Below is a selection of my writing:

‘A’ is for Apple

April

The sickness that began two months ago is unrelenting. It drains me of energy, and the recent heatwave compounds it.

The garden has become a sanctuary.

The large sycamore tree that stands in the plot next door looms over the wall and for once, I am grateful for the shadow cast by its parasol canopy. The large plot has been neglected for a while, and despite being enclosed with stone walls on all sides, it encroaches on our lives in more ways than one. An entanglement of plants, some native, some not, covers the ground. Wrens flit between the undergrowth, blue tits squabble in the bushes and a blackbird melodises from a bindweed-wrapped stump. Wood pigeons, collared doves, and jackdaws are common visitors to the sycamore’s branches. But near the far wall, standing alone is an old apple tree. Its left-leaning trunk is bulbous and knotted. On first appearance, it’s bare; still stark after the long winter. But amongst the grey, spindly twigs, little green buds are beginning to show, the first glimpse of the fruit it will bear later in the year. The leaves have begun in lime hues but will quickly become emerald and pointed-tipped.

I absentmindedly run a hand over my stomach. My baby will now be about the size of an apple, curled up in the dark, like a seed waiting to germinate.

May

The swifts arrive and their sudden presence dominates the sky. I watch their daily displays of acrobatics as they catch flies on the wing, carouselling through the air, their silhouettes low-lighted against the cerulean sky. Every year, they travel over 14,000 miles from Africa to nest in the eaves of the 19th-century gaol next door. But it’s above the empty plot that they seem to spend most of their time, the mass of entangled plants attracting a plethora of invertebrates to feed on, supporting each bird’s need to consume around 20,000 insects a day. There is no doubt that the apple tree plays a part in this. A single apple tree can support hundreds of other species, from the mammals that feed on the apples to the birds that live amongst the branches to the invertebrates that use it for food and shelter. However, at this time of year, it’s the flowers that attract hungry mouths. The tree next door began blooming early in the month, tight buds that unfurled into five-pointed stars of blushed white. The blossom billows over the branches, and the softness of the flowers is juxtaposed with the gnarled twigs, a confetti bouquet to celebrate the tree's fertility. And tucked away between these walls, with no other witnesses, it feels like it's blooming only for my eyes, a hidden Eden.

I do not bloom. I listen as friends and family regale me with stories and assurances that the good feelings will come soon, but the constant sickness shows no signs of dissipating, so I don’t have the energy to do much but sit and watch as butterflies, moths, and lacewings circumnavigate the tree, alighting on the leaves. There is a fluttering inside me too; gentle, nudging movements as the baby makes itself comfortable.

After two weeks, the petals have fallen to the floor. The blooming of an apple tree is a fleeting moment, but its memory lingers long after the last branch is bare.

June

The apple’s blossom has been replaced by fruit; small, green, and hard-looking, a sign of its earlier pollination. I cannot see any other apple trees, perhaps there is one on the other side of the wall, but apple trees don’t need to be that close together for fertilisation to happen; their best chances occur when trees are under 18 metres apart, but they can be pollinated by trees up to a mile away, relying on bees, wasps, and beetles to transfer the pollen grains. Or this could be a self-fertilising species, cultivated to do all the hard work by itself.

In Bulgaria, apples were eaten by newlyweds hoping to have children, and in the U.K., apples are sometimes recommended during pregnancy due to their nutrients and the old wives’ tale that they can reduce heartburn, a common pregnancy ailment. I try one from the supermarket one day, crimson and waxy, but bring it back up, and pieces of chewed apple skin get stuck in my nose and burn.

