A weed is generally defined as any plant growing where it is not wanted. ‘Not wanted’ by whom? Us, humans! We and our inflated egos try to define everything. Weeds look quite out of the place in many manicured gardens and planter beds. But the more time I have spent in the orchard, the more I have come to appreciate the plants so wrongly classified as weeds. They are often the first to reveal what lies beneath the surface, telling us about the condition of the soil.

Instead of asking, “How do I get rid of this weed?” it is often more useful to ask, “Why is this weed growing here?” Every weed has its own preferences. It grows where the conditions suit it, and in doing so, offers valuable clues about the health, structure and fertility of the soil.

Daisies, for instance, are commonly associated with slightly acidic, compacted soils that are relatively low in fertility. If they begin to dominate, the soil may benefit from additional organic matter and if a soil test confirms it, a little pH correction too. Over the centuries of rains, our hills have turned quite conducive to their growth and so every spring many portions get covered by these beautiful flowers.

White Dutch clover is often found in soils that are low in available nitrogen. It fixes nitrogen in the soil. In many ways, it is nature’s own fertiliser factory. My lawn is full of white dutch clover. Instead of trying to remove it, I welcome it. It keeps the grass greener through much of the year and provides nectar for bees at the same time. The white flowers break the monotony of green grass too.

Plantain, with its broad leaves pressed close to the ground, usually points to compacted soil. Years of foot traffic or heavy machinery can squeeze the air from the earth, making life difficult for many plants. Heavily tilled soil and then left open also leads to compaction. Plantain may also indicate relatively low phosphorus compared with potassium. Plantain has another use that I appreciate. Whenever an insect bites me while working in the orchard, I simply crush a few fresh leaves and rub them over the bite. It is a traditional remedy that has worked surprisingly well for me.

Sorrel is another reliable indicator of acidic soil. While many garden plants struggle in low pH conditions, sorrel feels perfectly at home. Here in the hills, it was not considered a weed at all. It was collected as a leafy vegetable, served as a side dish and sometimes even fed to livestock. However, now the present generation can’t even recognize it.

Dandelions send another interesting message. Their deep taproots penetrate compacted soil and help improve its structure over time. They are often found where calcium is less available or where the soil has become hard. Rather than seeing them as villains, I think of them as some of nature’s earliest soil engineers. Their bright yellow flowers follow the daisies in spring season and similarly cover up large stretches of land here. Their young leaves also make a surprisingly good salad, and there is something timeless about picking up a seed head and blowing it into the wind. If you have never done it, you should – it is one of life’s simple pleasures.

Some weeds are actually signs of healthy, living soil. Chickweed for example usually prefers moist, fertile ground rich in organic matter. I often find it growing where vegetables also perform well, so I have begun planting seasonal vegetables in places where chickweed appears year after year. Nettles are another good indicator of fertile soils rich in nitrogen and organic matter. I also like adding them to the compost heap, where they break down into a nutrient-rich compost activator.

Moss, though not technically a weed, often signals damp, shaded, poorly drained or acidic conditions. It is less a problem in itself than an indication that the site may need better drainage, more sunlight, or an adjustment in soil pH.

Even grasses can tell a story. A dominance of coarse grassy weeds can sometimes suggest relatively low calcium or phosphorus, or in some situations higher levels of potassium and manganese. Recently, during the festival of Harela, I visited a friend’s farm and noticed one patch where coarse grasses had completely taken over. The soil looked devoid of organic matter. My suggestion was simple: add generous amounts of compost or well-rotted manure. Improving the organic matter will encourage a healthier soil ecosystem and, over time, may also help improve nutrient availability.

The beautiful morning glory and some related bindweeds signal an improperly decaying organic matter. When I see these, I try to find ways to improve the decay process.

Of course, weeds are only clues, not laboratory tests. Climate, rainfall, sunlight, grazing by animals, and local conditions – all influence which plants appear. A proper soil test remains the best way to understand exactly what the soil needs. But learning to read the language of weeds is a skill that every gardener and farmer can develop.

Over the years, I have stopped seeing weeds as enemies. They are pioneers, arriving before almost anything else. They protect bare soil from erosion, feed insects, loosen compacted ground and begin the slow process of healing damaged land. I think that is why nature rarely leaves soil bare for long. The first plants to arrive are often the very ones we dismiss as weeds. Yet if we pause for a moment and observe them instead of pulling them out, they become teachers.

The next time an unfamiliar weed appears in your garden, resist the urge to remove it immediately. Spend a few minutes identifying it. It may be telling you far more about your soil than any bag of fertiliser ever could. Now a days, a quick internet search can confirm which weed it is and what it indicates.

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I have often felt that tending to fruit trees is about learning their language. The trees speak in their own language, and over the years in my orchard, I have learnt to listen. Usually, what they are telling me has to do with the unseen world beneath the soil and about the effect of minerals and elements. Here the soil is alive but not always generous. After centuries of farming, it asks for care, and in return, it reveals the delicate balance that sustains growth.

One of the first things that I have learnt is that the presence of minerals in the soil does not guarantee their availability to the tree. Much depends on soil pH, structure, and what is known as cation exchange capacity. Soil pH, in particular, acts like a regulator. In simpler and broader perspective – in slightly acidic to neutral conditions, most nutrients remain available. But when the soil drifts towards alkalinity, as I have observed in certain patches of my orchard, elements like iron, zinc, and manganese become locked away, even if they are present in sufficient quantity. The trees respond with pale leaves and slow growth because they are inaccessible.

Over the years, I have learnt to pay close attention to what my trees are trying to tell me. They often show the first signs of a problem long before it becomes serious. For example – when I see the older leaves slowly losing their rich green colour especially in fast growing period, I usually suspect a lack of nitrogen, as the tree draws nitrogen from older leaves to feed new growth. Yellowing between the veins of older leaves often makes me look for a magnesium deficiency, while the same pattern on the youngest leaves points me towards iron. Brown or scorched leaf edges can suggest a shortage of potassium, and unusually small or distorted new leaves often make me check for zinc or boron deficiencies. Slow growth, poor flowering, or weak fruit set also tell me that something in the soil may be out of balance. Of course, these are only clues, not conclusions.

Many of these can be due to other causes also such as pests, diseases, water stress, or unsuitable soil pH. Over time, I have found that careful observation backed by a little patience, and some amount of reading is one of the best tools a gardener can have.

Soil compaction is another subtle adversary. In areas where the soil becomes dense, either from foot traffic or natural settling, roots struggle to breathe and explore. Recently, use of heavy machines is further adding to this problem. Water does not infiltrate well, microbial life diminishes, and nutrient uptake becomes inefficient. I have seen trees in such spots appear stunted from lack of access. This happens with heavy clay-rich soil too.

A nearby property was recently ‘developed’ using heavy earth-moving machinery, and now they plan to plant trees there. I wonder how those young trees will cope. The repeated movement of heavy machines often leaves the soil badly compacted, reducing the spaces that normally hold air and water. To worsen the situation they have dug up all the sub-soil (devoid of organic matter and humus) and spread it over the earlier top soil.

Another interesting and technical idea – Cation exchange capacity has a very real presence in any orchard. It reflects the soil’s ability to hold and exchange nutrients like calcium, magnesium, and potassium. My more clay-rich areas tend to have higher holding capacity, but they also risk becoming tight and less aerated. The lighter, more loamy sections drain well but need regular organic matter to retain nutrients. Balance, once again, becomes the guiding principle.

What has changed my understanding most profoundly is the role of a living soil. When the soil is rich in organic matter and teeming with microorganisms, nutrients are constantly being transformed into forms that trees can absorb. Fungi extend the reach of roots, bacteria break down organic material, and earthworms improve structure and aeration.

I have noticed that in areas where I have consistently mulched and added compost, deficiencies are rarer and less severe. The trees seem more self-reliant. It is as if the soil begins to buffer extremes – holding nutrients when abundant and releasing them when needed. In such conditions, even micronutrients that are otherwise difficult to access become available through natural biological processes.

I get my soil tested from time to time to understand what it needs. But instead of reaching for chemical solutions, I rely on natural methods to restore its balance. Compost and manure (well matured) form the backbone of almost every soil improvement I make in the orchard. Lucky are those people who have cattle in their farms for the amount of manure they get.

While I rely largely on natural cycles, there are moments when I step in with small additions. In patches where calcium is needed or the soil structure requires improvement, I have used gypsum. It has helped loosen heavier soils without altering the pH too drastically. When magnesium seems lacking, a simple application of Epsom salts has often brought back the deep green of healthy leaves. For root development and a steady supply of phosphorus, I occasionally turn to bone meal mixed with vermicompost, applied sparingly. This also helps in reducing the heaviness of soil. Sea kelp, in its various forms, has been a useful ally, not just for trace minerals but for the growth hormones it carries, which seem to lend strength to the young trees. At times, I also use foliar sprays of humic and fulvic acids, especially when the soil is low in humus and the organic matter I have added has not yet had time to break down and improve the soil. These sprays serve as a temporary boost while the long-term improvements gradually take effect.

In the heaviest clay sections of my garden, I have gradually incorporated small amounts of coarse sand as part of a broader effort, along with generous additions of organic matter so as to improve soil structure and drainage. This is a technique that requires caution. The timing and soil moisture are critical. If the soil is worked when it is too wet or too dry, adding sand can actually worsen compaction and damage the soil structure. When the moisture level is just right, however, modest amounts of coarse sand can improve the texture of shallow planter beds used for vegetables, where the roots occupy only the upper layers of the soil. Around trees, the situation is quite different. Since tree roots extend much deeper, adding sand only to the surface or planting hole usually offers little benefit. Instead, it often creates a more porous layer above the dense clay beneath, leading to poor water movement rather than improved drainage. For trees, building soil with organic matter over time is a far more effective long-term approach.

Compost teas and simple microbial brews find their place too, especially at the change of seasons, as a way to encourage life in the soil. There are a whole lot of formulas and mixes popular on various gardening circles. I prefer a mix of around a kilo of stinging nettles and a couple of kilos of jaggery, soaked in two hundred litres of water, and a waste decomposer culture solution. I let it ferment for around a week and then use it to support the life in soil.

None of these are used with a rigid formula. They are small adjustments based on what the trees and the soil seem to be asking for.

For me, learning about soil and plant nutrition has been a long and often challenging journey. I am still learning, and every season teaches me something new. The more I understand, the greater my respect becomes for the scientists and researchers who have devoted their lives to understanding the remarkable complexity of soil, nutrients, and the countless interactions that keep plants healthy.

In my orchard, the real reward for these small efforts comes when the monsoon arrives. The still warm weather and soaking rains seem to wake everything up. The trees burst into fresh growth, shrubs and bushes become full and green, and even the lawn begins to change. The clover, which had slowly spread through the grass, starts to show its worth. The lawn becomes thicker, greener, and stays healthier through the season. Even the plants that were diseased seem to recover quickly.

And so, the orchard continues to teach me that fertility is not something to be forced in a rush. It takes time and patience. Beneath every healthy tree lies not just a supply of nutrients, but a system in balance – chemical, physical, and biological.

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Today morning, I got out from the bed with a secateur in hand and with a clear purpose in mind. Some people begin their day with tea. I often begin mine by looking at trees and deciding which branches need to go.

Summer pruning is one of those orchard jobs that may look simple from a distance, but it changes the health and productivity of a tree in remarkable ways. While winter pruning gets most of the attention, I have always found summer pruning equally important, especially in plums and cherries.

At this time of the year, trees are full of energy. Shoots grow rapidly, leaves become dense, and before long the canopy starts turning into a tangled green umbrella. If left untouched, many trees produce excessive upright growth that blocks sunlight from reaching the inner branches and fruits. I usually begin by removing these unnecessary shoots and overcrowded branches.

