Damson picking

As an undergraduate in the early 'Sixties, I spent weeks picking damsons for Henry Usborne at Totterdown on the left bank of the Avon just above Evesham. On my first morning up the ladder, someone walked along and addressed the picker in the next tree: he answered, and it was the unmistakeable voice of Richard Grey, but what was he doing in Worcestershire?

One and threepence a basket was the pay rate, hardly sufficient for a minimum wage, but worth it to be part of a youth scene that I sadly lacked at home at Arrow, 45 minutes away by bus. I frequently slept over, and we would sit in the loft listening to Cliff Richard singing Living Doll. One evening Julian drove us in the Land Rover to the Oxford Playhouse to see John Osborne's Epitaph for George Dillon, and another day we bumped along the track from Seven Springs to visit Little Needlehole: he was a friend of Caspar John's family, who rented it.

This afternoon, Caroline and I drove to Duntisbourne Leer for some lower-level damson picking, and we were allowed to give the mulberry tree a gentle shake too.

Currant state of play

We forgot the excitement of the Lions' rugby triumph and Murray's Wimbledon, a week ago, in the fever surrounding the England win in the first Ashes test yesterday - a fever more concentrated because of the game's intense fluctuations over its five days. 11 o'clock came and went this morning with a distinct feeling of anti-climax, and still we have three days to wait before another round of cricketing battle with the old enemy commences.

Meanwhile, our blackbird has relocated her old nest: we moved it from by the back door into the store in our sunless area, and she is once more sitting on eggs. And Caroline is battling with the the currant glut, trusting to her painting stool, with its canvas much in need of replacing. "Do you suffer from the tyranny of fruit?" Tamara Talbot Rice was wont to ask.

Orchardist Martin

Following up his offer at a GOGG meeting last year, I approached Martin Hayes to come and prune our old apple trees - they can't have been touched for years, he said. The result of today's work is a vast heap of prunings in the centre of our lawn. The fig, too, looks leaner and fitter having suffered a few drastic blows.

I learnt a lot: the difference between male and female mistletoe, for instance; and that even experienced orchard workers can cut themselves sometimes, and wobble on ladders.

Resigned

Since we last walked by the ghost-like barns at Wontley, just below Cleeve Common, a rash of signs has appeared, making this look like the Spaghetti Junction of the local footpath network. Nevertheless, stepping out with friends visiting yesterday from Brixton, we saw not a soul.

It was a good spin, from West Down, via Wontley to the windswept tree on top of the Common; but too much for our dog, Rosie. We had to leave Caroline with her by the masts, and come round with the car later. (Caroline fears she is not long for this world.)

From Brixton Market, we were presented with a pomegranate, two each of custard apples, Sharon fruits, prickly pears and plantains, and a mango!

GOGG

There was a seed exchange at the latest Gloucestershire Organic Gardening Group's meeting at Whiteway Colony Hall: I forgot to take the ones I'd set aside, but nevertheless came back with full pockets.

Local orchardist, Martin Hayes was the speaker, though it was not so much a lecture, more a tasting - of a wide variety of apple juices, not to mention cider and perry - with aphorisms.

Martin's enthusiasm, born of 38 years' experience, is palpable. He describes vividly his falling out with an early boss (still alive "because well-pickled by spray"), and meeting two long-term partners in an orchard, "by one of whom I had a lovely daughter". "Don't spray," he urged us, "or you'll never stop. If there's a maggot in there, it proves it's a nice apple. There's always juicing." And "Yes, I do hug trees, but only to measure their age. After all, perry pears flourish for 300 years." Why does Gloucestershire have so many perry orchards - or used to? "Because God went to the top of May Hill, took a bite of a perry pear, and spat it out."