No one knows what the next-door plot once was. Medieval fruit orchards were once grown within high stone walls, protecting the fruit from thieving hands, and whilst I highly doubt that this was the original reason for this space with its old, stone partitions, I like the idea that the apple was once not alone. Instead, maybe this was once a garden, and the apple tree was ornamental. Or perhaps it is a ‘wildling’ – a tree that has sprouted from a seed of a discarded core or via the faeces of a bird or mammal. The high walls discourage rabbits, badgers, and foxes from visiting this area, but grey squirrels and hedgehogs are common, the latter ambling along the stone paths at night, turning to statues beneath my roving torchlight. My own wildling dozes during the day and then awakens to Ceilidh the night away. I spend several temperate evenings in the garden, long after the sun has gone down, watching the moths flitter around the early honeysuckle, waiting for the baby to calm itself so that I might sleep too.

July

During the day, swifts slice through the air on sickle wings. At dusk, they are replaced with pipistrelle marionettes.

Next door, nature is rioting.

August

The apples are growing rapidly. It’s difficult to tell by sight what they are. Historically, different areas had their own apples that were better adapted to local weather conditions, making them hardier. But today, there are over 2500 different varieties in the UK and the only way to truly know would be to send one off for DNA sampling. Some of our local varieties have enchanting names such as Helston Pignose, Captain John Beard, and Lord of the Isles. The last name is particularly interesting, as folklore tells that King Arthur was laid to rest in Avalon or ‘The Isle of Apples’, beneath an enchanted apple tree, the branches of which are the key to the ‘Otherworld’. The name derives from the Celtic word ‘av’ meaning apple, and ‘apple tree’ in Cornish is ’Avalen’. Apples were important locally. In the 18th century, the southwest had nearly double the orchards compared to the rest of England, and the Tamar Valley was infamous for commercially grown apples until the 1950s. Orchards were synonymous with beekeeping, grazing livestock, and supporting communities until difficulties attracting workers and the issues of producing seasonal crops meant that orchards slowly declined, and we suffered a 90% loss in Britain. The impact on wildlife has been vast and with fruit tree planting declining in the U.K., it is unlikely that loss will recover. This apple tree is special.

Towards the end of the month, I watch a dragonfly visit on tulle wings and alight on the apple tree, legs clasped around a burgeoning apple to steady itself as it bathes in the late summer sun. Some leaves have begun to yellow and develop blotches - it won’t be long till they fall. All the tree’s effort is focused on growing fruit, so a few leaves will be culled to preserve energy. I will stop working soon, the only thing I can cull to preserve my energy.

September

The moon swells early in the month and the apples with it. This full moon is called a ‘Fruit Moon’ as traditionally, some fruit harvesting would begin now. Our little Cornish hedge is adorned with autumn jewels: ruby, amethyst, onyx. They’re sharp and tangy and sweet all at the same time in that magical way that only blackberries can be. Eating them is a game of chance, but the reward is worth it. Every time I visit the garden, I pluck a couple, staining my fingers with purple hues. It’s a good yield this year, so the sparrows and robins can gorge before the long winter. The last of the swifts leave, readying themselves for a winter in warmer climes, and the garden is sorrowfully quiet without them.

Over the wall, the apple tree is laden. Its branches bend and sag, gravid with fruit. I empathise. My hips groan beneath the weight of my belly and I shuffle around the garden awkwardly, rubbing my hands over my stretched belly in rhythmic movements to soothe it.  The sparrows disappear beneath the last of the trees’ leaves in search of spoils - the apples are round and full.

October

An orchard, bathed in golden sunshine. Men in tweed flat caps with rolled-up shirt sleeves disappear up wooden ladders nestled in tree crowns. Deft hands, centuries of knowledge at their fingertips, cup apples, twist once, twice, and feel the ripe fruit come away from the tree. Apples land with a soft thud in cushioned willow baskets below. Laughter rings out from giddy children as they run between the rows, stopping to pet the horses harnessed to carts laden with fruit, piled high for baking or pressing. The promises of tart juice, crisp cider, and warm, sweet pies lay heavily in the air, with empty jars in kitchens waiting to be filled with preserves to line larders for the winter ahead. In the past, whole communities would have turned out to help with the harvest, celebrating a good year’s yield. The quality of the harvest would determine the winter ahead and could mean the difference between life and death.