Almost immediately, the difference becomes visible. Sunlight starts filtering deeper into the tree. Fruits hidden in shade suddenly receive warmth and light. Better sunlight improves colour, sweetness, and the formation of healthy buds for the next season. Even the leaves dry faster after rain or morning dew, which helps reduce fungal diseases naturally. However, this also exposes to the damage by hail-storms, so I wait when the usual time of hail-storms has passed.

I also notice that summer pruning calms down very vigorous trees. Some trees are enthusiastic to the point of excess. They keep producing long vertical shoots while ignoring fruit production. By removing a portion of this unnecessary growth during summer using thinning cuts, I encourage the tree to put more of its energy into developing and maturing existing fruits instead of endless branches.

There is another benefit that becomes obvious while working inside the orchard. Dense trees trap humidity and stale air. Once the canopy is opened up, fresh air begins moving through the branches much more freely. This simple improvement can greatly reduce problems like mildew, scab, and leaf diseases. Lately the weather is quite erratic and rains happen randomly. So, the summer thinning helps even more now a days.

Practicality matters too. Harvesting from an overgrown tree is often frustrating. Pruned trees are easier to inspect, easier to harvest, and easier to manage. Additionally, there is less risk of heavy branches snapping under the weight of fruit. And there is also a lesser risk of my back snapping while reaching for the high hanging fruits.

Young trees especially respond well to light summer pruning. I prefer correcting their shape early while branches are still soft and flexible rather than waiting for thick woody limbs to create larger problems later. A few careful cuts today can save major pruning work in future years. However, I avoid pruning the well established trees. They don’t need too much of human intervention.

Of course, summer pruning must be done thoughtfully. Under strong summer sun, excessive pruning can expose branches and fruits to sunburn. I avoid removing too much at once, especially during very hot weather. The aim is not to shock the tree, but to guide it gently. Pruning just after rains or just before there is a forecast of rains is also not good. This can cause infections entering from the wounds.

Winter pruning and summer pruning each have their own role. Winter pruning encourages growth and structure. Summer pruning controls excess, improves light, and refines fruit quality. Together, they help create healthier and more balanced trees. As I walked back this morning with the secateur still in my hand, the orchard already looked calmer, brighter, and more open. Sometimes a few small cuts are all that a tree needs. Though, on a more philosophical front, I feel that the secateur in hand gives me a feeling of power and the act of pruning reinforces that false sense of control over nature. I also have to be careful of this feeling clouding my thoughts.

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Maintaining an orchard without pesticides sounded carefree until I realised that my boundaries are porous in ways a fence cannot fix.

One of the challenges of chemical-free farming is what happens beyond my land. On certain days, especially when the wind picks up, there is always a lingering concern that a neighbour’s pesticide spray may drift across. At times, I have picked up the smell of some pesticides while strolling in the orchard. Though in all fairness, this happens rarely. Most farmers around me are careful and avoid spraying in windy conditions, whether to conserve the chemical or to ensure it reaches its intended target. Another good thing is that the pesticides and other chemicals’ use is still not excessive in this region. Whatever the reason, this reassures me even though not completely.

A subtler, less visible effect unfolds at the level of the insects themselves. When pesticides are applied nearby, the immediate instinct of many insects is survival. They disperse. Some are driven by the toxicity, others by disturbance, and sometimes even by the sudden change in humidity. In that moment of dislocation, a few inevitably find their way into safer, untreated spaces. My orchard, by design obviously becomes one such refuge. I have noticed similar patterns even during nearby construction activity, when disruption alone is enough to trigger movement. Perhaps there is a degree of imagination in this observation, but repeated seasons tend to reinforce this thought.

For me, farming without chemicals is not an isolated act. It is part of a wider ecological conversation that extends beyond my boundaries and into shared choices. Over the years, I have tried, in my own small ways, to be part of that discussion, encouraging those around me to reduce, and where possible move away from these harmful chemicals. There have been moments of progress, and others that remind me how resistant people can be to change. In the meantime, I have taken what steps I can at home, planting a dense living fence of evergreens and creepers around the orchard in the hope that it offers some measure of protection. I remain hopeful and persistent, continuing the dialogue with neighbours while staying committed to what I can control, and hoping the ladybirds multiply enough to control the aphids that have attacked my peach trees.

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In the hills, people learn from nature by watching it closely. One common practice is that villagers do not plant walnut trees near their homes. Is this a superstition or age-old wisdom?

Walnut trees grow big and spread wide. Their shade is very dense. Under them, very little grows. Many vegetables, and small plants often struggle to survive nearby. Over time, people noticed that planting a walnut tree close to the house affects their kitchen gardens and other useful plants. There is also another reason for this. Walnut trees release a substance called juglone into the soil. It slows down the growth of many other plants. The scientific term for this is Allelopathy. The same mechanism that kills a lot of tiny plants around bottle-brush too.

Juglone also acts as a mild natural pesticide. Because of this, planting a walnut tree in the courtyard that is often used, is not ideal. During summer months, this may be harmful for anyone spending a lot of time under the tree for long hours. I am not sure about if any studies have been done on this but the effect is there. However, I have still gone ahead and planted a tree close to the entrance to my house. The juglone if it does have pesticidal effects, will help keep flies, mosquitoes, and other pesky insects in control. I have planted one near the compost pits too for the same reason.

Walnut trees also have a deep tap root. This helps them stay well grounded. Many villagers feel that such trees are more likely to be struck by lightning, or at least seem more exposed during storms. This belief adds to the caution of keeping them away from homes. This is interesting. If it does happen then I feel it is actually protecting the house from a lightening strike. The deep tap root also holds the soil well and so providing extra safety in hills already prone to landslides, I feel. The roots however can affect old houses. Traditional homes made of stone and mud can develop cracks if large roots grow close by. This is usually not a problem in RCC or iron frame houses, but older structures are more vulnerable.

The dense canopy and large size is another concern. It can spread over the house. It can then act like a bridge for vermins and even monkeys to reach the roof, which creates another practical concern for most. With my walnut tree near the house, I keep the size in control by annual lopping and pruning. The walnut trees are large and heavy. In strong winds or storms, branches can fall. Keeping such a tree too close to the house can be risky, especially if they are allowed to grow unattended.

Another important reason why people avoid it may be the sunlight. Homes in the hills need warmth. A walnut tree can block sunlight and make the house feel cold and damp. Even though the leaves fall off in winters but during early spring, when the breeze is still cold, a walnut on the south side of the house can stop a lot of warm sunlight.

The village wisdom is right to a large extent. They do not avoid the walnut tree. They plant it away from homes and give it space to grow and flourish. It is often planted at the edge of fields. This way, they can enjoy its benefits without disturbing their living space.

Time will tell how the balance works out with the walnut tree in front of my house. Living with nature is often about observing, adjusting, and learning along the way. This is how traditional knowledge continues to evolve. It remains rooted in experience, yet open to thoughtful change.

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Today evening, I was visited by my new neighbours. Good sorted people in today’s language. We chatted about local politics, challenges in the hills, and slowly the conversation moved towards nature, a topic after my heart. After a long time, I met someone who understands concerns like the declining insect population, wildlife conservation, rewilding, and related matters. With so little time and so much to discuss, it felt like a breath of fresh air in a time when often everyone seems distant from the natural world, and at times, indifferent to it.

As the evening settled and the hills slipped into their slumber, the conversation has stayed with me. It is rare to find someone who notices what is missing. The hum that once filled the air, the flicker of wings at every step, the quiet, constant work of countless small lives. Today, that absence is becoming harder to ignore, yet strangely, it is still ignored.

As a child, I remember cleaning my father’s car windshield, often covered with insects after even a short drive. Today, it rarely happens with my own car, despite living so close to nature. I have come across others mentioning the same on social media, but it is something I notice for myself as well.

The declining insect population is a serious concern, and yet very few seem truly bothered. Pollination is the first and most visible casualty. Fruit set suffers, yields decline, and even the quality of produce changes. But pollination is only the beginning. The effects are far more layered, far more interconnected. Insects sit at the base of entire ecological systems. When they decline, the consequences ripple outward, affecting birds, reptiles, soil life, and ultimately, the health of the land itself. And everything in turn affects us. Just a few days back I read somewhere that ours may be the last generation to have seen fireflies !

Most people are quick to point towards the obvious culprits whenever I mention the declining insect population, the rampant use of insecticides and chemicals. And rightly so, for these have caused immense damage. But the conversation often stops there. What is spoken of far less is the steady disappearance of habitats. The hidden corners, the wild edges, the untended patches of land that once provided shelter and breeding grounds. In our pursuit of neatness and efficiency, we have erased the very spaces that sustained life.

Light pollution at night is another factor that rarely enters the discussion. Even in the hills, artificial light has begun to creep in. For nocturnal insects, especially moths, this is deeply disruptive. Drawn to light, they lose energy, fail to reproduce effectively, and fall easy prey. Their decline passes largely unnoticed, perhaps because people now live removed from the night itself, within sealed, brightly lit homes that shut out the natural rhythms of darkness. Yet their absence is not insignificant. Moths and other nocturnal insects play an important role in pollination, often visiting flowers that daytime pollinators do not. They are also a vital link in the food chain, sustaining birds, bats, and other wildlife.

Climate, too, plays its part, altering the delicate timing between flowering and insect activity. Seasons shift in ways that confuse rhythms evolved over centuries. What emerges too early finds nothing to feed on, and what blooms too late finds no one to visit. This year, the bees were already out when it snowed in the late winters (in January). The day temperatures warmed up quite early and there were very few flowers for them. It must have been hard.

In my orchard, I have been trying, in my own small ways, to respond to this. I have begun rewilding certain parts of the land, allowing them to grow as they will. Wildflowers emerge here and there, and small bushes and groundcover are left undisturbed. To some, these spaces may appear untidy, but in truth, they are homes. Places where insects can shelter, feed, and complete their life cycles. A few years ago, during the long stillness of the Covid lockdowns, kids and me took up a small project and built a pollinators’ hotel. It began as a simple, almost curious experiment, but it opened a window into a world we scarcely notice. Watching it over time, I began to understand just how many forms of life depend on the smallest of spaces. Since then, I have become more mindful of what I once cleared away without a second thought. Dry leaves are now left to rest where they fall. Small stacks of branches are placed here and there across the orchard. What might seem like debris is, in reality, shelter.

I avoid chemical interventions as far as possible. There are losses, of course. Leaves are eaten, fruits are sometimes spoilt. But over time, a balance begins to return. Predators appear, diversity builds, and the system grows more resilient. Some of my fruit trees recently got infested with aphids, thankfully the ladybird population is now growing and getting things under control.

There is always something flowering now in my orchard. Herbs are allowed to bloom, and in doing so, they attract a steady stream of pollinators. During dry periods, I provide some water too in some shallow bowls hidden under foliage. Fallen leaves and dead wood are not entirely cleared, but allowed to return to the soil slowly, supporting life along the way.

These are simple steps, almost insignificant when viewed against the scale of the problem. Yet, I hold on to the belief that such small actions matter. If more people begin to notice, to care, and to allow a little wildness back into their spaces, these small efforts can gather into something much larger.

When I stand in the orchard now, there are moments when life returns. A bee on a flower, a butterfly passing by, the soft buzz of bumblebees, the crickets going on and on in the dark corners of the garden. It is not what it once was, but it is not gone either. That is where hope lies. In leaving a patch untouched, in letting flowers bloom, in choosing to step back and letting nature take over. In remembering that even the smallest lives hold the world together. I saw that same hope when my neighbours spoke about rewilding a small patch near their home to help the insects.

