The last of the apples are in the kitchen and I have been barking on about buying a fruit press for too long. No more mountains of apple pies and crumbles. I now have mountains of bottles that I have been collecting over the last few months. I have been told by numerous people to be meticulously clean when juicing. I have been told: ‘Beware of the bacteria’ like some 1950s B movie, ‘It kills!’
Bad cider smells of lemons or bananas, known ashead pops over our orchard wall as my wife, Carol and I harvest apples; two large trugs brimming with the tart ‘Keswick Codling’, the sweet ‘Fillingham’, the blush ‘Flower of the Town’ and ‘Hunt House’; the apple Captain Cook swore by. Our Swedish neighbour looks oks at the trugs full of apples and asks, ‘Are you making cider?’
