I’m off down our lane, freezer bag in hand, to look for late blackberries amongst the hips and haws. Wind is soughing in the drought-tattered trees, the September sun is on my back, and overhead, a glorious blue sky is home to scooting cumulus. Behind the hedge, I can smell silage and hear the lowing, bumping and slopping of the cattle eating their afternoon tea from a round feeder. Around the corner, the stubble field is sere and brown, full of dried seed stalks, the wind tugging at thistledown, a carpet of recumbent orache and pearlwort straggling over the bare soil.
I work my way along the uncut side of the hedge, looking for briars. Trying to avoid being caught by nettles and brambles whipping in the wind, I’m surprised by how patchy the crop is. Some clusters of fruit are are mummified, some are flyblown and grey with mould, some dropping-off overripe, and some still hard and red. But there are a few plants worth picking, though lots are tantalizingly out of reach above. I’m rewarded by an especially succulent handful as I near home again, feet tingling from brushes with nettles and flip-flops full of gritty dockseeds. Despite everything, I’ve got almost half a colander-full to use. I’m looking forward to the delicate perfume rising from the pan when I stew them.
