Slow Stroll Through the Orchard

Every once in a while, I take a slow and unhurried stroll through the orchard. It is not the usual kind of walk meant for exercise or leisure. This one is slower and quieter, an observational walk to see how everything is doing, and to lend a helping hand here and there. I carry a small sling bag with a few essentials: a pair of secateurs, some alcohol swabs, a small trowel, a piece of cloth, and gardening gloves.

Reviving an orchard that lay neglected for decades and turning it into a self-sustaining food forest takes both time and patience. The trees I planted over the years are finally beginning to show their strength. For the first couple of years, they simply stood still, waiting perhaps to make sure they belonged. Once the fungal networks took hold in the soil and the roots grew confident, the trees began to flourish.

With no tilling, other plants too find their way into the mix, some helpful, some harmful. One persistent troublemaker is dodder, a thin, leafless vine that winds itself around stems and feeds on the sap of young trees. Left unchecked, it can kill a plant. The best remedy is constant vigilance and removing it the moment it appears. Keeping the undergrowth trimmed helps, though cutting weeds too close to the soil can make it easier for fungal spores to reach the trees. A light, thick carpet of weeds under the canopy often traps these spores, protecting the young trunks, especially through spring and early summer.

As I walk, I stop by each tree, a few hundred companions I have come to know by sight. If I notice the orange threads of dodder starting to climb, I crouch down and pull them out carefully. Sometimes a branch has to go too if it has been infected. I look for suckers and water sprouts, the greedy shoots that drain a tree’s strength. Those are trimmed as well.

I also have to resist a familiar temptation, pruning. I am not fond of shaping trees into tidy forms. I prefer to let them grow as they wish, to find their natural rhythm. But most of my fruit trees are grafted cultivars, and a little guidance is sometimes necessary. However, this is not the right season for pruning though. It is autumn, and a cut now might push them to sprout tender new leaves that will not survive the coming frost. So, I hold back the urge.

Now and then, I come across a young tree that did not make it. I note its place, and as I walk further, new spaces for planting begin to reveal themselves. Curiously, when I buy new saplings, I often cannot think of where to put them, but on these walks, the land itself seems to suggest the right spots. Digging a few planting holes in advance always helps. It scatters the effort over multiple days instead of one big task at a stretch, and also makes the planting locations very obvious.

Today, I also spotted a small bird’s nest tucked inside a pear tree. A few chicks were still there, late arrivals to the season. I made a mental note to keep everyone away from that tree for a few weeks. They will need some peace before the nights grow colder.

A few cement planters that had been lying unused caught my eye. I decided to clean them and give them to the neighbours. I have realised that my heart lies more in growing food than flowers, though my family occasionally scolds me for neglecting the latter. Fewer planters will mean fewer wilted flowers to explain. Am I smart? ;-)

I sat for a while on the bench overlooking part of the orchard and the valley beyond. The late afternoon sun had warmed it nicely. Around it, I had planted grapevines years ago hoping they would climb the trellis and lend a Mediterranean touch. The soil there is poor and the vines have struggled, but perhaps they have toughened up now. With a little vermicompost this winter, they might reward me next summer. I am keeping my fingers crossed.

The orchard is still a work in progress, not yet the self-sufficient haven I dream of, but every season takes it a step closer.

Farther ahead stand the young plum trees planted last winter. All of them are doing well, their leaves dense and healthy, the short internodes telling me they enjoyed good sunlight. Soon the leaves will dry and fall. The soil here is heavy clay, and I will have to lighten it with organic matter and a touch of gypsum. Another note added to my growing list.

Beyond the plums lies the spot marked for the new greenhouse. I have been waiting for months, though waiting has its own pace in the hills. Here, things move slowly, almost lazily, as if time itself has no hurry. At first, I found myself growing impatient, muttering under my breath at each delay. But over time, the mountains taught me a quieter lesson. You cannot rush anything here. Not the rain, not the ripening of fruit, not even the delivery of a greenhouse. What once felt like a delay of weeks now stretches into years, and somehow, that feels perfectly natural. I hope my greenhouse will arrive this year.

Below that lie my Hügelkultur beds, built from old logs and wooden planks. The rains have left their mark on them, softening the wood and causing small damages here and there. They have held up well, considering their age, but a little care will set them right again. Another quiet task added to my list, and perhaps a pleasant one for a cool afternoon.

On the way back, I noticed an old apple tree covered in thick lichens. I had not seen them before. Tomorrow, I will photograph and catalogue them. Thankfully, the air remains pure, and the avoidance of chemicals is slowly restoring balance to this small ecosystem.

The path is made of uneven stone slabs, placed just far enough apart to keep my shoes clean. I sometimes wish for a smoother path, but for now this simple one serves me well. A smoother and more polished path may look lovely and will cost money, but will also have a higher carbon footprint. Sticking with these old stones is simpler and more environment friendly.

I stood for a while, looking at the trees I had tended through the years, each one carrying a small story of patience, hope, and quiet labour. There is still much to do and much to learn, but that no longer feels daunting. By the time I returned to my room, the sun had dipped low. I had spotted dodder on three trees, all cleared now, removed many suckers and water-sprouts, made a list of things to be done and also made notes for a dozen new plantings. Perhaps this winter I will add some sour cherries and a few more brambles. Each small act, each rescued tree, feels like a quiet victory. Quite a productive stroll it was.

The orchard keeps growing, in its own rhythm, and in caring for it, I find myself changing too. Slowly, quietly, almost without realising, I am growing along with it.

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