This year’s October full moon, which peaks on the 1st, is called the ‘Harvest Moon’ (on other years it is called a Hunter’s Moon). My son is born just as it begins to wane. He arrives in a flurry of rain, taking nearly two days before he is delivered into the palms of waiting midwives.  He is given a little woollen hat in carmine and tucked into loving arms; the apple of his father’s eye, ruddy-cheeked and russet-haired.

The apple tree in the backyard receives no such celebration. The fruits go unnoticed, uncelebrated, unharvested. The apples grow fatter and heavier till they drop to the floor with no one to catch them. But whilst there may be no human fanfare to mark the apple trees' labour, they will be gratefully welcomed by the invertebrates and birds, the hedgehogs who will investigate them for grubs, and the family of mice that reside in our compost. The year’s crop may be the thing that sees these creatures through the tough months ahead.

November

The garden has gone to seed. The ragwort has become tufts and the old man’s beard lives up to its name. The ivy gripping the walls has fruited deep purple berries that will provide sustenance during one of the most crucial times of the year.

In the plot next door, most of the apples now lay rotting on the floor. Those that remain on the boughs have turned toffee brown and wrinkled. Soft dips in the skin are delicately painted with blooms of white mould. Wasps arrive to gorge on the sugary, fermenting fruit, attracted by the heady smell. They disappear into the apples before leaving slightly intoxicated, flying erratically as they attempt to return to their hives. I wonder at the reception they will receive, and briefly, glimpse my future with a teenager. The tree’s leaves curl in on themselves, brown spots appearing on the undersides. Strung between them are gossamer webs, which become frosted with diamonds of dew in the mornings. The apples left to rot will still benefit nature. Their nutrients will seep into the soil, fertilising the earth.

It’s a wet month and the bleakness spreads. My nights are long and broken and the brown rot sometimes blooms in my brain too. Anxious thoughts jostle in; what if I drop him whilst carrying him down the stairs? What if I fall asleep while I am feeding him? What if he slips in the bath and I don’t catch him fast enough? Is he too hot? Too cold? Still breathing? I sob in an appointment when he won't stop crying, feeling as though I am at fault somehow.

December

Solstice arrives and I stand still in the garden. The plot is quiet. Like many of its inhabitants, it appears to have gone into hibernation, but a few winter faces can be seen. House sparrows chatter jovially, and great tits mix with blue tits in the search for food. The thistle heads are silhouetted against the setting winter sun, waving like metronomes when the goldfinches, having picked the heads clean of seeds, launch from them into lavender skies.
The bones of the apple tree are now fully visible, the last of its leaves flayed by the wind. It seems vulnerable without its adornments. A gully runs down its thick, fissured trunk, and two small apples still cling to its branches, wizened and wrinkled, their previously bold tones dulled to an almost colourless dun. Green lichen hangs between the branches like tinsel. Many apple trees will also be host to clusters of mistletoe this time of year. The parasitic plant, once sacred to Celtic pagans, favours the apple tree as its home, naturally bauble-ing it. This one remains bare, taking a solitary stand.

This year breathes its last and a new one is born.

January

The year is waxing. On Twelfth Night, apple trees find themselves the centre of celebrations again: Wassailing Day. An Anglo-Saxon tradition to honour the humble fruit, celebrating the yield of the previous year and hoping that the next year brings more abundance, a way of stretching out the midwinter festivities. People would head into the orchards toasting the trees with mulled cider, singing, and making noise, hoping to awaken the apple trees and scare away any evil spirits who might disrupt future harvests.

In the garden, frost glitters the edges of ivy and a single robin keenly waits whilst I refill the fatball holder. The apple tree remains quiet. No one blesses it this year, no one sings to it, no one toasts the Green Man who is reported to live amongst its boughs.

But when Twelfth Night arrives, after pushing the pram through ice rain, I treat myself to a small glass of Wassail whilst the baby slumbers. Cider simmers with cinnamon sticks, nutmeg shavings, orange halves, brown sugar, a dash of lemon, and some star anise. I pour the amber liquid, steaming, into a glass and raise it in the direction of the apple tree, feeling the warmth spread beneath a candlelight glow.

