Conkering the criminal waste of nature’s wonderful harvest

Everywhere I go, there is evidence of nature’s bounty – but no-one seems as though they can be bothered to take advantage of it.

On trips from the North Tyne into Hexham, the branches of fruit trees in half a dozen gardens are bowed beneath the weight of luscious plums, big rosy or green apples and juicy pears – but no-one seems prepared to pick them.

For the past few years, I have watched in agony as one tree in Acomb bursts into a purple profusion of plump plums, but they are left to the wasps, or become prunes on the branch.

And just last weekend, I noticed that the prolific pear tree which adorns the wall of the Abbey facing the cloisters is heavily laden, but the pears appear to be lying ungathered on the ground. What a criminal waste of God’s gifts to all!

When I was a lad, there wasn’t an orchard or indeed a single fruit tree for miles around that wasn’t subject to scrumping by local youngsters, who could be spotted at all hours emerging from gaps in hedges with bulging pockets and shirts stuffed with ill-gotten gains.

It was a risky business, for if the farmer or gardener spotted you, you knew you would receive a vigorous clip round the ear from him followed by an even more thunderous thrashing when you got home – not for pinching apples, but for being foolish enough to get caught in the act.

I suspect modern day scrumpers would be hauled through the courts, furnished with a criminal record and obliged to attend hours of counselling.

And it’s not only domestic gardens where fruit is allowed to go to waste at this time of year. In years gone by, the autumn hedgerows would have been crammed with foragers of all ages, hands torn to ribbons and mouths red rimmed, as they harvested blackberries by the barrowload.

It did not matter if the brambles were being defended by wasps, or contained the odd maggot, they would be crammed into baskets or carrier bags for home consumption.

Every household could eat its fill of blackberry and apple pie, or even enjoy one of the great autumn treats, a steaming blackberry clootie dumpling.

And what about that other great back end tradition, the gathering of conkers? There was a time when every horse chestnut tree for miles would be carefully monitored by dozens of youngsters, each waiting for the magic moment when those gaudy candle-like flowers turned into the spiky carapaces, promising an abundant harvest of rich brown conkers.

You were supposed to wait for the conkers to drop off the trees naturally, but no-one ever did. Each tree would be surrounded by a large group of boys, throwing sticks into the leafy canopy above in the vain hope of dislodging a shower of conkers, which would be avidly scrabbled for in a sea of mud and cow muck.

There was one member of our gang who was not known for his educational excellence, but what he lacked in the classroom he made up for in simian attributes. He could climb trees like a gibbon, dancing over the slenderest branches to pluck the conkers out of reach of even the strongest throwers.

The green fruits of our labours would then be carefully cracked against the nearest stone, and nine times out of 10, the result would be a white and pathetically immature foetus of a conker that would disintegrate as soon as the purloined meat skewer was deployed to make a hole in it ready for the string to be threaded through.

Once in a while though, a veritable Cullinan of a conker, a Koh i Noor of a chestnut would be unearthed which would be treated with silent reverence by the gathered throng. There was no suggestion of pickling it in vinegar or baking it in the oven for longevity; it had to be threaded and strung straight away, to do battle with all comers, in the hope of becoming the legendary “tenner” – a victor against 10 other conkers.

I once had a majestic “sevener” but it was rent asunder by a wizened walnut wielded by my brother on its eighth outing. I believe to this day he had reinforced his conker by painting it with brown enamel from an Airfix kit.