Dreaming of Apples
Wassailing in our local community orchard
Crailing, Scottish Borders. January 29, 2023
“Excuse me, are you from here?”
Bejewelled spectacles peer at me from under a large bobble hat, but for a moment I am too distracted to answer. I have been straining to hear instructions over the top of clanging pots and a crackling bonfire.
“Are you from here? From Crailing?”
I tell her that I live 3 miles away, on the other side of Jedburgh, and she sighs with some exasperation before turning away to scan the rows of backs between us and the fire. “I moved here during Covid and I’m still trying to find my community.”
The bobble hat moves off through the crowd and I return my focus to the centre of the gathering hoping I haven’t missed anything important. In a moment we will be asked to perform and I have no idea what I am supposed to do. Luckily, everyone else seems to be in the same boat.
A decent crowd is gathered around a tall wooden sign that tells us we are in Crailing Community Orchard. We stand around a large bonfire, billows of smoke rising towards the pale lemon moon before being scattered by the January wind. Across this flat land around Crailing, winds from the hills above Jedburgh gather ferocious speed as if in a rush to get to Kelso, but the high old-fashioned hedgerows around the orchard are giving us shelter.
To one side, a row of formica tables perch awkwardly on uneven ground and someone is stirring a large pot of something spicy sweet which is not yet ready. Some people gather at a safe distance form the leaping fire, and others wander uncertainly between piles of brash and debris, waiting for guidance. The twisted trees that make up the orchard give little hint of the fruit that they might bring forth and I see people looking at them as they might abstract sculptures in a gallery.
In another area, a group of small children are being organised. Two wear expressive headdresses made of dried bracken and like the others, wield a random artillery of pots, pans, bells, and metal lids. They are given the go ahead to make some noise and an adult leads the way by bashing a pot with a stick. One or two have no hesitation in filling the brief, but the rest look to their respective grown-ups for further permission.
The commotion is an essential part of today’s ceremony: the orchard’s first Wassail. It is intended to rouse the trees from their winter slumber and prepare them for the production season ahead. The noise is also said to scare off any malevolent spirits that may have found succour in the branches over winter, and which might interfere with the crop.
Tales of traditional wassailing from the cider-making regions of south-west England, describe a volatile combination of gunfire, raucous singing and alcohol consumption. Fun though that sounds, I’m quite grateful that a more family friendly version is being played out today. Afterall, none of us here are very practiced in these rituals yet.
The children begin a procession between the trees, passing the newer specimens and heading for the wizened heirloom varieties which seem like perfect territory for a ghost or two. From medieval times and into the 19th century, Jedburgh was famous for its pears and this whole area was known for its orchards. This little half-acre provided tree fruit for Crailing Hall and remained productive until 1956 under a Robert Wilson, before being deemed unviable. The flat land around Crailing must have been ideal for the large agricultural machines becoming more common at that time, and by the 1960s, funny little nooks like this which resisted machine access would have become inconvenient, irrelevant, neglected and eventually forgotten. Today, the orchard is scruffy, hand tended, and has a defiantly old fashioned feel.
Clearing the ground of tall grasses and weeds must be a labour intensive process, but the trunks of most trees have been exposed for the event, black and still against the bleached grasses of last summer. They certainly look as though they need waking. And if the shouting and pot-banging doesn’t work, there is additional help in the form of Juliet - the recently appointed orchard animateur, whose role is to bring life to the space through community engagement. This is one of the first projects, and although Wassailing is not from this part of the world, it seems a perfect way to create some energy.
The children have been corralled into a neat group led by the headdress wearers. Parents follow at a safe distance, and the procession moves slowly and somewhat falteringly around the trees. The adults are as unsure of what to do as the children, and when noise is required they contribute only a gentle whoop.
Finally a tree is reached and a relative hush negotiated. Something of meaning is clearly happening, and grown ups from around the orchard move forward to hear volunteers explain what is going on. Cider (or in this case, spiced apple juice) is given to the trees to wake their roots, and a piece of toast is also soaked to be hung in the branches of the last tree on the parade. This, we are told, is to attract robins who are the guardians of the trees.
Traditionally, of course, this would have been done with the highly alcoholic ‘wassail’; hard cider spiked with apple brandy. Without alcohol to loosen them up, the majority of adults look happy to leave the performative ritual to the children. Unluckily for them, another key part of traditional Wassail ceremony is singing. The children have provided noise, and now it is the adults’ turn. They show considerable shyness to begin with, but Rory McLeod has primed a small group to keep things going, and his strong voice gradually encourages more confident contributions. The wassail song is necessarily long, giving everyone time to learn the tune and chorus, and gather courage to join in. The pre-prepared singing group accompany Rory with a low, chanting hum which creates a slightly primordial feel. I feel I can imagine the magical feel of a traditional Wassail - torches flickering amongst the darkened branches, the mysterious ceremony evoking the spirits of the trees and the malevolent spirits of nature. I wonder if this space at Crailing has ever seen the likes? Did Robert Wilson ever encourage local lads to wake his orchard? To get rowdy beneath their branches or sing loudly into the winter night? Did they leave offerings for the guardians of the land?
My own research into comparable ceremonies in Scotland came up with little to nothing. Earlier in the day I’d bumped into two or three people I knew, asking if they had ever heard of an equivalent for this area. No-one knew of anything. As I stand listening to the song, punctuated with self-conscious sniggers and tentative voices stumbling over the words, I am touched by the courage and openness of this community to take on this ceremony. People talk about the ‘ayes been’ attitude in the Borders; a resistance to taking on anything new, or entertaining any diversion from the old ways. But the land around Crailing Orchard, or across the Borders as across the UK, is vastly different to how it was only 70 years ago. Change happens, even here. And now, might we not choose to make another change?
This slow game; preparing the trees in winter, tending them through spring, giving them space among the summer grasses, and harvesting them in autumn, is a far cry from buying a bag of apples in the supermarket. There is nothing convenient about it, but there is nothing anonymous about it either.
The song pays homage to the planters and tenders of the young orchard, then tells those ghosts to leave and make room for new custodians - the people gathered here. Could that really be us? I wonder if we can allow ourselves join our responsibility for this space and its trees.
Then the song rallies us to take a ‘birl’ with a neighbour. I lock arms and turn with one person I know, and two I don’t. As the song comes towards an end, the crowd is just beginning to loosen up. Voices rise in confident unison around the bit of the song they’ve learned:
“so we can have cider again and again,
again and again,
again and again…!’
We heed the signals to gradually hush our voices and let the song fade out. The crackling fire and wind take up the tune, blowing our words out among the apple trees into silence, before a hearty round of applause fills the air.
The scent of hot spiced cider draws everyone to the refreshment table where a hodgepodge of mismatched plates has accumulated; cakes, biscuits and other homemade contributions. I say my goodbyes to those I know and watch the crowds laugh and natter as they coo over the treats.
Humphrey and I walk along the lane, the wind at our backs. I notice tiny shoots of cleavers, herb-robert, dandelion, snowdrops, ground elder - future wild harvests. Energies of the earth are rising without ceremony or recognition. Is it possible to believe that we are part of these cycles, too? The orchard may grow and drop apples into the long untended grasses while we buy Pink Lady and pasteurised apple juice from the Coop in Jedburgh. Or perhaps we could imagine ourselves taking part in future harvests again and again, again and again?
“Ceremony is a vehicle for belonging - to a family, to a people, to a place.” p.37
KIMMERER, R.W. 2020. Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants. Penguin.
