The Eye of the Beholder

A morning picking apples in preparation for village apple day tomorrow. Around the millennium, we planted an orchard with a range of "heritage" varieties, often chosen for their romantic names and ancient origins, as much as anything: D'Arcy Spice; Norfolk Beefing; Tydemans Late Orange and Pitmaston Russet Nonpareil

This picture is Wyken Pippin, chosen for its local connection. Wyken is an area of East Coventry, the city of my birth

Some apples are ugly ducklings: mis-shapen, rough-peeled, inclined to canker, blemishes and infestation, but redeemed by their divine flavour. This one is the precise converse: its blossom is exquisite; the apples have a bloom like a grape, a smooth, delicate, shining peel with subtle colours bleeding into one another... and a taste as dull as ditch-water!

Its party-trick is to hold its apples on the bough long after the leaves have fallen, creating a skeleton of bare branches festooned with fruit like Christmas baubles - a cheerful sight on bright winter mornings, which we may need more than ever in the one that is looming