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As I look about me these days, I find the hills changing their clothes rather too quickly for my liking. Where there were once quiet stretches of green, there are now signs of hurried construction. It has set me thinking, and more than that, planting. For every wall that rises, I feel inclined to place a sapling in the ground, as though the earth and I have entered into a small, unspoken agreement.

Some of the fruit trees, planted in more hopeful years, have now come into their own. They reward me generously, as old friends do, with baskets of fruit and a quiet sense of continuity. The oaks and hollies, those steadfast forest companions, remain lively abodes for birds who seem to have far fewer complaints than we humans. Lately, I have added a few more plums and peaches to the fold, along with blueberries and raspberries, in the hope that they too will settle in and make themselves at home.

Though my latest little enterprise has been under an old pear tree, and has nothing to do with tree plantation as such. I was working with a newly grafted citrus fruit tree near it and then the thought crossed my mind.

The pear’s lower branches, having dried with age, were removed some days back, revealing a nice partially-shaded alcove beneath. It seemed almost impolite not to make use of such a space, so a simple bench found its way there. Around it, we planted rosemary, its fragrance already promising relaxed afternoons, and scattered marigold seeds with a certain misplaced optimism that unlike me only experienced gardeners possess. If all goes well, by summer’s end it should become a pleasant refuge for reading and idle thought. The birds, I must say, have shown immediate approval. A cheerful flock of white-throated tits has taken to visiting the nearby branches, hopping about with the easy familiarity of old residents. Though the project involves shifting my bee-hives elsewhere but I am sure that bees will also adjust well to a new location that I have planned for them, filled with lots of wildflowers.

The pear tree bears some of the sweetest fruit in the orchard, and in early autumn, when they are at their finest, I like to imagine myself sitting beneath it with a book in hand, reaching up now and then for a perfectly ripened pear. That is, of course, assuming the monkeys will not damage them. Someone once suggested covering the tree with netting, assuring me that it would keep both birds and monkeys at bay. I am not entirely convinced. The birds, I do not resent at all, they take only what they need and leave the rest with a certain courtesy. The monkeys, however, are less restrained in their habits, and far more inventive. I have seen them in the village, quite deftly lifting and tearing through such protections. For the monkeys they were no more than a passing inconvenience. So I find it best not to think too much. I shall wait, and hope for my share of the harvest. And if the pears are claimed before I arrive, well, the quiet shade beneath the tree will still be mine to enjoy, and that itself is reward enough.

There are, of course, practical matters to attend to later on. A stone pathway leading to this spot now feels as the next necessary indulgence (and sadly an added expense too). In the dry months, the walk is easy enough, but the rains have a way of turning even short distances into minor adventures. A modest path would make the nook accessible in all seasons, and I suspect a few more rosemary bushes may find their way along its edges. Though someone asked that who’s going to sit under that tree during the rains, but I feel that once in a while I might, even if I have to do so with an umbrella in one hand. After all, the spot is blessed with greenery on every side, and from where one sits, there is not a trace of construction to be seen.

As for the ongoing business of planting, there is always a reckoning to be done. This past winter was rather stern with swings of temperature and practically no precipitation, and not all the young trees have survived its dry aspect. I shall have to take stock and make my peace with these small losses. Still, there is comfort in preparation. A number of saplings wait patiently in their pots, ready for the rainy season. There are lemons, some stone fruits, a couple of pomes, and even a small fig. The north-facing slope is not the easiest of places to coax into abundance, but one persists. With time, and a little stubborn faith, I like to think it will grow into a green boundary, a quiet hedge against the world’s increasing noise.

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Peaches with their leaf curl have long been a persistent concern in my orchard. I wrote about this problem a few years ago (Read that here), but since then my thinking has evolved, and I have learned a few more things along the way.

Over the years, I have observed that peach leaf curl is primarily a fungal disease. In some cases, however, I have also seen aphids and other insects causing the leaves to curl. Rarer still are insects that seem to take shelter inside leaves that were already affected by fungal leaf curl.

When some says peach leaf curl, it always refers to fungal. Taphrina deformans, the fungus responsible for peach leaf curl, is a frustrating visitor every spring. Horticulturists often recommend copper-based sprays in autumn or in late winter before the buds begin to swell. My concern has always been the possibility of excess copper building up in the soil, causing pollution and harming beneficial fungi in the process. My fears may be misplaced, but they are with me all the same.

A few years ago, I stopped spraying fungicides altogether. Instead, I chose to do the hard work myself. During the period of active leaf growth, I removed the infected leaves by hand and disposed of them away from the orchard, never in the compost pit. I enriched the soil around the peach trees with plenty of vermicompost and made sure that during dry summers the trees never went thirsty. In autumn, I collected every fallen peach leaf and again disposed of it away from the orchard. These efforts gave the trees enough strength to keep producing healthy new growth while also helping to reduce the fungal spores around them. I did try a foliar spray of Trichoderma viride, but for me it was largely a wasted effort. It seems to work better in the soil than on the leaves. A foliar spray of Bacillus subtilis appears to help a little, though only modestly. At present, I have resumed spraying copper sulphate mixed with agricultural lime, though just once every two or three winters, before spring begins. I keep the use minimal and directed only at the diseased trees. Though it is considered an organic option when compared with many commercial fungicides, but I must admit I am still not very fond of it.

Insects, especially aphids, can also cause peach leaves to curl. The difference is in the word play for novices. Fungus causes Peach leaf Curl disease. Insects may cause the leafs to curl, but it is not called leaf curl disease. I noticed the insects causing leaf curl, a few years ago, and they have returned again this year. The leaves are beginning to curl, and when I plucked one and examined its underside, I found clusters of aphids feeding there. They suck the sap and cause the leaf to curl. Their damage is somewhat different from fungal leaf curl. Leaves affected by aphids are usually only mildly curled, while fungal leaf curl tends to produce thick, fleshy, heavily distorted leaves that often turn reddish.

The first thing I do now when I notice aphids is look for ladybirds. Usually, a healthy population of ladybirds is enough to keep aphids under control. Small birds such as tits also feed on them. But when aphids are numerous and natural predators are absent, I prefer to spray neem oil mixed with a little detergent, after most of the blossoms have finished. The results take a few weeks to appear. Interestingly, neem oil also has mild antifungal properties. After that, I apply Metarhizium anisopliae to the soil around the tree. Although it is mainly effective against root grubs and other soil pests, it also seems to help reduce aphid numbers when used alongside neem oil.

Another mistake I have made is planting plums close to peaches and nectarines. Because they are closely related, the pests and diseases that affect peaches can also affect plums. In a mixed orchard where they grow near one another, control becomes a little more difficult. This is especially true in orchards where curculio is a problem, though thankfully that is not an issue in our part of the world.

To summarize, a healthy ecological balance and good orchard hygiene are often enough to reduce fungal leaf curl and keep insect-driven leaf curling under control. Some people choose leaf curl resistant cultivars. That certainly helps, though it also means giving up some of the wide range of flavours that peaches and nectarines can offer.

So, off to spray some neem oil now. After that I will go for my stroll in the orchard, checking out the other nooks and corners here.

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Every land has its own temperament. My orchard here is at a moderately high altitude and sits on a north facing slope, and that single fact shapes almost everything that happens here. It is both a limitation and a blessing.

The most obvious difficulty is winter light. The sun travels low and to the south during winters. For several months the angle of light is shallow and the number of sunshine hours is limited. At this altitude, where frost already visits us for nearly three months, this reduced sun exposure makes winters feel longer and harsher. Both to us and to our orchard. The soil remains cold for extended periods. Microbial activity slows down. Trees stay dormant longer. From a horticultural perspective, delayed soil warming means delayed root activity. Even hardy fruit trees may take their time to awaken. The trees that we plant take their own sweet time to grow and at times it seems too slow compared to how time flies by in our own lives. Sometimes I feel amazed by how fast the trees grow in plains and tropics compared to here.

The second challenge is spring frost. As the sun gradually shifts northwards in spring, daytime temperatures rise just enough to trigger blossoming. Buds swell and the flowers start to open. Yet the nights remain cold. Clear skies and winds drifting from the north can drop temperatures sharply. The result is frost damage to tender blossoms. A single frosty night during spring can reduce the season’s harvest. In practical terms, this means uncertainty. Some years are generous. Others are humbling. With climate crisis, such frosts are becoming more frequent. I try to prevent these using generous amount of mulching with compost and slowly shifting to varities that flower late but where fruits mature fast. Still, late spring frosts are always a problem.

Yet nature rarely gives only disadvantages. The very cold that troubles me also brings benefits. Extended chilling hours in winter are excellent for various fruit trees. Apples, pears, plums and many other fruits require sufficient chill hours to break dormancy properly. In warmer regions, inadequate chilling leads to poor flowering and uneven fruit set. Here, that is rarely a problem. I am even able to plant fruit trees that usually grow in still higher latitudes, further up North. The slow warming of spring can also delay flowering slightly compared to south facing slopes. In some seasons this delay can help avoid the earliest frosts. It is not foolproof, but it is occasionally protective.

The north facing slope retains more moisture. Evaporation is lower in winter and early spring. This is especially important considering the long dry spells we have been having lately. Mosses, ferns and shade loving plants thrive despite the low precipitation. The soil organic matter decomposes slowly, building structure over time and without overwhelming the young plants. This retention of moisture also aligns beautifully with my permaculture approach and has helped me establish a dense food forest.

When summer arrives, the story changes completely. The sun travels high and slightly north. Suddenly the orchard receives abundant light. Afternoons can be quite warm. The same slope that felt chilled and cold-hearted in January feels radiant in May-June. This strong summer sunshine is a gift for fruit ripening. Sugars accumulate well. Colour develops beautifully. Fruits mature with balanced acidity and sweetness, and are full of flavour. The nights still remain cool and this diurnal variation further enhances flavour. In high altitude orchards like mine, that difference between warm days and cool nights gives character to the produce.

However, the warm afternoons can occasionally stress young plants. Irrigation and mulching become essential. Fortunately, I have lots of tall trees and most of my orchard is floor is covered. The greenhouse also tends to get overheated and so I have to cover it up with a tarp during the summers.

A north facing slope also influences air movement. Cold air is heavier and flows downhill. Over the years I have made good drainage passages of cold air in the orchard, so frost damage is reduced. If the terrain traps cold air, frost pockets form. Careful placement of trees, maintaining open lower boundaries, and avoiding dense barriers that block cold air flow are practical strategies. I show this to my visitors who are interested in this aspect too. Wind exposure from the north can sometimes make the nights cold in spring. Shelterbelts of some native species like oaks helps break that force without stopping airflow entirely. It is always a balance between protection and ventilation.

With time I have realized that a north facing orchard demands thoughtful plant selection and management. Late flowering varieties perform better. Frost tolerant rootstocks become important. Training systems may need to maximise light interception. I can’t grow fruits that require a lot of winter sun like sweet oranges and mandarins, or even the delicious early ripening peaches, but I can indulge in plums and apples easily. Sometimes thoughtful plantation in terms to exposing the plants to morning sun vs afternoon sun also helps.

But beyond technique, there is philosophy. A north facing slope teaches patience. It pushes me to read more and more about horticulture, and gather whatever knowledge I can on this subject. It discourages haste. It rewards observation. I cannot force the sun to change its path. I can only understand it and align my orchard accordingly. In summer, when the fruits glow under the northern sun, I am reminded that what seems like a limitation in one season becomes strength in another. The land is not imperfect. It is simply specific. And once I accept its nature, I begin to work with it rather than against it. I am learning to work with nature and have a healthy orchard. The process itself is quite rewarding. This is slow-life for me.

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I have learned over the years that bending young branches into a more horizontal position plays a very important role in shaping a healthy and productive fruit tree. During the formative years of a tree, the way its branches grow decides not just its future shape, but also its strength. It also influences the amount of fruit it will carry.

