Beyond the last cottage stood an ancient orchard and no fruit was gathered without consequence. The apples tasted of honey, smoke, and forgotten names. 

An alchemy of orchard fruits, gnarled wood, undisturbed earth, and fall leaves.

“To-day I think
Only with scents, - scents dead leaves yield,
And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,
And the square mustard field;

Odours that rise
When the spade wounds the root of tree,
Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,
Rhubarb or celery;

The smoke's smell, too,
Flowing from where a bonfire burns
The dead, the waste, the dangerous,
And all to sweetness turns."

- Edward Thomas

Art: Red Apples at the Foot of a Tree, Gustave Courbet, 1872