Orchard on Orchard

I've dreamed of having an orchard for pretty much my Whole Life. My first ever book from the library, and one I borrowed over and over again for years was Rain Makes Applesauce, a book of nonsense with a serious sub-plot about the relationship between rain and an apple seed planted and cared for. I loved that sub-plot. I recently bought a copy of the book and it's still awesome.

Back in my late teens and early twenties I dreamed of running off to an acre or two of fertile soil, growing veges and fruit, living off the land. I read books about self-sufficiency, and thought it sounded right up my street. That dream has never faded, and now it's actually come true. I'm not sure why I'm stunned by this, but I truly am. After becoming adept at very compact gardening over the years, it was a huge indulgence to order 12 fruit trees, and not a dwarf variety among them.

There's a lot to think about when you're choosing what to grow in an orchard: what fruit suits the climate (stone and pip); what kinds of fruit do we want to eat (every kind); are they self-pollinators, or do they need a particular tree next to them for pollination (some do, some don't); how big will they grow; when will they produce. It's not as simple as sticking an apple seed in the ground. Here's what we chose:

• greengage plum for its irresistible green taste and colour, and unbeatable jam. (Bud photo above.)
• quince, the big fuzzy yellow kind, because they are ancient and smell so glorious, and make the best crumble you've ever eaten, guaranteed.
• apricots for their glorious orange jam and orange fuzzy cuteness.
• cherries because this valley was once famous for cherries so they're bound to be good growers.
• an apple for cooking (wolf river) and two for eating (golden russet, liberty) because you can't have a true blue orchard without apples.
• Stanley plum for my dear friend Jennifer.
• peach because there's nothing on earth like a warm peach right off the tree on a hot summer day.
• crimson gold nectarine because I couldn't resist that name.
• a 4-way pear, one of those trees with four pear varieties grafted onto one trunk. I like pears in my mind more than in my mouth. I totally love the shape and colour and feel of them. A slice or two with cheese, yes please. Cooked or preserved, I'm not much of a fan. But I couldn't resist a 4-way tree, just for the novelty factor.

The trees arrived on May 5, all bare naked and sad-sack, just like the rest of the deciduous trees at the end of winter. We left them huddled together at the back of the house, to give them a chance to get used to their new home.

On May 13, we started planting, two or three trees a day. David dug the holes (as deep and twice as wide as the pots), Lucy sniffed about, and I took the photos.

Sometimes Lucy just curled up and snoozed. Check out the trees down the back. Still bare in the middle of May.

Planting the trees involved adding compost to the holes and watering, back filling the soil, making sure there were no air pockets around the root ball, and making sure the joint between the root and the trunk was positioned just above ground. They have to be tucked in very firmly.

We finished planting on May 18. Over the next week we mulched with cedar chips, wrapped collars around the trunks so mice and squirrels can't climb up and ransack, and chased off ants that wanted to burrow in the freshly dug soil. Ants don't like cinnamon, so I've been sprinkling it around the base of the trees, which seems to have stopped them wanting to move in. We've cut and raked the grass and weeds. Some of the trees have blossomed, others have put out leaves, some are forming teeny fruits. The whole world has turned lush in the last two weeks.

Take a walk in it:

There are a lot of self-sewn trees and wild roses in this part of the garden too. We've left them be for now. It's a wonderful place to sit and be still, or have a nap on a blanket and dream of pies, jams and tarts.