Wintles Hill

April has been wind-wind-windy, with more days of lowering cloud than sun. Also, at times, it’s been piercingly cold, so definitely no casting of winter layers.

I’ve already said here how an early April gale felled the cherry plum tree that grew just over the hedge by our kitchen window. It wasn’t our tree, but part of our ‘borrowed landscape’ and somehow gave us a sense of woodedness with its gracious rustling canopy. It was a shock to find it lying across our kitchen roof.

But now it is gone, we have more light and, come supper-time, even a sunset glow atop the holly hedge. And so, as is the way with gardening, something lost is the chance for some new growing. Still to be decided.

But talking of the holly hedge (which is absolutely not my favourite part of the garden), these last two weeks it’s been alive with tiny blue butterflies. An entomologist chum told me they are Holly Blues, and not the Common Blues I’d taken them for. They travel at speed, flit and flutter, looking like flecks of fallen sky. Not easy to snap then. All of which is to say, I’m feeling more kindly towards the hedge if its the reason for the tiny blue butterfly show.

The cold and windy weather hasn’t stopped spring happening. In fact all the winter rain is paying off around the town – the countryside fat with lush pasture and burgeoning wheat fields; hedgerows alight with blackthorn blossom, hawthorn, hazel, bright white stars of stitchwort, bluebells, dandelions. The big trees, too, are starting to green (the oaks and ashes are ever late on parade). And of course it is also the season of bright yellow spreads of oil seed rape, plus the inevitable flocks of tiny flea beetles that go with it, and then come to my garden later to devour my rocket plants or anything else related to a cabbage.

Last week, on a bright, but still windy day, we walked up Wintles Hill behind the town to see the views and visit the elephant sculpture. The green lane ascent lived up to its name, but with masses of white stitchwort too.

On the brow of the hill, the old barns, as usual, demanded to have their picture taken:

On Wintles hilltop, which is always a high spot and in all senses, the wheat was just emerging, but not so vigorously as in the more sheltered, well watered valley fields. We stopped to look beyond our local hills, over the border into Wales:

Meanwhile, back in the home garden, it is apple blossom time. The miniature eating apple trees and the three crab apples have been flowering well. Even the big old tree at the bottom of the garden is now looking lovely after a good winter prune:

Closer to the house, the Red Devil miniature tree is looking anything but devilish. This is its first year flowering in our garden. In time, it’s supposed to produce bright red apples, which rather puts one in mind of Wicked Queens and Snow White:

As for the rest of the garden, the daffodils and narcissi are over, the tulips on the wane, but the early summer plants are surging up: foxgloves, aquilegias, and valerian all about to flower; Welsh poppies, and Centaurea cornflowers already opening.

Today, on the last day of April, we have a cloudless blue sky and brilliant sunshine. And it’s still blowing a gale, but at least it’s a warmish one. There are times, too, when it drops, it almost feels like summer, but only for a moment.

The Changing Seasons: April 2026 Brian at bushboys world and Ju-Lyn at Touring My Backyard are our hosts. Please pop and see what they’ve been up to this month. For one thing, Brian has a stunning gallery of birds and wallabies, and as ever, Ju-Lyn has been cooking up a storm in her kitchen – so many mouth-watering creations.

Come September and the months of drought simply switched off. Instead we have rain between showers. There have been days and days of lowering skies and serious downpours, and although this may be considered ‘typically English weather’, it comes as a shock after months of wall-to-wall sunshine.

But then last Tuesday we had a reprieve. Cloud yes, but rain on hold.

Let’s go for those crab apples, I say to he-who-builds-carports-that-aren’t-for-cars. He was not keen. The crab apple tree we first spotted in August is on top of Wintles Hill. It’s quite a haul up the green lane from town, followed by a gasping scramble up a steep sheep field. But he kindly yielded and came along too. It’s glorious once you’re up here, he says.

Back in August, when were are last here, the world felt toasted, the farm fields bare from an exceptionally early harvest, the grass brown and dead looking. But this week, after so much watering, all was mostly green again – the pasture fields rejuvenated. We even found some field mushrooms, the first I’d seen in years.

When we arrived at the tree we found it as crammed with fruit as it had been a month earlier, but now there was a mass of tiny apples underneath. (We’ve also had gales).

Since August I had been dithering about gathering the apples. It seemed too early. I had inkling they were better for making jelly after they’ve weathered a cold spell. But oh well, we were there now and with bags to hand. The fallen apples were anyway ripe and it occurred to me, that given the mass of apples still on the tree, I could come for another forage later in the year. And then I’d know, one way or the other – before or after a frosting.

As I was crouched, head down, picking over the fruit, I noticed the tree’s trunk – or rather trunks: talk about the drive to survive come what may…

Wild art as well as wild apples then.

There is definitely a remnant slip of hawthorn in the melee of roots and stems. But it makes me wonder: how ancient is this tree or trees? And how amazing that, here on so exposed a hilltop, and with so many gaps in its infrastructure, it can still produce such a prodigious crop.

I collected a couple of kilos of fallen fruit. The apples on the tree did not want to be picked, holding fast to their twigs. We headed onwards and homewards down an easier slope, glimpsing the Indian elephant sculpture through the trees. We didn’t visit it this time, but it amused me that this view was often how we saw wild elephants when we lived in Kenya. In fact you were lucky to see this much of them…

And it was here we found yet another crab apple tree, the fruit pale yellow, smaller and rounder than the hilltop apples. And it too was laden. Well! No need to worry about jelly supplies.

I also wished I could think of something useful to do with hawthorn berries. There was a profusion of them on a nearby tree. All around Shropshire this year the fruit is providing a spectacular show, seemingly quite unaffected by the rainless spring and summer. The berries are of course very important in herbal medicine: tinctures and teas deemed restorative for the heart and arteries, and more besides. Simply looking at that glorious red made me feel brighter:

And so to the kitchen to chop apples and simmer till soft.

The pulp is then put in muslin and strained overnight (allowed to drip, but not squeezed).

The resulting juice is measured and put in a heavy pan with sugar at a ratio of 10:6 juice to sugar. You can add some lemon juice and herbs – chopped mint or rosemary, but I don’t. After stirring in the sugar until it is melted, a steady 7-8 minute boil is usually enough to achieve a set. The jelly should then be poured into sterilized jars.

This being a once-a-year activity, I find it helps to make a small batch first to get the gist of things. This jar would definitely not pass muster at a Women’s Institute jam and preserves contest – too cloudy (must have squeezed the straining muslin), too many bubbles as I probably overdid the ‘setting’ in order to be on the ‘safe side’.

This particular crop obviously had a high pectin content: the gelling happened in less than 5 minutes. But never mind. It will still be fine with roast lamb, and delicious on a warmed croissant or with soda bread toast. And using the Wintles Hill wild apples means I can leave my lovely little garden crab apple trees looking decorative with their full complement of fruit. The blackbirds will get to enjoy them in December.

Tish Farrell

Writer on the Edge

The Changing Seasons: April Days

Wild Apples On Wintles Hill