My Whanganui childhood was full of trees. The magnolia's curved branches were easy to scramble up but a dead end in a game of hide and seek. The fleshy white flowers were top currency in our childhood pecking Order of Things. When the seed pods hardened, you had families of knobbly one-legged people to fill your pockets and trade with.
Once I got stuck in the mulberry tree. I don't know how we did it. My sister was the culprit: one year younger but stronger and more agile even then. We must have been about two and three.
There we were, sitting on a branch about two metres off the ground, stuffing our faces with scarlet, dripping mulberries, covered from head to chubby toe in blood-red stain. Once the mulberries were out of reach, and our immediate pleasure satisfied, we realised how high up we were. And how caught, in a double dilemma: call Mum, our unquestioned rescuer in all difficulties, but be unable to escape her ire when she saw the mess we were in. It must have worked out okay, because I haven't yet shied from adventure.
The pear was our giraffe. Its crooked trunk and long, straight neck kept us galloping for hours. One of us had to make do with the apple tree nearby; it was a less handsome horse that never caught up. Sometimes we would double up, but you could go faster on your own, Whanganui's westerly wind urging you on through faraway landscapes, past castles, giants and oases.
Past the chookhouse was the orchard full of pears, quince, cooking apples and eating apples like Russet, Granny Smith and Peasgood Nonsuch. To gain points on the kid coolness scale, you ate the core too.