Kishore Singh: Fruitbaskets all

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My expertise as a travel writer wasn't finding any takers. "That," I said, pointing to a snowclad peak of the Kumaon Himalayas stretched across the bay window of the cottage in Majkhali where we were holidaying with friends, "is the Banderpoonch massif."

"That," insisted my son, who was seeing the Himalayas for probably the second time in his life, "is the Trishul peak." "You," I said to him, "have no locus standii and I insist that peak is Banderpoonch." "That," intervened a visitor we were entertaining at the precise time the subject came up, "is Trishul, and you won't find Banderpoonch in Kumaon because it's in Garhwal."

I had considerably more success when it came to identifying plants and trees, but had clearly overstretched myself when, pointing to a flock of birds perched on the branch of a coniferous tree, I pronounced: "Look there, those are yellow sunbirds."

"Those," pointed out my friend's wife, "are pinecones", as indeed they turned out to be, the sunbirds having disappeared as if magically.

So, who was I to argue when it was decided that the lot of us would head for Choubatia, high above Ranikhet. There, the chowkidar of our cottage had assured us, we could walk through the orchards of the horticultural and research institute, pluck fruit to our heart's content, and simply pay for it by weight.

But at Choubatia, a guide made sure we were not allowed anywhere close to the trees, leave alone the fruit. My wife's friend, who had set her heart on plucking fruit in an orchard, shouted at the guide who bent over backwards in an effort to point out more yet apple trees, enraging her still further. In the event, it turned out to be a dismal visit.

That evening, while my friend's wife moped and the children attempted to steal fruit (unsuccessfully) from neighbouring gardens, it became clear there would be no peace till a fruit plucking visit to an orchard could be organised.

The chowkidar came to the rescue. "Tomorrow morning," he said, "be ready to come with me to an orchard where I've arranged for you to eat fruit off the trees."

The following morning, he was as good as his word, and we were escorted to an orchard not far from our cottage. "You may," he said, "now eat any amount of fruit you want." It wasn't a bad deal but he had not bargained for two determined housewives and three children.

In what was a jiffy, they were shaking down branches and scampering up trunks, concealing the spoils of their effort first in pockets and handbags and then more boldly in plastic bags they'd secreted upon themselves.

Before the orchard's caretaker could protest, they were out and away, holding bags bulging with plums and peaches, apples and pears, not just sufficient to last our holiday but enough to carry home at the end of the vacation.

A visit to Holm Farm for a meal was next on our schedule. The heritage building was set in a 14-acre estate where, mysteriously, my wife escaped from the group, only to appear later, munching on an illicitly gotten apple, scratches criss-crossing her forearm.

"Stealing fruit again," said my friend's wife self-righteously (and perhaps a little jealously). "Fruit," my wife raised her voice in horror, "no, not at all." "That's right," added my son, "she couldn't have got those scratches from a fruit tree but," pointing to her bulging bag, he said, "I bet there's something there that doesn't belong to her."

Closer inspection revealed the truth: she'd stripped a lemon tree bare of its contents. "It's all her fault," my wife pointed to my friend's wife, "for showing us all how to steal fruit instead of buying it, like everyone else, from the market."