There are two main reasons why I train branches to grow more horizontally.

The first is strength. When a branch grows at a narrow angle and stays close to the trunk, the joint remains weak. Such branches may look fine in calm weather, but they are the first to split or snap during heavy snowfall or strong winds. I have seen promising young trees damaged simply because a few branches were allowed to grow too upright. By opening up the crotch angle and spreading the branches away from the trunk, the joint becomes stronger and more secure. If a branch has a very narrow crotch angle and is badly placed, I find it better to remove it early with a thinning cut, rather than letting it become a future point of breakage.

The second reason is fruiting. Fruit trees naturally bear more fruit on branches that are closer to horizontal. Upright branches prefer to grow wood, while sloping branches prefer to grow flowers and fruits. When I spread the branches, I am working with the tree’s own design to improve the chances of more fruits. However, it is still the tree that finally decides how much fruit it can carry, and the angle of its branches is one of the ways it makes that decision.

There are many simple ways to train branches.

One method I often use is tying a wide ribbon, at least a centimetre in width, around the branch and gently pulling it downwards. The ribbon can be tied to a peg in the ground, a stone, or even a small weight. I prefer ribbons because they spread the pressure over a wider area. Thin strings or ropes can cut into the bark and injure the branch. Even with a ribbon, I always leave a few millimetres of space in the knot so the branch can grow without being choked. I also check these branches every once in a while to see if any damage is occurring.

Another useful tool is a branch spreader. It is a long piece with forked ends that fits between two branches and pushes them apart. I use old thick branches for this purpose that I had lopped earlier, and cut a fork on both the ends using secateurs. This simple wedge slowly opens up the angles and trains both branches at the same time. In some cases, even a small wooden wedge placed at the point where the branch emerges from the trunk can force the angle to open.

For thin and flexible branches, I sometimes use simple metal braces to curve them outward. Galvanised iron or aluminium works well and lasts for years in the orchard. These are especially helpful when there is no convenient place to tie a ribbon. Earlier I used to cut thick wires to do so, but now these metal braces are available in gardening accessories shops.

Not all training needs ropes or tools. Sometimes, careful pruning does half the work. When I make heading cuts, I choose buds that face outwards. The new shoot that grows from such a bud naturally moves away from the trunk. These outward-facing shoots become strong scaffold branches and good fruit-bearing arms of the tree in the next few years.

Over time, I have also learned from a few clumsy and costly mistakes that I now take care to avoid. In my early days, I once tied a knot too tightly and ended up strangling a young branch. On another occasion, in my enthusiasm, I bent a branch too far and heard the soft but heartbreaking sound of it snapping in my hands. This is usually a risk in dormancy period. I have also tried wooden spreaders that were too rough and poorly shaped, and they slowly dug into the bark and spoiled an otherwise healthy branch. And then there was the day I managed to catch my foot in a ribbon tied between a branch and a rock on the ground, sending me down to the orchard floor. Since then, I have grown wiser with my methods, and I now use white ribbons so they remain clearly visible as I walk around, a small change that has saved both my branches and my dignity more than once.

Timing also matters. I find the best time to train branches is just after the tree comes out of dormancy. The branches are still soft and pliable then, and they respond kindly to gentle bending. Usually, a couple of months of training is enough. After that, the branch remembers its new position and continues to grow in a more open and balanced way.

Training branches is not about controlling the tree. To me, it feels more like guiding a young being in the right direction. When done with patience and care, the tree grows stronger, safer, and more generous with its fruit. It helps me feel my young trees and assess their overall health. And when I do so, I also feel more connected to my orchard.

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For a long time now I have been thinking about pathways in the orchard. Not grand ones, not the kind that themselves become a focal point, but simple paths that allow the land to breathe and the walker to slow down. Improving the existing tracks and gently adding a few more has been on my mind through many seasons, over the last few years.

Almost every decision I make here is filtered through three simple questions. How much will it cost? What will it demand from the planet? And will it belong to this orchard and to my own sense of beauty? If an idea fails even one of these tests, it is not worth pondering upon.

I spoke about it with family, friends, and visitors. I turned the idea over repeatedly, often while doing nothing more than standing still among the trees. The land itself has a way of answering, but it asks for patience.

Wooden planks have a certain romance to them. They look charming when laid well and seem to promise warmth. Yet the thought of trees cut elsewhere so that I may walk comfortably here, did not sit easily with me. Even responsibly sourced wood has a cost that extends beyond the financial payment. And wood ages quickly in a place like mine that faces frost, rain, and sun in extremes. It asks to be repaired, replaced and fussed over.

Cemented pathways are efficient and familiar. After a year or two, when moss creeps in and softens their edges, they even begin to look handsome. But cement carries permanence that makes me uneasy. Once poured, it becomes a decision that cannot be undone. I can’t change how the pathways without financial burden. It initially also brings with it expense, labour, and a carbon footprint that lingers long after the surface has settled.

Gravel and river stones appealed to me for their looseness and informality. But the hills are not kind to such intentions. Weeds appear no matter how thick the layer, and during the monsoon the stones quietly migrate downhill, carried away by water that respects no design. I have made some such pathways, so I write with ample experience.

After much reflection, stone slabs emerged as the least intrusive answer. They are not without a footprint. Mining and transport always leave a mark. But here the hills offered a quieter alternative. Many old village houses were once roofed with stone slabs, laid carefully by artisans, whose tribe have nearly vanished. These roofs need annual care, time and patience, things that modern life no longer easily gives. Gradually they are replaced with metal sheets. One such house was ready to let go of its stones. A simple exchange followed. The family gained a little money. I will gain slabs that had already lived a long life. I have used such stones earlier too at various places. Lately, however, they have been hard to come by since most houses have already moved to steel sheets, I was lucky to have found this house now who want to change their roof now.

These stones will require little maintenance. They can be lifted and rearranged if the orchard changes its mind, as orchards often do. Most importantly, they arrive without demanding anything new from the earth.

There is also something deeply reassuring about their presence. They do not shout for attention. They seem to have always been here. Each slab carries more than weight. It carries memory. For over a century they sheltered a family, heard voices rise and fall, felt the warmth of hearths and the silence of nights. Now they will feel footsteps instead. They will know the careful tread of elders, the hurried stride of my own days, the light unpredictable rhythm of children discovering the world. At times a jackal may cross them softly. A marten might pause. Birds will hop across, startled only when laughter or heavy boots interrupt their confidence.

These pathways will not merely connect places. They will connect time. They remind me that supervision in an orchard is not about imposing order, but about listening, reusing, and trusting what has already endured. And it’s not just applicable to stones, but to the whole concept of regenerative farming that I practice here.

I now look forward to creating some new pathways over the coming weeks, walking on them slowly, often with no destination at all.

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Two practices in orchards often create unnecessary confusion. One is painting pruning wounds with protective pastes. The other is painting tree trunks white. Though both involve paint, they serve entirely different purposes and should not be treated as similar interventions.

Let me begin with pruning cuts.

Trees do not heal the way animals or humans do. They do not regenerate damaged tissue. Instead they isolate it. A tree responds to a cut by drying the exposed wood and then sealing it off internally through a process of compartmentalisation. This is the tree’s own defence system and it works best when the cut is allowed to dry quickly.

This is precisely why pruning is best avoided during wet weather or when a spell of rain is expected. Moist conditions slow down drying and invite fungal spores to settle on fresh cuts. When we apply paint or pruning paste over a cut we trap moisture rather than allowing it to escape. In doing so we interfere with the tree’s natural process of sealing the wound. What is often marketed as protection can in fact delay healing.

For this reason I am firmly against painting or pasting pruning wounds. A pruning cut should be clean and correctly placed. It should be angled in a way that water does not sit on the surface and directed away from any healthy buds just below the cut. Beyond that the tree needs no help from us. Restraint here is the wiser intervention.

Painting young tree trunks white is a different matter altogether.

I support this practice when it is done thoughtfully and for the right reason. Many explanations are offered for trunk painting but for me there is one compelling and well observed reason. Winter sun.

In winter the sun travels much further south. Most deciduous fruit trees have shed their leaves. This allows the sun to fall almost directly on the exposed trunks of young trees. During the day these trunks can heat up significantly. This warmth is then followed by sharply colder nights. Such rapid temperature fluctuations are stressful for trees and can lead to sunscald and bark damage, especially in young ones. Dark coloured trunks are particularly vulnerable because they absorb more sunlight.

Applying a white coating reflects sunlight and moderates these temperature extremes. This simple act can prevent long term damage during the most vulnerable years of a tree’s life.

That said not all paints are suitable. The paint should ideally be a latex based formulation, preferably meant for horticultural use. Ordinary wall paints may reflect sunlight but they often contain additives that can harm living bark and restrict gas exchange. If there is no other option, I opt for the cheapest available latex paint for walls. The lower price in a way ensures that none of those expensive but harmful chemicals are mixed. Instead of latex paint some people recommend lime sulphur washes or kaolin clay based coatings. I usually avoid lime sulphur due to its effects on soil pH and on mycorrhizal networks but at times I do use these too, though I have never used kaolin clay since it is not easily available here.

I limit the application of white paint very deliberately. I paint only the main trunk of a ‘young’ tree. The coating extends from ground level up to the first heading cut which for me is usually somewhere between knee and waist height. I do not paint branches or older wood. Sometimes, I leave the northern aspect of the trunk unpainted.

Mature trees do not require this paint treatment. Their bark is thicker and naturally adapted to temperature variations. Painting old trunks is unnecessary and in many cases counterproductive. I am especially opposed to the use of chemical paints on mature trees.

There is a common belief that trunk painting is meant to deter insects or pests. That is not my intention and not my reason. In a living orchard managed with diversity and ground cover pests are addressed through ecological balance not paint.

Sometimes I also use latex paint or grafting wax to seal a fresh graft union. The intention here is not to heal a wound but to create a temporary barrier. This helps prevent the exposed tissues from drying out before the vascular connection is established and also reduces the risk of external infection during this vulnerable phase.

One interesting observation was shared by a guest who felt that painted trunks help identify young fruit trees in an orchard with dense ground cover. While that may be true in some cases it is not the reason I follow this practice. In fact many of my young trees that grow on the south side of evergreen oaks remain unpainted. They are naturally shaded from harsh winter sun and do not need additional protection.

As with most things in regenerative farming and permaculture the question is not whether a practice is good or bad. The real question is whether it is necessary. Before reaching for any paint brush in the orchard I ask myself three questions. Is the tree young and physiologically vulnerable or is it mature and well protected by its own bark? Is the problem caused by an external stress like winter sun or graft desiccation rather than by poor pruning or poor site selection? Will this intervention be temporary and allow the tree to return to self regulation? If the answer to these is yes then a light thoughtful application may be justified. If not then paint often becomes a substitute for observation patience and better design.

Observation comes first. Intervention follows only when the land and the trees truly ask for it. In a regenerative orchard like mine, the goal is not to fix trees repeatedly but to create conditions where trees need less fixing over time. Healthy soil correct spacing diverse canopies and respect for natural processes reduce the need for pastes, paints, and cures.

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A friend dropped in today to talk about how I prune my trees, especially the young ones. On a winter morning, with a warm sun overhead and a cup of hot coffee in hand, it was exactly the kind of conversation I enjoy. I could have gone on for hours.

In a forest, young trees spend years struggling under the shade of taller, older giants. Then one day, an opening appears in the canopy and light finally reaches them. Growth begins in earnest. Lower branches are rubbed off or broken by animals, weak or diseased shoots also disappear with time, and a few strong branches emerge as the main structural supports. A dominant leader often stretches upwards towards the sky, while the side branches spread to capture light and eventually bear fruit. Some other kinds of trees develop several leading shoots and open up in the centre to let light into their inner canopy. Observing such natural patterns is how people eventually developed sensible pruning principles for young fruit trees. Nature has always been the best teacher.

