Ned is sitting cross-legged, both hands resting against the ground, concentrating on apple trees. Every day, he's getting better at this. He can't make the trees grow and faster, but he's patient. Patience is important, for a baker. He knows how to wait.

Still, the arrival of the Doctor is a pleasant and diverting surprise. Ned looks up at him, taking his hands from the soil and waving his hello. It's hard to miss the way the Doctor is weaving or, when he gets closer, the rather powerful smell of rum on him. He'd certainly gotten an early start, hadn't he? Not that Ned was judging; he'd been there, done that.

"You know, I never did really know what a cockle shell was?" he says, "No pretty maids, either. But there are plenty of bluebells." The area is littered with them; bluebells and buttercups, delicate blue and rich yellow, in the shade of Ned's little makeshift orchard. He's only managed a dozen or so trees, thus far. Trees take time, take focus. But he's pleased with his progress, all in all.

Now that the Doctor is closer and Ned gets a better look at him, a look of worry comes over him. "Are you alright?" He doesn't look like he's doing very well.