apples then headed west – and they arrived in time to feature in Homer’s Odyssey, written in the eighth or ninth century BCE. Literature’s first mention of a deliberately-planted orchard can be found when Odysseus visits the court of King Alcinous; admiring, on his arrival, an enticing walled grove of ‘beautiful trees – pears, pomegranates, and the most delicious apples’.[9]
Apples in literature would soon become irresistible. In one Greek myth, one unusually disruptive apple is chucked into a crowded party by Eris, the goddess of strife and discord, labelled simply ‘to the fairest’. Not renowned for their modesty, the guests Hera, Aphrodite and Athena all think the apple is addressed to them. Jealous fights erupt and all hell breaks loose.[10] In another, stranger story, the nimble Atalanta seeks to escape a boring life of marriage by running faster than any of her prospective husbands and beating them in a race. Hippomenes, however, has been entrusted with three golden apples by Aphrodite, and carefully lays these ahead of Atalanta. She slows down, picking them up to eat them, and this allows Hippomenes to catch her up – thereby winning her hand in marriage.[11]
By 300 BCE, writers like Virgil and Cato were already naming not one, but dozens of breeds of apple. Pliny was describing how fruiterers would auction the fruit on their trees.[12] The Romans had been busy, and were now grafting and adapting apples to their different climates. The custom of naming breeds after important people, or places, such as the Armerian and Cestine, began. As the Roman armies marched north into France, the apple would follow. But even if the Romans had the skills to craft wonderful apple groves in Rome, there is little evidence that theirs were the hands to firmly establish Britain’s first homegrown orchards.