Juice follows the year, not the shelf.
Three hundred trees, one press, and a season that runs from blossom to the last late apple. Bring a glass — or bring your own harvest.
Blossom holds its breath.
Two weeks decide the whole year. If frost skips the blossom, the orchard sets more fruit than the branches can hold — and we thin it by hand so what stays grows big.
Sun does the slow work.
Summer is pruning, watching for scab, and waiting. Early varieties blush first; the storage apples take their time and take the sugar with it.
Everything comes down.
The main harvest — ladders in the rows, crates under every tree. Early apples go straight to the press; late ones wait in the cool for their turn.
The press runs daily.
Washed, milled, pressed the same day they arrive. A hundred kilos of apples give sixty-five litres of cloudy juice — nothing added, gently pasteurised or raw to order.
The cellar takes over.
Juice in boxes, cider slowly finding its dryness in the tanks, vinegar mothering in the corner. The orchard sleeps; the shelves do not.
Bring your harvest, take home your juice.
From September to November we press for anyone with apples — from a car boot to a trailer. You leave with your own juice, boxed and shelf-stable.
What the orchard sends out.
Straight from the press and the cellar — in season at the mill door, year-round while stocks last.
Come when the press is loud.
Pressing days are open days — watch the mill run, taste the day’s blend, and carry a box home. Orchard walks by arrangement in blossom time.