Getting closer to a pruning day between the branches.

Gary Webb

With heavy curtains drawn tightly together, it may have been hard to notice that day was breaking outside and the sun was readying itself for an appearance. As our gardener raised their head from a warm pillow though, even with half opened eyes, they knew exactly when and where the sun would appear and importantly, when it was due to retire.

Preparing for a cool winter’s day outdoors, our weathered tested gardener dressed themselves, adding quilted layer upon layer in the hope of finding that magical working balance between not too warm, not too cold, and actually remaining mobile. As if on auto pilot, they shovelled down breakfast, prepared and packed a hearty lunch and allowing for a moment of pause, moved on to lacing up some well-worn but ever-so comfortable boots. Finishing with a woolly hat pulled down over their ears, they headed out to the car for a familiar journey to work, their breath chuffing into the cool morning air.

Journeying to their work’s garden, rays from the blindingly low sun glimmered through the driver’s door window, flashing repeatedly through the ancient hedgerow trees as the car whooshed along the lane. The cloud-free sky was becoming brighter by the second and promised a dry, if cool working day. Today, they thought, might be the day to finish the orchard pruning, a task they were keen to complete, for spring was in the air and the sap was beginning to rise.

The day started with picking up debris from the previous day which was in itself unusual, for they usually preferred to clean up as they worked. Yesterday though they had pushed on pruning until night fell, being keen to complete an especially large tree. With light falling

away quickly however they were forced to call it a day, “It’ll have to keep” the gardener remembered thinking, as they literally picked up where they’d finished the night before.

Stick by stick along with the odd branch too, removed to ‘let the light in,’ the squeaky wheelbarrow repeatedly filled up. The gardener wasn’t in a hurry though for their work was, indeed is, relentless. Racing to reach the next task is fruitless you see, each chore followed by another, then another, then another – the gardener’s work never-ending. On, our gardener plodded then, methodically and effectively edging closer toward another spring which felt tantalizingly close.

It wasn’t long before our gardener was atop the ladder, their head comfortably above the branches of a gnarly rough stemmed apple tree still in winter garb. Pausing for a moment’s breath, they could see that a new season beckoned. Snowdrops had all gone over leaving fountains of narrow green leaves amidst the orchard grass. Hellebores lit up a border just along the way, and buds could clearly be seen on woody plants in a shrubbery beyond the hedge. Moles had been busy mining, leaving their tell-tale heaps in the field where two hares could also be seen preparing for March madness. Spring was knocking on the door and orchard was pruning nearly done, but first, working to their stomach as much as the clock, our gardener needed lunch.

Taking the weight off in the warmth of the tea shed having switched the chunky pruning saw handle for a door stopping cheese sandwich, they sat back in silence in the threadbare but comfy armchair. Steam rose from a mug of black tea perched nearby on a gardening book coaster, a couple of choccy biscuits waiting patiently beside as treats for a morning’s work well done. Beyond the misted window though, the sun, having clearly reached the pinnacle of its daily journey, reminded our lunching gardener they still had three more trees to complete before the close of play.

Cracking on for a shorter but industrious afternoon session, our gardener returned to closely studying each tree and branch, possessing the unique decision of which living limbs should stay or go. In their mind’s eye, they visualised new shoots, then new buds and flowers that would lead to baskets of fruit – in each moment travelling forward in time one, two, even three years. Not one single snip was made lightly therefore, each stem, branch and tree considered carefully against its neighbour, and the sun’s passage across the sky. Here, holding the streamlined title of gardener, was someone no less a physician, tactician, even artist, at work.

On the gardener carried studying and snipping, sawing and cutting, systematically and silently going about their task whilst the sun continued its downward curve. As the light began to drop, along with the temperature, there came the last snip of the last tree, following by one last clear up. Soon after the last twig was picked up the tools cleaned and packed away, the key on the shed’s heavy padlock was twisted and our orchard pruner lit their way to the car.

The homeward journey saw the last of the natural light softly fade away as the stars began to glow. Out over the hills to the west though light could still be seen, where some other gardeners would likely still be working away. Our gardener though, chilled thoroughly to the core couldn’t wait to close out the cold with those heavy home curtains, kneel before the hearth to light the fire, and reflect on the orchard now being set for a new fruiting year. 

It felt good to have played their part in nature, for one more season at least.

Fresh Air and Fruit Trees, by Gary Webb.