Non-Conformist Orchard

Few days back, I had some visitors from the other side of the globe. They wanted to explore my orchard. I walked down the narrow orchard pathway with them. However, I found myself listening less to my own explanations and more to the rhythm of their footsteps. A confused pause here. A hesitant stop there. It is a curious thing, this moment when two very different ideas of the same landscape quietly collide.

I was describing the regenerative systems that now guide my farming methods when I noticed the faint but unmistakable expression of disappointment on their faces. It did not come from arrogance, or so I hoped. It came from habit. From a deeply ingrained image of what a traditional orchard should look like. For them, order in the orchard was a proof of care. Uniform spacing of trees. Single species in long, straight lines, crossing each other at right angles. Exposed soil, regularly tilled, free of anything that could be called unruly or a weed. The popular thought that discipline of the land was interpreted as respect and care for it.

What they found instead was a living, layered system. I tried explaining the concepts and philosophy behind it. The orchard floor was not bare but deliberately covered. A mix of leguminous and non-leguminous cover crops fixed nitrogen, improved soil structure, and kept the microbial life active. Wildflowers occupied the edges of light and shade, inviting pollinators and beneficial insects. “Weeds”, as they are commonly labelled, were acting as dynamic accumulators, drawing trace minerals from deeper soil horizons and slowly returning them to the surface through leaf litter. Wild berries grew here and there.

Because the orchard lies on a steep slope, tree placement here has been guided less by geometry and more by the actual lay of the land. Each planting spot was chosen depending on each plant’s or each tree’s requirements of the soil depth and content of the soil, drainage, sun exposure, and wind patterns. Over time, the system has been moving steadily towards what one might call a semi-managed food forest. A loose canopy of taller trees, sub-canopy of mostly fruit trees, berry shrubs such as raspberries and blackberries, climbers like kiwi, and a functional ground layer that even includes edible species like wild strawberries, green peas, beans, and various herbs too.

In winter, the trees prepare for dormancy and shed their leaves. They fall, they gather, and they stay. I find this stage deeply reassuring. It is visible evidence of nutrient cycling in motion. The soil also starts to get richer. Earthworms pulling fragments of leaf matter down into the darker soil layers, and fungal networks developing further. To most people, however, this is often seen as neglect. My visitors could not understand why the orchard floor was not “cleaned”. Why I did not till and turn the soil. Why I allowed what they saw as waste to remain.

Their confusion amused me in a gentle way. Not mockingly, but with a kind of inward smile. I have stood in orchards like the ones they admire. I understand their sense of visual comfort. There is a strange satisfaction in straight lines and bare earth. Yet, I also know how biologically silent such places often become with passing years.

When I explained that mixed species planting increases resilience, they listened politely. Genetic diversity, I told them, spreads the risk. Different flowering times reduce the chance of complete crop loss. A varied root architecture improves soil stability and water infiltration. The harvest stretches naturally. Early spring fruits, mid-summer abundance, late-autumn heaviness, and then the quiet handover to preserves, jams, and dried fruit that store the memory of sunlight for colder months. Yes, they were polite, but quite disinterested too. Happens at times. I cut short the tour so as to get them back to the comfort of my manicured lawn, and to offer them a cup of hot herbal tea while enjoying the winter sun.

The question of profit emerged, as it often does. How can such a system be financially viable? Large orchards in their countries run like factories and produce fruits that in turn brings in lots of money. I explained that much of the produce is consumed fresh, turned into preserves, shared with friends, and extended to charitable groups. From their perspective, this seemed inefficient. From mine, it felt entirely logical. They measured value in terms of yield per acre and market price. I found myself measuring it in different units. Soil that improves rather than depletes. Water that infiltrates rather than runs off. Fruits that carry no chemical residues and are full of nutrition. A household that eats healthy, and in rhythm with seasons. Friends who taste something grown slowly, with attention rather than force. Their appreciation and wishes are my earnings.

As we walked further, I became aware of something quietly comic in the whole situation. They had been genuinely keen to see the orchard. I had been equally keen to show it. Yet, neither of us had paused to ask what an orchard meant to the other. They were expecting a controlled system. I was offering them a conversation with ecology.

It was a harmless mismatch, and in that harmlessness there was something almost comforting. It reminded me that the world still holds multiple visions of how land should look and behave. In the future, I think I will begin such walks with a small conversation. I will ask what they hope to understand. If their curiosity leans towards sustainable systems, we can spend long, unhurried hours watching soil, insects, leaves, and light. If they seek the neatness of industrial horticulture, I can gently guide them to the villagers nearby who still manage land that way. There is no judgement in this realisation, only a quiet clarity. Everyone is different and everyone’s understanding is shaped by the knowledge and exposure they have had.

I, for my part, am learning that not everyone who walks through a living orchard is ready to hear what such a landscape is softly saying. Trying to explain the deeper rhythms of this kind of farming in a short visit often feels hurried, incomplete, and quite frequently unwanted. Yet those who arrive with genuine curiosity are always welcome to learn more. With them, I am happy to linger, to answer their questions, and to gently share how and why this place grows the way it does.

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