Harp Scratchings 13 - An Apple a Day

Our apple orchard was about a mile’s walk from the Harp. Located next to the railway bridge on a hairpin bend, over the years it had been the site of many an accident when a careless driver misjudged the turn and came into contact with the stone bridge.

Walking to the orchard was not one of my favourite things. There was no pathway, so we walked on the road and when oncoming traffic approached we would step onto the grass verge.

The long grass was generally damp and full of dandelions and nettles. The thought of what else might lurk in the depths of the roadside grasses was another matter never far away in my mind.

If I had bothered to look up and enjoy the view to the left of the road I would have forgotten about creepy crawlies in the grass and see the fields and meadows with their hues of green, yellow and brown blending into an uneven patchwork that stretched as far as the eye could see. The river Wye snaked its way through the hotchpotch into the distance.

To the right of the road the railway cutting formed a steep bank, and difficult as it was to access, it was a compelling place to go.

The wildflowers, flowering weeds and grasses growing on the bank formed a colourful carpet. In springtime, primroses and violets blanketed the slope. In summer it would be cowslips and poppies. Mum loved flowers as you'll see from some of her pressings.

Harvesting the cider apples required many hands. Armed with steel buckets and sacking we would walk to the orchard, unlock the gate and begin work. Over the years I helped Mum and Dad collect the fallen apples and put them into the loosely woven sacking bags, which when full would be sold to Bulmers Cider in Hereford for processing.

When I was younger Dad would bring a swing that was usually resident in the Harp’s cellar so that I could while away the time when he and Mum worked. The swing was comprised of thick rope which straddled a sturdy bough, while the ends were threaded though two holes drilled on each end of a flat piece of wood. Sturdy knots held the swing in place.

Apple picking generally coincided with the afternoon train that came from Three Cocks on its way to Hay and I would wave at the engine driver enthusiastically as the train passed. He would wave back. Those were the halcyon days of steam but the railway was unprofitable and fell to the Beeching Axe, the Government’s attempt in the 1960s to reshape British Rail.

I recall one occasion when some apples were held back from Bulmers so that the locals could produce home made cider.

The local apple processing enterprise was cloaked in mystery but I believe the initiative was led by the Hughes brothers in one of their barns.

What stands out in my mind is that all the men in the village seemed to have disappeared one particular afternoon. Mum was not amused because Dad was one of the missing. She knew they were sampling the unholy brew, alcoholic content unknown.

No one had a lot to say the following day. An apple a day keeps the doctor away ----- but not necessarily.

Harp Scratchings 12 - Rice Pudding fixes all ills

That annual six-week summer school holiday seemed to go on forever. It rarely seemed to rain - meaning that I could spend much of the time outside.

At least that is how I remembered it.

Astride Trigger, full of smiles before "the incident"

Summer brought many visitors to Glasbury-on-Wye who were on the scenic route to West Wales or to the border country and its “black and white” villages. The whitewashed cottages with exposed black beams and pretty gardens always pleased.

It meant more bed and breakfasters at the Harp or hungry travellers calling in for a snack and a pint.

There would often be a conspiratorial look between the locals when a new face came through the bar door but it was amazing how quickly Pricey, Burt or one of their companions could overcome their suspicions and shyness. Recognizing a suitable audience was is their midst, with lightning speed the poor unsuspecting patron would be regaled with stories of life in the village or local views on some recent event.

However, the entertainers would often become the entertained when the stranger, obviously bemused, or even amused, by the unsolicited information offered to buy a round which encouraged them all the more.

I loved walking on the Grove with Sweep and Tina, our sheepdog and corgi, or playing in the meadow across from the Harp.

Sometimes Dad would allow a local farmer use of the meadow to graze his horse. I was allowed to ride Trigger once or twice, although on the last occasion unbeknownst to me the reins rubbed a sore on Trigger’s neck. Fed up, he reached around and bit me hard on the thigh. I dismounted quickly and ran home crying from the shock of an otherwise even-tempered old grey being so unkind to me. I hadn’t realized I had hurt him. Days later the impression of Trigger’s teeth marks and an angry black and yellow bruise decorated my leg.

The meadow, aside from providing home for one our chicken coups, provided grazing for Ruby and Minstral, our Herefords, and a change of scene for our sheep when foraging on the Grove became difficult, or when it was high water.

One summer the local Scout troupe approached Dad because they were looking for a site to accommodate a visiting group who would camp overnight and then canoe on the River Wye. This became a regular occurrence over the summer and it was fun to meet other kids with strange accents from all over the country, and some from overseas.

While the sun seemed to shine on my childhood memories most of the time I remember one particular summer when its rays deserted us. That summer the heavens opened and it poured for days on end. The campers in the meadow made the best of the situation, practicing their survival skills, but that soon wore thin when the weight of the pooling rainwater collapsed one of the tents.

Mum took pity on the group and invited them into the top bar after closing to warm up. Despite the fact it was July, a coal fire had been lit to warm the bar.

The boys, from Birmingham, and their teacher trudged in dejectedly, arranging their wet clothes over chairs and benches to dry out. A steamy haze soon rose from the wet clothing in the warm bar and in preparation for this act of kindness Mum had considered what else she could do to ”warm them up”.

The answer lay in a hot pudding, but not one of her steamed jam or treacle suet puddings because it would have taken too long to prepare. It would be a rice pudding made from Ruby’s whole milk and baked in the oven until the rice was thick and creamy and the skin that formed on the top of the pudding had taken on an ebony hue. Some might venture to say burned.

The chatter in the bar quietened as Mum entered from the kitchen with me in tow carrying bowls and spoons. Ladling out the healthy goodness for the boys, you could hear a pin drop in the bar. Either they had never seen rice pudding before (did they even have it in Birmingham I wondered) or had they tried it and decided they didn’t like it.

The boys accepted the steaming bowls reasonably politely although facial expressions revealed their true feelings. Rice pudding was not kid food and they probably thought the pork pies, cornish pasties, pickled onions and crisps on the bar counter more appealing. However, the boys kept their thoughts to themselves as the teacher gave them a very long hard look. “Thank you Mrs. Price“ he said. “This is so good of you and I am sure the boys are very grateful. Aren’t you boys.”

“Yes” they reluctantly murmured.

I don’t remember if the rain ever stopped for the group's camping expedition, but next morning the still-damp gear had been packed ready for the canoeing trip ahead. Walking in single file the boys accessed the river from the meadow through the barrel dray and the garden.

Watching them from the kitchen window Mum probably thought that a tumble into the river couldn’t get them much wetter than they already were - but thanks to the rice pudding she knew they would be warm on the inside.