For most fruit trees, the first couple of years are about structure rather than fruit. I want them to resemble a naturally strong tree in a wild forest when they grow up. For apples, I prefer a central leader or a modified central leader, with well-spaced branches radiating all around. A sturdy central trunk with wide and strong limbs placed at different heights makes for a mature tree that allows sunlight to reach all around, and also stands firm against the high speed winds we get here.

For plums and peaches, I prefer the open vase form. Left to themselves, they almost naturally lean in that direction. When planting young trees, I usually make the first heading cut on the main whip at a height somewhere between my knee and waist. That simple measure works well enough for me. From there, I try to develop three to four strong scaffold branches spreading like an inverted pyramid. Initially, I keep four or five promising shoots, and once the tree has grown another year and the strong ones reveal themselves, I retain only the best three or four. Ideally, these branches should be well spaced, opening the centre so light can reach in. I am never in a hurry to harvest fruit in the formative years. Structure first, fruit later.

During these early years, I generally avoid removing more than about 35 percent of the plant material.

As the trees mature, the approach changes slightly. Apples and plums benefit from pruning that encourages spur development, while keeping total removal below about 25 percent of the canopy. Peaches and Nectarines, however, behave differently. They fruit on shoots that grew in the previous season. Once a branch has borne fruit, it will not fruit again. So with these, I remove most of the older spent wood and keep the tree within a manageable height. Peaches and Nectarines tolerate heavy pruning well, sometimes even up to 70-75 percent of the canopy without complaint.

Coming to cherries, apricots, and almonds, those early shaping years are the only crucial time. So, for them I just ensure that the lowest branches are at around a meter height from the ground and that no secondary leaders compete with the main trunk. After that nothing much is required. Once they develop a sound framework, they rarely need much pruning beyond removing the dead, diseased, or deformed branches. And sometimes a little lopping to keep the size manageable.

While enjoying the sunny weather and the biting winter wind, we also spoke about the pruning cuts themselves. A good cut is clean and thoughtful. Heading cuts, which encourage fresh growth from buds below, should be slightly slanted and placed just above a bud, with the slope facing away from it. Sharp bypass secateurs make all the difference.

Three important reminders always stay with me. Pruning should ideally be done in late winter or when the buds are just beginning to swell. It should not be done before or during a wet spell. And tools must always be disinfected before and after working on each tree, even if it is just a single cut on a young plant.

Our discussion remained mostly focused on young trees. By the time the coffee cups were empty and the winter sun had climbed a little higher, it was time for him to leave. We will meet again soon, I am sure, and pick up the conversation where we left off. I always feel happy when people around me show interest in horticulture and want to plant and care for more trees.

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With the arrival of winters comes the yearly ritual of pruning. Though, my thoughts have never been entirely in favour of pruning (based on how trees grow in the wild), yet it remains something that must be done in my orchard for many practical reasons which I will not go into here. Today, I began with the plums.

Most of the plums have recently gone into dormancy. Some of the trees are still not completely dormant. Conventional wisdom says to wait until winter is nearly over and then prune towards late winter or early spring. My reality is slightly different. I have too many trees and do not wish to spend all of my pre-spring (late winter) doing nothing but pruning. Fortunately, our winters are relatively mild, so the risk of severe frost damage to fresh wounds is low. And there is a general consensus that plums can tolerate slightly earlier pruning in winter compared to some other fruit trees.

So today marked the first round of pruning. Broadly speaking, I think of pruning in two ways. One kind encourages vigorous regrowth, almost provoking the tree, and I call that “agitatory pruning”. The other kind settles the tree rather than excites it, and I call that “calming pruning”. Heavy heading cuts, especially when done excessively, tend to shock the tree and push it into a rebound phase where it tries to produce masses of new shoots and leaves. On the other hand, cuts made close to the main branch, just outside the collar, do not cause that same aggressive response. These are called thinning cuts. Done thoughtfully and in moderation, the tree seems to almost ignore these cuts. That, for me, is calming pruning.

Pruning, of course creates wounds, and those wounds must heal well to prevent infection. That is why pruning should not be done during the hardest part of winter when the tree is in deep dormancy, nor during a wet spell. As it happens, winter has been slightly delayed here, so the trees are almost dormant but still not fully asleep. Climate crisis? This however makes it a suitable time for light calming pruning. The wounds will seal, and because these cuts do not stimulate vigorous growth, there is no risk of the tree trying to push out tender new shoots during peak of winter.

So today I removed a few inward-growing branches from some of the plum trees, helping to open up their centres. In my view, the best shape for a mature fruiting plum tree is an open vase form, allowing light and air to reach inside. I also prefer to spread the pruning of each tree over a few weeks. It gives earlier cuts time to heal before I introduce new ones. Perhaps it is only my personal philosophy, or perhaps my laziness dressed up as wisdom, but it has worked well for me over the years. Between trees, I always clean my tools with alcohol swabs. This should be standard practice for anyone pruning trees, as it greatly reduces the chance of spreading disease.

My upper limit with pruning is never to remove more than about 25 percent of the canopy. Staying within that limit helps keep the plum trees calm and reduces stress. This upper limit includes all kind of cuts – thinning, heading, shaping, etc. Within that 25 percent, the first candidates to go are always the three Ds: dead, diseased, and damaged branches. After that, I remove tall, thin shoots that are growing into the centre of the tree. Then I deal with branches that meet at very sharp angles. Horticulturists call that the “crotch angle”, a term I always find amusing, so I avoid using it. Where two or three branches compete in the same space, I usually keep the healthiest and strongest one and remove the rest.

For branches that are high up, I prefer using a good bypass lopper, and I occasionally bring out a folding ladder to reach the top growth. Some people say that if you need a ladder, the tree is already too tall. I do not mind that at all. I actually like my trees to look like trees. One important thing, though, is to always use a ladder rather than climbing a plum tree. Climbing can reduce fruiting because of the damage it causes to the spurs. A ladder keeps both me and the tree safer.

I never apply any sealing paste or chemicals to pruning cuts. Unlike humans, trees do not heal by repairing tissue the way our wounds do. Instead, they protect themselves by compartmentalising. The tree shuts off movement of fluids to that area and builds internal barriers, effectively sealing the wound from within. Leaving the cut surfaces open allows them to dry naturally, which is what trees prefer.

Today, I pruned for about an hour. That feels like the right amount of work for a day, especially since I like to spread my efforts over several sessions. This way I still have time to read a book in the afternoon and take a quiet walk around the orchard.

Once the frost period is safely behind us, I will move on to the heading cuts, shaping the trees more firmly and preparing them for healthy growth and good fruiting. For now, today’s gentle work is done. Tomorrow, there will be more plum trees waiting for their turn.

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Blueberries are among those plants that do not easily blend into a mixed orchard like ours. Their soil needs are quite different from most fruit trees. While apples plums pears and many others thrive in slightly acidic soil blueberries prefer a far more acidic environment. In some cases they perform best at a pH as low as 4.5 to 5. This difference alone makes them challenging companions in a diverse food forest.

Growing blueberries in containers is often suggested as a solution. In theory it works. In practice it demands large volumes of suitable growing medium. In my orchard fertile soil is limited. Much of the land is heavy clay and in places little more than rock. Filling large planters with purchased soil did not feel sensible or sustainable. Also, growing in containers requires a strict watering schedule which is hard to ensure in a place like ours.

Instead I chose to work with the land itself. I dug large planting pits in a sunny part of the orchard where the surrounding fruit trees are still young. Most of these trees are apples and plums planted about two years ago. To contain the contrasting soil of blueberries, I lined the sides of these pits with old untreated wooden boards. The result is a kind of buried ‘partial’ planter. The base is left open to allow natural drainage while the sides slow down soil mixing during the early years, while the boards hold up. Later these boards themselves will become part of the soil.

The blueberry plants that I bought, were in small pots. I reused the excavated soil from the planting hole and amended it lightly with pine needles and a small quantity of gypsum. To this I mixed the soil from the pots in which these plants had arrived. No fertilisers of any kind were added. Blueberries are sensitive plants and excessive feeding (especially chemical based) often does more harm than good, especially immediately after planting. Each cuboidal pit was roughly one foot deep and about two feet in length and breadth. The wooden planks were thin old boards with no chemical treatment so that they can slowly decompose without contaminating the soil.

Blueberries will remain much shorter than the surrounding fruit trees. I have often read that they make good neighbours but poor roommates. They can grow near other trees but struggle when forced to share the same soil conditions. These hidden in ground planters offer a degree of separation at least in the initial years. As the orchard matures the deeper roots of the apples and plums will draw minerals from wider and lower soil zones while the blueberries continue to feed closer to the surface within their acidic pocket.

Blueberries lack the commonly found root hairs as in various other plants, and so are quite finicky about the nutrients being available in close vicinity. I plan to focus on good mulch upto their drip lines, with occasional addition of sulphur and magnesium. (Though care will be required since sulphur can kill my precious fungal networks in the soil). Old folks who have been growing Blueberries for decades now also recommend tossing in a few rusted nails. The idea is to make iron available in case the soil is not acidic enough or iron is lacking.

To complete the system I plan to spread strawberries around the blueberry beds. Tomorrow, I have been invited to a lunch at one of my neighbours (Yes, I do visit people at times), so, day after tomorrow, I plan to transplant some strawberries from another patch to this area, and mulch a bit more with pine needles. Strawberries also enjoy slightly acidic soil and make an excellent living ground cover. They protect the soil reduce evaporation and add another productive layer to the food forest. Over time this small guild should settle into a balanced relationship each plant occupying its own niche without forcing compromise on the others.

Growing blueberries in an orchard like this is not the easiest path. But thoughtful design patience and a willingness to adapt make it possible to honour the needs of each plant while still moving towards a resilient and diverse landscape. I will write more about blueberries once I see how they turn out. Keeping my fingers crossed till then.

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As I hinted earlier, soil is a subject I can go on about for a long time. Here are some more thoughts on this. One of the major lessons I have learnt over the past decade is how the soil in natural forests remains self sustaining. Trees there grow tall and majestic. They feed countless forms of life and still they do not depend on any additional inputs. No one tills the land. No one turns the soil. No one carries fertilisers to them. No one performs labour intensive activities. Yet the system thrives.

The reason is simple. All the parts of a forest are complete and interdependent. Everything that is needed is already present within the system. The only major input comes from sunlight and to a smaller extent from rainfall. Everything else is part of a continuous cycle that feeds itself.

As I began moving my own orchard towards this balance, I read widely and experimented slowly. Over time a few realisations settled deep within me.

The first and most important realisation is that forest systems work because nothing is taken away from them. Plants produce food. Animals feed on this. They live their lives on the same land and return every bit of what they received back to the soil. Even their bodies at the end of life decompose in the same place. It is a closed loop. The place looks wild but it is an organised and a complete ‘closed-loop’ system.

In orchards this loop is broken. We take away fruits. We prune branches. We trim the orchard floor often. We even scare the birds away. All these actions remove nutrients that were meant to return to the soil. So one of the first changes I made was to stop this constant removal. Now I leave all clippings and cleared weeds on the orchard floor. Fallen leaves remain where they fall. Everything that grew on this land goes back to it. I still collect fruits but in return I add compost and manure. Even this need has reduced with time as the soil regains its natural rhythm.

