Fruit Tree - An Apple Tree on St Kilda

It was one of those rare mornings where I didn’t need to be up early. A grandson had stayed with us recently, which meant early starts and walks to school in all weathers. Since he’s been home, I’ve been fighting some sort of flu virus which has given me a dreadful cough and some aches and pains. I’m not blaming him, of course not. I’ve got run down and not rested enough. Anyway, it was nice to stay in bed a bit longer, just dozing, listening to the wind whistling round the windows and imagining that I’m in my fantasy cottage in St Kilda, warm, cosy, everything I need, as a wild blizzard dominates the bleak surroundings. Somewhere in this blissful existence, I wanted a fruit tree. In reality, there are no trees of any sort on St Kilda. High winds and constant salt spray prevent tree growth and the peat, acidic soil is completely unsuitable. In my imagination, I have had sustainable soil shipped over to help maintain my vegetable plot. An apple tree would be lovely. Eventually, I had to get up from my gorgeous bed and live in the real world. My fruit tree blog had to be in there, somewhere.

Close to where I live, there was an abundance of damsons. The tree was over-hanging the garden wall on the property and the fruit spilled on to the pavement making a sticky, purple mess. One of my neighbours, with permission, collected some damsons and made jam. Much better than wasted fruit making a mess.

Nearby, there is a small, confused cherry tree. I say confused because it comes into bloom with fabulous blossom at various times of the year. Never any cherries, though.

At a young age, I learnt the hard way just how bad a tummy ache can be after eating crab apples picked from the tree. Home was always a pub, on a street in a town, so nowhere to play out except the carpark. That was fine for my bike or scooter, but no mates to play with. All changed when we moved to a pub in the village of Padfield near Glossop. I soon made friends from our school down the road and we were never in. We fished for tadpoles, got in trouble for playing in the local farmer’s silage pit until we were filthy and stinky and one day, decided to feast from an apple tree. Crab apples. They were bitter tasting, probably not ripe, and I imagine it was quantity that made me unwell. A lesson learnt.

My Haiku poem,

In my wildest dreams
I’m in comfort perfection,
St Kilda cottage.

Sweet, rosy apples,
So juicy and fresh each day,
Clustered on branches.

A rare, sunny day
And a cloudless sky in this
Archipelago.

Strong winds just bring snow
Icy, northern blasts make a
Harsh environment.

I wish I could grow
A fruit tree on St Kilda,
Weather protected.

PMW 2026

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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To My Daughter

To My Daughter On Being Separated from Her on Her Marriage

To My Daughter On Being Separated from Her on Her Marriage

To My Daughter On Being Separated from Her on Her Marriage

By Anne Hunter

Dear to my heart as life’s warm stream

   Which animates this mortal clay,

For thee I court the waking dream,

   And deck with smiles the future day;

And thus beguile the present pain

With hopes that we shall meet again.

Yet, will it be as when the past

   Twined every joy, and care, and thought,

And o’er our minds one mantle cast

   Of kind affections finely wrought?

Ah no! the groundless hope were vain,

For so we ne’er can meet again!

May he who claims thy tender heart

   Deserve its love, as I have done!

For, kind and gentle as thou art,

   If so beloved, thou art fairly won.

Bright may the sacred torch remain,

And cheer thee till we meet again!

Poetry ought to be collected, like soft pillows, about oneself.  You never know which one you will require at a given moment, but it’s safer to keep them all around – so that they can lift or support you when the moment is right.  

This poem by Anne Hunter chimes with me at the moment.  No, my daughter isn’t marrying but she is a young woman now and is soon to turn sixteen.  It’s the first of a series of customary coming of age markers which reveal that she now able to smoke (or continue to berate others for doing so), play the lottery (or keep her pounds to spend on pretty things) and even marry (or the modern, less expensive equivalent).  

I find it difficult to express the closeness of my relationship with my daughter but these lines rang true:

For thee I court the waking dream,

   And deck with smiles the future day; 

The image of decking a day with smiles makes me think of all the times, as a mother, you feel tired or gloomy but are able to put those feelings away, instead igniting the warmth of a home fire for your children.  That fire would be impossible without them.  It’s the reciprocation which enables the flames.  Their enthusiasm and guileless honesty inspires in you the effort to mirror that openness to a ‘waking dream’ in which anything is possible and goodness is present in abundance.

And o’er our minds one mantle cast

   Of kind affections finely wrought?

Hunter clearly felt this same closeness to her daughter, which feels so different to any other relationship.  The mantle is present when we are alone, giggling, exchanging shared observations and memories, jumping to the same conclusion simultaneously and finishing each other’s sentences.  In those moments, we are as one mind, with absolute affection for each other, knowing that we will be there for each other whatever the storms beyond that mantle; that this cloak of affection protects us to some considerable measure from anything the outside world might throw at us.

Bright may the sacred torch remain,

And cheer thee till we meet again!

But daughters do leave the home.  Perhaps not to marry, perhaps to study or to work.  That is, after all, the reason for our mothering efforts.  We want them to thrive beyond the mantle.  So we feed the torch while they are so close, knowing that it will continue to shine for them wherever they travel.  Knowing that, should it start to dim, they can always return to replenish that flame.  And when my daughter comes home, from wherever she travels, she will reignite my torch too.  And we’ll deck our days with smiles whenever we think of each other.

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