Tucking the Orchard In

Another autumn is drawing to a close. Winter has tiptoed in. Yesterday, I woke to find the orchard floor covered in frost, a silver shimmer over fallen leaves and sleeping roots. Today the frost was not there. Just a few more days and then, it will be there every morning.

For the past few days, I have been busy mulching the young fruit trees with compost. A couple of inches spread gently around each new plant is my way of tucking them in before winter deepens. The fruit trees like apples, pears, peaches, plums, apricots, nectarines, and many others – they may be hardy but when the plants are young, they are still tender and need some winter care.

There are many schools of thought on how best to apply compost. The usual advice is to spread it generously around the plant and then work it lightly into the upper layer of soil using a fork or spade. I prefer a simpler method: just spread it on top. This layer of compost serves as a mulch, keeping weeds from competing with the young plants and helping the soil retain moisture. More importantly, it allows the underground fungal networks to thrive undisturbed. Soil is an important resource and disturbing it again and again is not what I believe in.

The compost also guards the tender roots from sudden drops in temperature and dryness. Though the nutrients mostly stay near the surface, winter rains, frost, and melting snow gradually carry them down. The earthworms, those quiet little workers, do the rest.

So I have been going about the orchard, spreading compost, or to be precise, vermicompost, though I will spare myself the longer word, around all the new trees. The black gold around the plant somehow makes them stand out against the back drop of orchard floor and even looks beautiful. Maybe it is beautiful to me since I can see how important and useful it is to the new plants!

People often ask whether adding compost at this time might delay a tree’s winter rest or even coax it to put out new buds. In truth, a plant’s hibernation depends more on the length of days and nights and on the fall in ambient temperature. Chemical fertilisers rich in nitrogen can sometimes trick a tree into thinking spring has returned. But organic compost keeps the nutrients locked and releases them slowly and gently, never in a rush. It nourishes the soil, keeps the flow of nutrients steady, but does not wake what wishes to sleep.

Still, as a precaution, I begin with the evergreens, the citrus trees, and then move to those that have already gone to sleep. Apples and pears are bare and dreaming now, cherries and apricots too. The peaches are still halfway between wakefulness and slumber, so I shall wait a few more days for them, and then turn to the plums, some of which are still reluctant to call it a night. In fact, the lazy Green-Gage which was reluctant to wake up in the spring is now reluctant to go to sleep, almost like present day teenagers.

It takes several days to finish the round of mulching, but that suits me fine. By the time I reach the last of the trees, winter will have settled in fully, and the orchard will be fast asleep beneath its warm blanket of compost and frost. I will also be spreading some dry grass on the root zones of brambles and berries. My wife says that it works wonders for strawberries, I doubt it, but for the peace of my mind, I have learnt not to disagree.

Another thought that often crosses my mind is the time these trees take to grow up. Some were planted four or five years ago, others as recently as the last rainy season in July. Almost all are doing well, though their growth is slow and unhurried. They seem in no rush to reach the sky.

It is a quiet reminder of how different their rhythm is from ours. We look for change, for progress, for results, and we want them quickly. Trees, on the other hand, follow their own patient clock. They will bear fruit and nuts when the time is right. Some of the nut trees I planted will not yield their best harvest in my lifetime but will offer their bounty to another generation. They will grow tall and strong, casting shade for those yet to come.

Planting them filled me with quiet happiness. I often sit beneath an old oak tree and think of the one who planted it. I do not know who that person was, perhaps a gardener, perhaps a squirrel that buried an acorn and forgot about it. Whoever it was, they left behind something generous. In summer, I sit under the oak for its cool shade, and in winter, I still sit there, warmed by the sun that reaches me from the South while the tree shields me from the wind.

There is a quiet continuity in that thought. We plant, we nurture, we wait, and one day, someone else sits in the shade. So I go on spreading compost around the young plants, tending to them with care. Some will bear fruit for me, my family, and my friends to enjoy, and some will remain as a gift for those who come after.

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