A gentle word of caution is also needed. Excess of anything is bad and this applies to soil too. Adding too much organic matter is not always beneficial. Thick layers of mulch, especially when piled close to tree trunks, can trap heat and sometimes create harmful gases. During cold winters they may also shelter rodents that gnaw at the bark. I learnt this the hard way when one of my plum trees suffered damage. Overloading the soil with compost is equally unwise in an orchard that is slowly moving towards a self sustaining balance. Too much compost can disturb the microbial life rather than support it. Soil works best when its proportions remain in balance. Broadly speaking, a healthy soil contains about forty five percent mineral matter, twenty percent water, thirty percent air spaces, and only around five percent organic matter.

The second realisation is that soil should never remain exposed. In forests the soil is always hidden under leaves or under a natural layer of plants. Bare soil is a sign of disturbance usually caused by repeated trampling or rocky patches. So in my orchard I too keep the soil covered. Cover crops protect it. Mulch and compost protect it. Even when I plant new saplings I make sure that their base is covered, though taking care not to pile it too high. This biomass also breaks down steadily and returns nutrients back into the soil.

Another learning came from observing how plants breathe. They breathe not only through leaves but also through roots. Roots need air pockets. Good soil has around twenty to thirty percent of these air pockets. Two major enemies of these are compaction and flooding. Heavy machinery can compact the soil to such a depth that even the deepest roots struggle to push through. Clay soils also compact easily. Frequent tilling and turning the soil worsens this. So I stopped doing that altogether. I walk only on well defined paths and avoid stepping into growing areas.

Closely linked to this is the idea of not turning the soil. Each soil layer has its own purpose. Each layer is rich with its own form of life. Near the surface there are fungi, insects and worms that work on decomposition. Deeper layers host different worms and microorganisms that redistribute nutrients and allow water and air to move freely. Still deeper lie anaerobic organisms that thrive without oxygen. Turning the soil disrupts all of this. It mixes the layers and disturbs each group. It accelerates compaction. It reduces life in the soil over time. Many commercial farmers get caught in a cycle. They plough to break compacted soil but this ploughing again leads to compaction which pushes them to plough again. It becomes endless. Turning the soil also releases nutrients especially nitrogen into the air and exposes the land to erosion.

A self sustaining soil depends on life and not on force. My orchard is slowly moving in that direction. The soil has started breathing again. Earthworms have returned. Fungi are weaving through the mulch. Some days I feel the land is teaching me more than any book ever did.

And in these small and steady steps I am learning to trust the natural balance. My orchard is not a forest, yet when I follow the same principles of return and renewal the soil begins to find its own strength again. This quiet return of auto fertility shows itself in many subtle ways. The plants look healthier and become more resilient to environmental challenges. The fruits gain better flavour and size. Earthworms become more common. The mix of flora and fauna grows richer. New birds visit. More varieties of insects hover everywhere. Mushrooms appear on the orchard floor after a moist spell. These signs remind me that the journey is still unfolding, yet the rewards are already present and very real.

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In nature water is a giver of life but in pots it could just as quickly turn into a quiet agent of decay. Over the years I watched many people care for their potted plants with the warmest intentions yet unknowingly harm them. I had made the same mistakes myself in the early days. Over-watering was one of the easiest traps to fall into and also one of the deadliest. Now, when I see wilted plants in the pots of an over enthusiastic gardener I almost always assume the reason is too much water and not drought.

In open soil, the earth behaves like a giant sponge. Rain sinks down through many layers and moves slowly into the lower ground. This is why I prefer to leave as much bare earth (though covered with vegetation) as I can on my land. When it receives direct rain, and has good organic matter, trees and shrubs thrive. Even in days of heavy rain the ground keeps breathing. The roots stay in touch with air and remain healthy. Pots however do not offer this freedom. A pot is a closed little world where the natural flow of water has nowhere to go once the soil is full.

Overwatering affects not only root respiration but also the entire nutrient uptake pathway in potted plants. When the soil remains saturated the pore spaces that normally hold air become filled with water, creating anaerobic conditions. Under these low oxygen levels the fine root hairs, which are the primary sites for nutrient absorption, undergo rapid decay. This reduces the plant’s ability to take up essential ions such as nitrate, potassium, calcium, and magnesium. Prolonged saturation also leads to leaching of mobile nutrients, especially nitrogen in the form of nitrate, which moves easily through waterlogged media. In addition, anaerobic conditions promote the growth of harmful microbes that convert available nutrients into unusable or even toxic forms. As a result plants show chlorosis (yellowing), stunted growth, weak stems, and increased susceptibility to root diseases. Chronic overwatering disrupts both the physical and biochemical processes that allow a plant to feed itself. So, even if the plant is alive, it may not be as healthy as it should be due to overwatering.

When water collects at the bottom of a pot the roots sit in a dark airless pocket. In the past I often misunderstood these signs. I clearly and painfully remember a particular marjoram plant that looked tired so I watered it again thinking I was helping. Within days the small leaves turned yellow and soft. They fell at the slightest touch. Only when I pulled the plant out did I realise the roots were brown and mushy. By then the damage was done.

Things became even worse whenever the drainage holes clogged. I once had a large ceramic pot with a young hybrid raspberry plant. It grew beautifully for months then suddenly stopped. I watered it more and the poor thing collapsed within a week. When I checked the base I found that the hole had been blocked by crumbled stones packed with a mass of clay. In another case my lemon plant died because a single leaf had lodged itself over the hole and sealed it like a stopper. A fatal mistake that someone overlooked while planting the tree in that pot. Each watering had filled the pot like a bucket.

Some of my neglected pots created problems of their own. Over time the soil settled and compacted. In some older pots the soil became so tight that water simply sat on top or drained down the sides without touching the roots. Our soil here is heavy and clay rich even when mixed with compost. It used to turn into a sticky mass when wet and a hard cake when dry. Many plants could not push their roots through such resistance and slowly gave up. In those days I lost rosemary, thyme, basil, and lots of daisies through this mistake. Daisies in particular suffered as they dislike wet feet and die quickly in soggy soil.

To avoid repeating these errors I have now learnt to see when a pot is being overwatered and with timely intervention could save precious plants. I am now planning to buy a small battery operated moisture meter to check the pots more accurately. It should prove helpful because our eyes are not always reliable in judging moisture inside a deep pot and sometimes when me or my gardener are in a hurry, we tend to overlook the obvious tell-tale signs.

The long-term cure is however quite simple. I now use a light airy mix everywhere. I keep the holes at the bottom open. Sometimes I place multiple pebbles over the holes to prevent clogging. When my back permits, I lift the medium sized and small pots often to feel their weight. A waterlogged pot feels heavy and dull. Good soil feels crumbly and lightly moist. I water only when at least half the pot has dried out and the surface looks dry and loose. I also adjust watering with the seasons. In winter the plants need very little water.

Another interesting thing I learnt is that even in open ground a planting hole can behave like a pot. If the soil one digs out is heavy and rich in clay, the hole can hold water like a container with a closed bottom. When I am unsure I simply fill the hole with water and watch how fast it drains. This tells me what kind of tree will suit that spot. Pears for example can handle slightly heavier and more waterlogged soil. Peaches cannot tolerate it at all. When I backfill the hole I also make a small mound so that water does not collect around the base of the young tree. A little soil improvement helps as well and often makes the difference between a struggling plant and a healthy one.

Usually, in the wild plants have room to breathe and space for their roots to wander. In pots they rely entirely on us. A little patience and a little restraint with the watering can have saved many of my plants in recent years. Looking back I realise that most potted plants die not of thirst but of too much love in the form of water. A lesson that I am trying to pass on to my team and everyone who visits me.

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If I ever had to limit myself to only one activity here in the orchard, it would be building the soil. Everything else that we usually consider essential becomes secondary when soil is alive and balanced. Clearing the orchard floor or pruning or managing pests or correcting deficiencies all matter, yet none of them equals the impact of healthy soil. Even watering becomes far less critical. Soil that is rich in organic matter and well structured can absorb and hold water so efficiently that trees can thrive just on rain, snow, and dew.

Soil is not simply the ground beneath us. It is a living system. It is the base through which minerals flow, the habitat where microbes feed and multiply, the medium that holds water and air in a delicate balance, and the physical structure that anchors every plant. What I have now realized is that the health of an orchard is nothing more than the visible expression of the health of its soil.

My own journey began some years ago with trying to understand what I had. Initially, I collected soil samples from many parts of the orchard and sent them for an extensive analysis. The results were sobering. Most macro nutrients were grossly deficient. The pH had become too low after years of leaching on the mountain slope. The balance of minerals was disturbed in a way that affected both availability and uptake. Organic matter levels were quite low, which meant poor water holding and weak microbial life. Most parts of the orchard had heavy clay where water drained slowly and roots struggled to breathe. However, other sections had rocky and sandy patches with very little silt and clay, and water passed through too quickly. It was clear that this soil was not one uniform entity but a mosaic of conditions, each needing its own care. Though one thing was obvious it needed care everywhere.

Before doing anything else, and in disagreement to the prevalent consensus, I stopped all chemical use. No pesticides, no insecticides, no fungicides, no weedicides, in fact no ‘cides’ of any kind. No even any chemical fertilisers. This single decision changed the entire trajectory of the orchard. The land needed time to heal. I allowed old forest trees and fruit trees to grow naturally. This simple act of stepping back and letting the place become wilder worked like a reset switch for the ecosystem. Over the next seasons the trees grew taller and fuller. Their leaf fall layered the orchard floor with natural mulch. This set in motion the quiet work of decomposition. Leaves broke down. Fungi sent out their hyphae. Bacteria and protists returned. Soil organisms that had been suppressed by tilling and chemical fertilisers slowly regained their place. I could see the change happening. Each year the presence of mushrooms increased. Their fruiting bodies were a sign that the fungal networks underground were becoming strong again. As the soil revived, even the older fruit trees showed renewed vigour and the quality of the fruit improved.

Once the natural processes were underway, I began adding material to build structure and restore balance. I collected dry leaves from the orchard and nearby woodland. I used wood shavings, compost and occasionally old manure too. I broadcast white Dutch clover seeds to act as a cover crop, fix nitrogen and protect the soil surface. Wildflower seeds from the region added diversity and supported beneficial insects. I also used natural amendments like neem cake, sea kelp, fish meal, blood meal and bone meal at places where the initial soil testing report had given extremely concerning results. These natural sources are rich in trace minerals and organic compounds that nurture microbial activity.

With time and reading I realised that the true correction is not only about supplying nutrients but about restoring the ratios among them. Plants do not need huge amounts of every element. They need balance. In fact they do better in deficient soils but where the elements are in proper ratio, compared to soils rich in elements but with grossly altered ratios of these elements with respect to each other. Soil must also have the capacity to hold nutrients and release them through cation and anion exchange. (Let’s discuss CEC levels when we meet if it interests you). This depends on organic matter, clay content and the biological activity in the soil. A nutrient imbalance can cause deficiencies even when the nutrients are present. Correcting the internal chemistry of the soil was as important as adding any external input.

One of the most important insights that I have gained is the role of microbes in nutrient uptake. A major portion of what plants absorb does not enter directly through roots. Instead it is mediated by an extraordinary community of microbes. They convert minerals into plant available forms. They transport nutrients along fungal networks. They protect roots by competing with harmful organisms. They even help plants communicate stress and send defensive signals. By removing chemicals and reducing soil disturbance, I allowed this underground community to rebuild itself. The microbes did what they have evolved to do for millions of years, and the trees responded with greater health.

The work of building soil never truly ends. Every passing season I continue adding organic matter, encouraging ground cover, reducing compaction and letting natural processes unfold. I watch the soil becoming darker and crumbly. I watch it hold water through dry spells. I watch fungal threads weave through the leaf litter. I see more insects, more earthworms and more signs of life with each year.

Soil building is one topic I can spend hours discussing. If anyone is interested, join me in a discussion over a cup of coffee, while listening to the songs of the blue-whistling thrush and smelling the scent of the moist soil below our feet. I’ll be more than happy.