February

It feels as though we have been in a state of torpor, the winter stilling the world, but there is a change in the air when February is in full swing. Wild crocuses, early forget-me-nots, and a clutch of snowdrops push their heads above the solid earth. Catkins of red and purple dangle from trees and scarlet elf cups grow at their bases.

New neighbours have moved in down the road, and have bought the empty plot next door, accessing it via their house’s complicated (and typically Cornish) back garden layout; a family of three generations and a couple of dogs. They cut things back, turn the soil and plant; cultivation sculpting the wildness. We chat amiably over the fence, the baby wrapped and held to my chest as I gently rock him into a doze. They tell me of their plans, of chickens and a polytunnel, of a self-sufficient garden to support their family and give the plot new life, whilst retaining some of the wildness that gives it the character I have grown to love. It is to be a year of big changes.

My days are whiled away by magical first laughs and attempts to sit up. Grey-furred buds reappear on the apple trees' knobbly twigs, the first signs of the tree reawakening, and one day I spy a long-tailed tit hopping amongst them. Every day the darkness recedes and a little light ebbs in and fills the space the dark once occupied. Gradually, the days begin to stretch. Spring is on the horizon and hope is right alongside it.

March

The apple tree is gone.

A shallow hole, mostly filled with soil, sits in its place. Two piles of logs sit nearby; one built of large chunks of trunk. Towards the back of the garden sits a pile of dry branches, ready for burning. The plot looks wrong.

March remains cold. Lesser celandine blooms like Van Gogh’s Starry Night along the little Cornish hedge and I cling to its brightness. When nearby cherry trees bloom in that magical and ethereal way that only cherry trees do, my heart breaks for the apple tree, whose blossom won't grace us this year.

They say that when one life comes into this world, another will leave it: nature’s balancing act.

April

The sun returns, and my son’s hair lightens to golden under its rays. We spend our days in the garden and the baby explores in the way that young children do, using his mouth. Dandelions, daisies, and grass blades are picked and experimentally chewed. I lay him on his back, and he watches the sycamore leaves as they cast shadows and follows the breeze-buffeted clouds overhead. There is something magical about seeing the world through a baby’s eyes. I repeat words to him: cloud, grass, bird, tree, and point out the colours and shapes that surround us. Buttercups and daisies, clover and speedwell, common corn salad and cowslips all adorn the garden, the harbingers of spring.

A group of rescued ex-battery chickens have moved into the plot next door. They flap up and strut along the wall, peering down at us curiously. Other times, we stand and watch them scratching in the dirt around the new vegetable garden, my son mesmerised. A brief word is mentioned about the apple tree during a chat over the wall one day. The neighbours tell me it was just hanging on when they felled it, barely rooted, and they had no idea how it was still producing apples, then describe their plans for the space it has left.

It makes me think of myself some days, barely hanging on, trying to do my absolute best for my fruit. How tired and withered I feel sometimes, but how I keep going, keep feeding him, keep helping him grow. How the old me has been felled to make room for a new way of life.

May

May arrives warm and pleasant. We take trips to the woods and enjoy first swims in the sea - warm coastal jaunts juxtaposed with cool walks amongst the trees. My son crawls around the garden with growing confidence. We let the lawn grow long and one afternoon I find a large green shield bug sitting on his shoulder; baby and nature, intertwined.

Next door things are changing too. The chickens have cleared the scrubby areas of the garden, and more vegetables are appearing. But the wildness remains; it seeps in through the edges, always on the periphery, always poised for the moment it can reclaim the space.

One afternoon, towards the back of the plot, something catches my eye. The pile of apple tree logs is still there with a large piece of the trunk lying on top. But a stalk stands in the air, a few twigs branching from it. A small selection of leaves, light green in colour, is protruding from the twigs and a single flower, white with a pinkish tinge, sits proudly in the middle; five large petals stand above the pile of grey like the Bethlehem star.

