The Full Monty
As Monty embarks on a plan to restore his orchard, he seeks out some medieval inspiration
Monty on the importance of orchards
It is modern nonsense to not consider an orchard a fully paid-up garden
hen we came to Longmeadow in November 1991, the garden consisted of an open but abandoned field, with two trees the only growing things that stood out above the uncut grass. One was a hawthorn that remains as part of the coppice, and the other a large hazel in the Spring Garden. But there were two rotting trunks of damsons and evidence of old, long-fallen apple trees submerged beneath the tangle of grass. In short, there had been a sizeable orchard on the site – probably for centuries given the pattern of so many similar farmhouses nearby. From the outset I knew I wanted to plant an orchard and I knew I wanted it to comprise mostly of local or relevant varieties of apple. Herefordshire is a country redolent of the cidery tang of apples. Thousands of acres have been grubbed out over the past century, but there are still tens of thousands of acres of orchards remaining, albeit mostly now modern and not, as the the old ones became, sheep-grazed fruity woods with huge, mistletoe embossed standard trees. These orchards, filled with magnificent dessert and cooking apples, were largely the result of a boom in apple breeding in the 19th century, started just down the road from here at Downton Castle by Thomas Andrew Knight. He went on to be president of what was then the Horticultural Society, which nearly 30 years after his death took on royal patronage and became the RHS. So the vast range of apples (and there are more than 7,500 known varieties) is effectively modern. Until the late 18th century most apple orchards were for cider, but the medieval concept of an orchard was a much more refined and eclectic place. They would be protected by a ditch and a hedge of hawthorn, wild roses and fruit trees such as damsons and sloes (blackthorn). The orchard itself was likely to have been a mixture of apples, pears, quinces, mulberries, medlars, cherries, plums, figs and nuts. The trees were planted in rows with a good 16-20 feet between each tree. And while they were prized for their seasonal fruit, they were also valued as a meeting place. Seats, bowers and arbours were all often part and parcel of a well-tended orchard. Well, I am slowly working my own orchard way back into history. I have replaced the 20th century, grubbed-out barrenness with large standards, billowing branch to branch, and am now planning to elaborate and embroider this with the addition of a garden. Of course it is modern nonsense to even consider an orchard not a fully paid-up garden but there you go, we have lost that orchard habit. They have become merely an extension of sprawling country acres or a fruity aspect of agribusiness. But I want to dip into that medieval well of orchard love, where fruit and flowers and bowers and lovers all conjoin and combine, to make as lovely a garden as any other kind. The model is partly medieval and partly Jacques Wirtz meets Constance Spry. It may seem an unlikely pairing, but the medieval influence is to restore the orchard as the prized heart of the garden, the place that all other paths lead to. Jacques Wirtz has long been one of my favourite garden designers and his use of sculpted green space is inspirational. This means that clipped, flowing yew, perhaps box (in the hope that exposure to the westerlies sweeping through the orchard will make life uncomfortable for blight fungal spores) and hornbeam. Florist Constance Spry will be represented by roses and apple blossom, a soft and fragrant abundance beneath which lovers and old men can dream. And if you are still not convinced about the significance of an orchard in this chaotic 21st century, remember which was the single most important plant in the garden of Eden: the apple.