The orchard today stands on a foundation that is still quietly growing and improving. There is something humbling and beautiful in knowing that the most important work happens below the surface, hidden from the eye. It is said that a handful of healthy soil holds more organisms than there are people on our planet. These tiny creatures create resilience, flavour, vitality and longevity in every tree. Soil building is patient work. It invites us to observe, to understand, to cooperate with nature rather than control it. It is a practice that rewards not only this generation of trees but the ones yet to come.

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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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There is a repeated disappointment for people like us that only those who work with the soil can truly understand. It begins with the vision of planting a new tree, of filling an empty corner of the orchard with something that will one day bear fruit and shade. But that excitement fades quickly when I start looking for good-quality cultivars.

Most nurseries are simply shops that sell whatever they can. Labels are vague, sometimes misleading, and often no one can tell me the exact rootstock used. For a naturalist who believes in diversity, resilience, and the quiet art of matching the right tree to the right soil, this lack of precision feels disheartening.

Recently, I was informed by a friend who heard from another of his friends, that a nursery about two hours away by car had some good variety of blackberry plants. I had been searching for healthy brambles for a long time and thought they would make a fine addition to my orchard. Acting as a lower layer in my food forest, they would provide delicious berries for breakfast and for preserves. I called up the owner of the nursery, who confirmed that they had some large-fruited, air-layered blackberry saplings in good health. My confidence rose at the prospect of growing juicy berries in the years to come. While imagining them, I could picture a bowl of fresh blackberries for breakfast, or canned into a preserve to be enjoyed under winter sun with toast and butter.

After a couple of wrong turns, and with help from some kind children, I reached the small village where the nursery was located. In the hills, popular map apps don’t always work well, but the journey itself felt promising. Excited and happy to see the size of the saplings in the nursery, I asked for the blackberries. To my astonishment, the owner pointed out a group of saplings that did not resemble blackberries in any way. They were Jamun, the Java plum (Syzygium cumini). When I questioned him, he insisted that these were indeed “black berries”, spelled with a space in between, fruits that were black in colour. I had to explain, somewhat wearily, that just because a fruit is black doesn’t make it a black berry and this one was not even a berry in a true sense.

Disheartened, I still ended up buying a few other fruit trees as consolation, feeling that the long trip, time, and fuel needed some justification. On the drive back, I couldn’t help thinking about how common this confusion has become.

There seems to be a vast misunderstanding when it comes to fruits in India. Mandarins and Tangerines are called oranges, oranges themselves are called malta, and clementines – few seem to know them at all. Raspberries are confused with cape gooseberries, which are called rasbhari in Hindi, meaning “filled with juice”. Blackcurrants are passed off as everything from falsa (Grewia asiatica) to black mulberries, and even the black mulberries themselves are frequently sold as blackberries. Lime is sold as lemon, and lemons are advertised as “big lemons”. Gooseberries are mostly unheard of, and some knowledgeable chaps mention amla, the Indian Gooseberry instead.

The nursery owners usually have no idea about the rootstocks or scions used. Ask them which cultivar of apple it is, and you’ll get a blank stare, followed by a confident answer by some nursery manager or owner naming a popular apple variety that looks nothing like the plant in front of you.

Online nurseries are an even bigger pain. Most of them cater to city dwellers who are content growing anything green on their balconies. The nurseries earn well from them. It doesn’t matter which variety is sent, as long as the plant looks good. Out of my desperation for good verities, I sometimes end up ordering online too, only to be reminded not to do it again. Recently, I ordered a pomelo and some kumquats. Instead of pomelo, a plumeria arrived, and instead of sweet kumquats, I received narangi plants, the sour chinese ornamental mandarins often sold as decorative plants.

Another incident comes to mind. I had been searching for sour cherry trees for my orchard and finally found a nursery that claimed to have them. After several days of messages and photo exchanges, I travelled there only to find that the owner, a businessman from NCR who ran the nursery as a side business, was not present. His gardener, more of a watchman, showed me the trees. Thankfully, they looked healthy and well-grafted. I asked if they were the sour variety. He replied that they were sour when raw and sweet when ripe, which, in a literal sense, was true, though it missed the point entirely. I wanted the true sour cherries for preserves, the Prunus cerasus, not sweet cherries picked early for eating raw. A horticulturist or a nature fellow would know the difference.

No one seems to know about pollination requirements either. It is always better to do one’s own research or take along someone who truly understands the plants. Not every fruit tree is self-fertile and many need cross-pollination, And to top it not all varieties are compatible. A Japanese plum cannot pollinate a European one. An oriental citrus fruit cannot pollinate a European citrus. These small details make all the difference between success and failure in an orchard. Blossoming times of various fruits also matter when it comes to cross-pollination.

When I walk through my own orchard, I realise how much patience this search demands. Each tree here has its own story. Some were grafted by local hands and have adapted beautifully to the mountain climate. Others were bought with hope but failed to thrive. The older varieties – pears with a pink blush, apples scented faintly of wildflowers (like hara pichola and rhymer), apricots with a taste of honey, green small plums that tasted like mini sugar filled truffles are vanishing fast. Perhaps the true cultivars worth preserving are not the ones displayed in glossy nursery catalogues but the ones that have survived neglect, storms, and time. Those that continue to bear fruit quietly in old courtyards and forgotten terraces. An orchard with a mix of modern cultivars and old heirloom varieties is a dream that I have been chasing.

Lack of good-quality saplings continues to be one of the biggest challenges I face year after year. It has been almost a decade since I have been searching for good brambles like gooseberries, currants, and some delicious cold hardy fruits.

Despite the challenges, every time I manage to graft a cutting from an old, hardy tree, it feels like reclaiming a bit of what’s being lost. A small act of hope, rooted in the belief that the orchard, like nature itself, rewards patience and care far more than convenience.

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There is a quiet memory hidden beneath the soil. It is not the kind I can see or touch, but one that trees, roots and microbes share. It is a memory that shapes the fate of new life planted where old life once stood.

Sometimes, when an old fruit tree dies, I have to replace it with a new one. There is always a small ache in doing so, as if I am saying goodbye to an old friend, however it has to be done. One village elder once told me never to plant the same type of tree in the same spot. “If an apple tree dies,” he said, “it is better to plant a peach, a plum, or an apricot, but not another apple.” He did not know why, but his advice carried the quiet wisdom of generations who had watched and learned from the land.

When I began to look into it and spoke with others, I started to understand. The tree that once stood there had grown strong and deep-rooted. Its mature roots were thick and widespread, capable of resisting the pathogens that live in the soil. But a young sapling, with tender and fragile roots, faces the same earth without the same strength. It cannot fight those invisible enemies in quite the same way.

There is another reason too. Each species of tree feeds differently. One might draw more of certain minerals or nutrients than another. The difference may be small, but after years of growth it becomes important. So planting a different kind of fruit tree gives the soil a chance to rest and renew itself. It allows balance to return.

I have seen this in my own orchard. The soil remembers. Over time, the roots of a tree create their own world beneath the surface. Bacteria, fungi and countless tiny creatures adapt to that tree’s way of life. Some become partners, helping it grow, while others turn into quiet adversaries, feeding on its remains. When I plant the same kind of tree again in the same spot, it finds a world already shaped against it. The soil feels reluctant, almost weary. In the early days of my orchard, I replaced a few old apple trees with new ones. Very few of them survived, and those that did still struggle after many years, their growth hesitant and slow.

But when I plant something different, the story changes completely. A cherry where an apple once stood, or a chestnut where a plum once grew, seems to find the ground more welcoming. The places where I replaced apples with plums are now a joy to see in summer—strong, leafy trees laden with dark, juicy fruit. The soil organisms do not yet know what to make of the newcomer. Gradually, new relationships form. The soil learns to recognise and accept its new resident, and the young roots spread with quiet confidence. It feels like watching renewal take shape in silence, a reminder that variety and change breathe life back into tired ground.

I have also noticed that trees seem to follow their own kind, almost like families with shared habits and needs. Apples and pears, for instance, behave in similar ways, so replacing an old apple with a pear or even a plum does not help much. They belong to the same group of fruits known as pomes. Likewise, plums, cherries, peaches and apricots all fall under the group of stone fruits, and planting one after another from this family often brings the same problems, though to a lesser extent than planting the exact same type. It helps to think in terms of these natural groupings when deciding what to plant next. Choosing a tree from a different group gives the soil a better chance to recover and start afresh.

I often think about how closely this idea of replant disease and requirement of a change mirrors the lives of people and the way we adapt. Migration, which we see all around us, seems to follow the same pattern. Hill folk who have lived here for generations face the same struggles year after year. The absence of good healthcare, the lack of steady income, the constant raids of monkeys, wild boars and other pests on their crops. Children of hill folk find it difficult to flourish here. Many leave for the cities, hoping for a better life. And at the same time, people from cities, weary of noise, pollution and crowds, come here seeking peace.

It is much like planting a new kind of tree in the place of an old one. The hill people take their endurance and patience to a new landscape and slowly adapt to that city life. The city people come to the hills with a desire for quiet and space, and sometimes they too grow roots here. They learn to live by the seasons and measure time by the play of sunlight and shadow.

But there are others who come with their own sealed worlds, carrying the city with them. They build homes that look out on forests but never touch the soil. They live in comfort, but never truly belong. They remind me of saplings planted in their pots, roots confined to their own soil even when placed in new ground.

For me, replant disease is more than a horticultural challenge. It is a lesson in regeneration. Life thrives when it moves, when it dares to begin again, when it meets the unfamiliar and learns from it. The soil, like people, needs rest and renewal. It must open itself to difference to stay fertile.

When I walk through my orchard and see an old stump beside a young sapling, I often think of this. The older trees lean with memory, their roots tracing the stories of what once was. The new sapling reaches towards the same sky, yet lives a different life. In its own quiet way, it is nature’s way of teaching me about change, about migration, and about how all living things find new life when they let go of the old.

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The mornings are changing again. The light arrives a little later now, filtering softly through the mist that rests like a thin shawl over the orchard. I stepped out early today, before the sun had fully decided to wake, and found the air already carrying a hint of winter, that quiet chill which brushes the skin like a memory of snow. There was also a moist winter smell which is hard to describe.

The plum and peach trees stood still, dignified, and drowsy, their leaves beginning to show flecks of yellow. Apples and apricots have already shed their leaves, and are already fast asleep. A gentle breeze wandered down from the hills, stirring the branches and carrying with it the faint fragrance of damp earth. Somewhere behind the apple trees, I heard the soft tuk-tuk of a woodpecker, followed by the lazy Tea-for-Two call of a yellow vented bulbul. They seemed in no hurry, as if the morning were meant entirely for unhurried music.

Closer to the ground, the world was awake in its own quiet way. A spider had built a fine web between two low branches of a plum tree, a perfect piece of art strung with dew drops that glistened like tiny beads. A ladybird inched across a dutch clover leaf, bright and deliberate, while a pair of dragonflies darted in and out of a shaft of sunlight that had found its way through the mist. I bent to watch a black ant struggling with a crumb twice its size, determined, unstoppable, and perhaps wiser than most of us. My kid pointed out a bumblebee visiting a fuchsia flower.

After a while, I fetched my pruning shears and trimmed a few branches that had been covered with dodder, that curious golden vine that wraps itself around anything green and thriving. I had cleared some young trees just a few days back but missed this one. It looked almost beautiful in the morning light, though it is a silent thief of life. Once that was done, I planted a few cuttings of crabapple branches in pots, hoping to propagate them. Crabapples are wonderful companions in an orchard, good pollinators and sturdy stock for grafting other cultivars. There is something quietly satisfying about giving life a new chance, even in the smallest of ways. Simple things like propagating plants or grafting makes me very happy.

