The strange thing is, I seem to be the only one picking them, and I’ve been gathering them by the small bucketful. Perhaps there are just so many that I don’t notice the signs that others have been harvesting here too.
I love picking blackberries, always have, and I could happily spend hours gathering them as I did the other afternoon, making my way slowly along a hedgerow in the golden september sun, stopping now and then to pick. I get scratched by thorns and stung by nettles, but there are always dock leaves somewhat nearby to rub on the stings.
I eat, too, as I go along, sometimes wondering if I really should, but unable to resist the pleasure of eating wild food straight off the bush which makes me even happier. And I’m all alone, except for a rabbit that plays hide-and-seek with me at the edge of a thicket of rhododendrons.
This season is full of sensations that bring back memories. The taste of blackberries, the smell of damp earth, the warmth of sunshine that we know will be warm for only a few more days.
I’ve picked blackberries since I was a child, and I can’t imagine this month without them.