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.