Later in the morning, while sitting and working in the orchard, I received a call from a friend who wanted to know which organic fertiliser he should buy: compost, vermicompost, or manure. I smiled, for such questions always remind me how simple and fascinating soil life really is. Compost is decomposed organic matter, usually a mix of garden waste, dry leaves, and kitchen scraps. Vermicompost is compost broken down with the help of earthworms, a process that I personally think deserves to be called Wormicompost, though I was not the one to have spelt it first. Manure, on the other hand, is decomposed cow dung or similar animal waste.

For me, the difference lies not only in the process but also in what each brings to the soil. Compost, when properly made, reaches high temperatures that kill most unwanted seeds. Vermicompost helps increase the earthworm population and is rich in plant nutrients, though it stays cooler during decomposition. Manure remains the coolest of the three and carries a wealth of fungal spores, including those that help establish mycelial networks around plant roots. I use all three, depending on where they are needed. Over time, however, I hope to make the orchard self-sustaining, so that such additions become unnecessary and the land nurtures itself through its own cycles of life and decay.

As I explained these differences to my friend, I noticed a plump partridge walking up and down between some old apple trees, inspecting the ground with great seriousness. Birds, too, add their own offerings (poop) to the soil as they wander about. Having wildlife in the orchard always feels like a blessing, a sign that the land is alive and balanced. I hope to see more animals here someday, perhaps even more hares and many more birds. Maybe, in future, I will have my own domesticated animals like sheep and hens too.

Up in the trees, a flock of white-throated thrushes burst into view, their loud, cheerful chatter echoing through the valley. They moved in one great wave of sound and wings before settling in another patch of trees. I stood for a while, watching them, feeling the wind turn cooler against my face.

Winter will come soon. The trees will rest, the ground will sleep, and the hills will wear their silver mornings once more. Yet for now, the orchard still hums with quiet life and gentle work, waiting for the frost to arrive.

Autumn and the early days of winter are also a good time to feed the soil with organic fertilisers, once the trees have settled fully into their hibernation. The nutrients then sink gradually into the earth, carried down by snow and soft winter drizzles. The layer of compost or manure also serves as a mulch, keeping the roots of young trees moist and shielding them from the bite of frost.

As I walked back, the first rays of the sun touched the dewdrops on the grass, and the whole orchard seemed to sparkle.

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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, 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 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 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 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 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, almost without realising, I am growing along with it.

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At the edge of my orchard, where the land slopes towards the valley and the view in front seems wider than elsewhere, I find myself facing a question that is less about choice and more about feelings. In the distance during clear winter days, which are quite frequent here, I can enjoy a panoramic view of snow covered Himalayan peaks. It is a sight that feels both timeless and majestic. On some days, they seem to lean in a lot closer and that keeps me mesmerized. The question I keep asking myself – should I thicken the northern area of my orchard and garden with more trees (the area with a view of the snow-peaks), filling the space with fruit and shade, or should I leave it open so that each winter the snow peaks stand clear against the horizon? These are decisions in life that are not about right or wrong but about what kind of beauty we wish to live with.

Within the orchard itself I have already planted generously. Fruit trees are intermingled with forest trees, and among them rise tall oaks, hollies, alders, rhododendrons, and conifers. These trees are more than companions. They act as wind barriers. In summer strong gusts sweep through the valley with enough force to topple heavy metal chairs or tear roofs from homes. The trees that stand tall in front absorb that force and shelter the orchard and house alike but at the cost of the open view before me.

It is not only my own dilemma. I once asked my followers on social media whether they would choose trees or an unobstructed view. Most voted for trees, which I take as a hopeful sign. People are slowly waking up to the fact that we need more and more trees. Yet I also sense that this conviction wavers when personal comfort is at stake. Guests who visit often remark on the tall trees that rise into the sightline. Some gently advise me to lop or coppice them in order to restore what they call the beautiful panoramic view. On asking my neighbours, most advice on having tall trees, yet everyone seems to be longing for an open view in front when it comes to their own personal properties.

But my own heart leans towards the trees. A dense canopy shields against wind, filters the air and creates a retreat that feels hidden away from the world. The south side of my place is managed differently. There I keep fewer trees and most are deciduous, so that when they shed their leaves the low winter sun can spill warmth onto the house and the lawn. Between these two aspects, dense northern canopy and lighter southern edge, I find balance. And within the trees themselves I prefer natural windows, gaps in the canopy that let the snow peaks show through, framed rather than lost.

Perhaps the real choice is not between trees and view but between two ways of seeing. Trees pull the gaze inward into leaf and fruit and the bird resting on the branch. Peaks pull the gaze outward into immensity and distance. Both are necessary. One roots me, the other humbles me. Sometimes, while clicking photographs of the snow-peaks, I frequently end up framing them inside a natural ‘window’ or at times with an interesting foreground.

So for now I lean towards restraint. I plant enough to shelter the orchard but not so much that I lose the winter mountains. Some trees I allow to rise tall, their crowns holding back the winds. Others I keep lightly lopped at the lower branches, shaping small windows through which the peaks can appear. Still, I know that tall trees in front can change the sense of vastness and openness that some people so deeply cherish. From my office window I can always enjoy an open view of the peaks, since it sits at a greater height. There are a few other spots on the property that offer the same gift, so the view will never truly be lost.

When thought of more deeply, an orchard is never only about what grows within it. It is also about the openings between, the pauses, the silences, the lines of sky and mountain that appear between trunks. On a philosophical note, our lives are much the same, shaped not only by what we build and achieve but also by the spaces in between – the balance of solitude and community, of labour and rest.

As winter approaches, I will plant a few more trees, both nut and fruit. They will offer shelter and food to the birds, and provide my family and friends with a harvest to enjoy and remember.

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Walking through my orchard I often feel that the true magic lies beneath the surface. The soil is alive with a quiet community of fungi and microorganisms that work tirelessly to keep the trees healthy and the harvest abundant. Over the years I have learnt to observe and nurture these unseen allies and they have rewarded me with stronger plants and richer flavours.

The foundation of all this life is a living soil. It is not an inert mass of dirt but a breathing community of earthworms, fungi, bacteria, and tiny insects that create a balanced ecosystem. Earthworms tunnel through the soil drawing in air and moisture while leaving behind castings and poop that are rich in plant available nutrients. Their gentle movement keeps the soil loose and well drained which allows roots to grow deeper and stronger. Interwoven with their tunnels are vast mycelial networks that connect trees and plants in a silent exchange of minerals water and even chemical signals. I often imagine these filaments as connections from the popular ‘Avatar’ film.

Protozoa, nematodes, springtails, and other tiny creatures graze on microbes recycle nutrients and keep populations in balance. Layers of organic matter from leaf litter and compost feed this community while stable soil aggregates create pockets of air and moisture.

One of the most remarkable companions in the soil is mycorrhizal fungi. These delicate networks of filaments attach themselves to the roots of fruit trees and extend far into the earth. They bring water and nutrients such as phosphorus and trace minerals to the trees in exchange for simple sugars. This partnership helps the roots reach places they could never explore on their own. I have noticed that trees with a thriving mycorrhizal network are more resilient during dry spells and flourish better when the conditions are more conducive. Now I use their commercially available spores to coat the roots while planting new fruit trees.

Talking of fungi, Trichoderma is another beneficial fungus that plays the role of a gentle guardian. It colonises the root zone and competes with harmful pathogens. By simply being present it keeps many soil borne diseases in check. I often apply a compost tea rich in Trichoderma to give the young saplings a strong start. It works well along with mycorrhizal fungi. Another ally that deserves special mention is Metarhizium anisopliae. This remarkable fungus acts as a natural insect control by infecting and suppressing harmful pests that live in the soil. It targets pests such as beetle larvae and other root dwelling insects while leaving beneficial organisms unharmed. I introduce Metarhizium into my orchard through well prepared compost or bio formulations and it quietly builds a protective layer beneath the trees. Its presence allows the orchard to stay vibrant without relying on chemical insecticides.

Among the microscopic workers there are countless bacteria that quietly enrich the soil. Nitrogen fixing bacteria such as Azotobacter capture nitrogen from the air and convert it into a form that plants can use while phosphate solubilising bacteria unlock minerals bound in soil particles and make them available to the trees. These helpers reduce the need for outside fertilisers and help keep the orchard and lawn self sustaining. Over time I have observed an interesting shift. As an orchard matures and the soil is left largely undisturbed the balance of nitrogen fixation gradually moves from bacteria to fungi. In old forests and long established orchards with stable living soil it is the fungal networks that carry most of the responsibility for bringing atmospheric nitrogen into the ecosystem.

Another valuable friend in the root zone is Azospirillum, a soil bacterium that forms close associations with plant roots and stimulates the growth of fine roots and lateral branches. It produces natural growth hormones that improve nutrient absorption and moisture uptake and can also fix small amounts of atmospheric nitrogen, though its main strength lies in enhancing root vitality rather than supplying nitrogen. Some strains help prime the plant’s immune system and subtly alter the plant’s scent profile, making it less attractive to pests and more appealing to beneficial insects. By supporting stronger roots and triggering natural defences Azospirillum quietly strengthens the orchard’s resilience and adds a gentle insecticidal layer without disturbing the balance of the living soil.

Pseudomonas fluorescens is yet another beneficial soil bacterium that protects plant roots by suppressing harmful fungi and bacteria through the production of natural antibiotics and enzymes. It also promotes root growth and enhances nutrient uptake, helping plants stay healthy and resilient without chemical treatments.

The microorganisms present in ready to use commercial waste decomposer concentrates bring yet another layer of vitality. This culture contains a blend of fast acting decomposers that break down organic matter with impressive speed. I use these to make a liquid fertilizer by adding to a mix of water, jaggery, and stinging nettle. When applied to compost heaps or directly to mulch layers this liquid fertilizer accelerates the transformation of plant residues into rich humus. The resulting compost teems with beneficial bacteria and fungi that invigorate the soil and feed the trees with a steady release of nutrients. On spraying the soil, it helps make the soil loamy and even seems to increase the earthworm population. Another interesting biological product that I use is Bokashi, commercially available as spores mixed with barn. Bokashi fermentation offers a different but equally valuable contribution. The Bokashi process uses a special mix of lactic acid bacteria yeasts and phototrophic microbes to ferment kitchen scraps and garden waste. Instead of rotting the material ferments and preserves more of its nutrients. When buried in the orchard soil the fermented matter decomposes quickly and enriches the microbial life in the root zone.

Do I use any chemicals in my orchard? Yes, I do. However these are ones that are not considered harmful to the soil. Commercially available formulations of garlic oil, humic acid, seaweed extracts (kelp) are some such examples. Sometimes, I also add various ‘meals’ prepared using different organic components like bone, fish, blood. With time, as the soil in my garden and orchard develops a stable, self-sustaining structure, I hope to reduce these additions even further. I do have to use neem oil at times, but I prefer to avoid it since it harms the beneficial insects as well.

To support the hidden network under the surface of soil, I follow practices that keep the soil undisturbed and rich in organic matter. Mulching with fallen leaves and compost provides food for fungi and bacteria. Avoiding harsh chemicals allows these organisms to thrive and maintain a natural balance. My orchard’s soil still has a long way to go but I feel that we are fast progressing towards the soil that it should have. Soil that is softer and more fragrant, with a dark crumbly loamy texture.

Every time I see a new flush of blossoms or taste a fruit with unexpected sweetness or flavour, I am reminded that the credit belongs as much to these silent hidden partners as to the sun and rain. Caring for them is not just good horticulture. It is a way of honouring the sacred web of life that sustains us all.

Note for my readers: Use this post as a guide for your garden/orchard. I will be happy to discuss if you need any more information.

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