Last year I ate about two such apples a day from our single, old, gnarled apple tree which had a bumper harvest.  That lasted me two months even while sharing the tree harvest with a number of birds. 

This poetic description of English meadows is from Nicolson’s account of the great garden of Sissinghurst, a meditation on landscapes and our place in them.

They are there as a kind of reproach, still grassy, damp, alluring on a morning heavy with summer wetness, or in the dank and dusk of a winter evening when the mist drifts up out of them and the smell of the wind-blown apples in Mrs Hall’s orchard comes into your nostrils, musty and sweet. 

 

Source: Adam Nicolson, Sissinghurst: An unfinished history (London: Harper Press, 2009), p. 146

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