The apple tree isn’t gone. Felling it hasn’t prevented it from growing. It has changed, but it is still there.

And at that moment, I recognise its fight. Maybe the old me is still there, not felled, just coppiced, sloughing off the old to allow the new parts to cultivate. But these new parts - the ones that make me a mother - are blooming, and it’s time for me to grow in a new direction.

 

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The Horse Chestnut

The villagers don’t take much notice of the old horse chestnut tree anymore.

It towers over the roadside, thick roots anchoring it beneath the misshapen granite hedgerow, weathered stones cradled in mossy fingers. These days, its presence is overshadowed by the nearby oaken corridor, two rows of gnarled figures forming an arboreal sabre arch for anyone who wanders the lane beneath.

No one is sure how long the horse chestnut has stood, but it may have been planted by the local blacksmith several hundred years ago to shade the horses waiting to be shod at the nearby forge. It has forgone some of its earlier elegance. Its thick, weather-beaten trunk is twisted and cankerous, decorated with lumps and hollows alike. In its broad crown sits the gap where it was once badly pollarded and never quite grew back. And its trunk bears a scar where it was struck by lightning during a storm that caused the tree to lose a branch - a sacrifice which ultimately saved it from becoming entirely engulfed in flames.

 

At Beltane, the horse chestnut’s spring flowers appear. Great candy floss candelabra’s that cascade down the crown. In years gone by, it overlooked the ewes’ suckling lambs in the balmy spring sunshine, their gentle bleats providing an undertone to men calling from neighbouring fields as they erected scarecrows to watch over the barley. And on a dark night, when one of the ewes struggled to lamb, the horse chestnut’s candles seemed to add extra illumination to the field. The farmer, bent by his oil lamp, worked to help the mother bring new life into the world, pulling on the front legs till the bundle slipped out, before he tore at the sac around its mouth, and its mother licked it to life. As he leant back on his heels, he felt the relief flood his veins and his stomach flutter like the moths around the hedgerow honeysuckle, till a tawny owl, hooting gently from the horse chestnut’s boughs, calmed his heart.
Now the sheep are gone, the wool not as lucrative as it once was. The current farmers’ focus is solely on winter barley. In spring, he mounts his tractor, pulling a crop sprayer that showers the field in chemicals, clearing weeds and wildflowers alike, leaving only the newly growing barley stalks. But the flowers of the horse chestnut offer a lifeline, and the bees hum around it, attracted by the rich nectar. When they leave, their baskets laden and their fur powdered with pollen, they head back to their hive to make a smooth honey. It would have once been made in the farmers’ skeps to be added to cake or stirred into the cider pressed from the old orchard, before that was paved over with the new bypass. A blue tit stalks the horse chestnuts’ branches, picking at the insects that run along the bark, and the sound of hammering echoes across the field as a woodpecker excavates a nest in the trunk.

 

In bygone summers, the farmer, joined by the county’s sheep clippers, took refuge from the midday sun beneath the horse chestnut’s parasol crown, the sheep temporarily gated in its shade. Coarse hands deftly steadied the animals as the shears cut the fleece off in one swift movement, and the wool piled up. Afterwards, the men celebrated with home-brewed beer, surrounded by the lingering smell of lanolin and salted-sweat, their backs resting against the tree’s steady trunk, grateful for its heavy shadow.
Now the mechanical whirr of the harvester replaces the swish of scythes, threshing the ears and winnowing the chaff with little effort. The last of the skylarks pirouette above as the crops are swiftly felled beneath its blades, any more efforts at nesting thwarted for the year.

The villagers may once have gathered beneath the horse chestnut’s canopy, watching as the last of the barley was reaped and held high to the cheers of the onlookers before they headed off to the village for a celebratory feast, the children weaving corn dollies from the leftover stems and sneaking brown bread and marmalade. But with such traditions lost within the folds of time, the barley stubble is left shorn and uncelebrated in the vibrating heat before the field is cultivated once more.

 

Come September, groups of children make their way along the path, back and forth to the local village school, new shoes shining in the autumn sun. In years gone by, they would have gathered beneath the horse chestnut, collecting conkers from the branches that hung over the road. The children would have jostled to get the biggest, shiniest, or roundest, throwing sticks into the tree and causing a shower of spiky green cases, tearing into them to reveal and compare their mahogany gems before stuffing them into pockets. The crepey, orange leaves, edges burnt from the long summer, would have been kicked high, fluttering them across the road or gathered in handfuls and thrown at each other, the sounds of rustling lost beneath laughter. The local women would have collected some to shell and grind into flour, making loaves for the village harvest fair, all hoping to win first prize. And in the field, the farmer would have gathered the leftover conkers and ground them down to feed to his horses, boosting the shine in their coats.

But the women don’t come anymore, and whilst the smallest children pocket a few conkers, still at the age to be lured in by shiny treasures, most of the kids are bent double over screens or scuffling and joking together as they amble along, discussing games and videos. The conkers are mostly ignored as they fall into the road, giant SUVs crushing them beneath heavy wheels and scattering them across the ribbon of asphalt. But the red deer stop to take a few as they slink along the hedgerow, helping build their fat stores for the winter. The leaves are left to pile up and mulch and become a gathering place for woodlice and millipedes before the road sweeper comes along and sucks them all away.

On the other side of the hedgerow, the conkers also lay untouched by human hands; the farmer has no use for them now, the horses switched out for machinery long ago. The next generation of crops has been planted, and the horse chestnut provides a sanctuary for the birds hoping for the last of the insects before winter comes. But food is sparse now as the neighbouring fields have become an extensive building site, a large shiny board advertising the sleek new housing estate with identical plastic doors and identical plastic lawns.

When winter settles across the landscape, the goldfinches picking the seeds from the bones of the hedgerow teasels bring a flash of colour to the pewter sky. A plastic bag, caught in the horse chestnut’s branches, rises with the wind like a ghostly apparition, and it sparks the memory of a story passed down through the generations. A few of the older villagers, gathered in the pub and deep in drink, take to storytelling. One tells of a winter of long ago when the ground was hardened by frost, and the villagers’ hearts hardened by an accusation. The story, so entwined with folklore no living soul knows what is true, tells of a maiden’s stolen innocence kindling a village’s anger, an unjust trial, and a recalcitrant mob dragging a young man across frozen fields. Of a rope thrown high into the branches, of the screams and desperate protestations as a makeshift noose is placed around a neck. Of the cries replaced by a silence, broken only by the steady creaking of a rope, and the steady croaking of waiting crows hoping to break their inadvertent winter fast. Some say the body was buried beneath the tree when the frost thawed, the roots its only coffin, the trunk its only gravestone. But from then on, people avoided the horse chestnut, their guilt causing them to conjure up images of spectres seeking revenge and forget how they had once loved the tree and all it had given to them.

The story is seldom told now, only when the horse chestnut’s skeleton haunts the winter’s skyline, and a lone robin sings its maudlin wintry song from the bare boughs.

In the road, little branches of cracks have begun to appear. The horse chestnut's roots have started to push upwards, fracturing the surface. When the rain freezes in the small gaps, it forces the cracks further outwards, the tree’s roots slowly signing its own death warrant. By next spring, the holes will be large enough to cause the cars to bump and jolt. Complaints will be sent to the council, who will fell the horse chestnut, branch by branch, till only a stump is left behind. The wood will be shredded, dumped, and left to decompose, an ungainly end for such an enduring tree.
But the worms and the centipedes will move in, and the beetles will come to lay their larvae amongst the fungi that grows in the damp, dark spaces. And in death, the tree will support life once again.

A home. A shelter. A larder. A playground. A gallows. A grave.

But the villagers don’t take much notice of the old horse chestnut tree anymore.

 

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Skeletons line the coast path, dancing jerkily in the wind as the goldfinches pick the last signs of life from their bones. These corpses, a final nod to the year gone by.

Beneath the earth, little pearls of hope begin to unfurl..