Country Life – August

I don’t really ascribe to any one religion. But if I had to define my belief system it’d be one based on the slow turning of the seasons in Ireland. I find there’s always something new to marvel at; Maybe it’s getting darker in the evenings, or it’s bright ’til the crest of midnight, maybe the swallows are back, or the blackthorn is flowering, or, inevitably the birds’ poop has turned purple with elderberries and I’ve discovered this fact because they’ve used my clean laundry as a toilet. Every day’s a marvel, I tell you!

And if I had to choose a time of year that was most sacred to me, it’s now; Autumn, Fall, Pumpkin Spice Season. Whatever you call it, it’s the time of year when the weather cools and the mind turns to thoughts of winter.

For me, that almost exclusively means foraging. And if I had to describe my religion’s most sacred ritual it’d be blackberry picking.

It’s a practice I was introduced to as a little girl. Standing on the grass verge of our country road with my Dad and my little sister, all three of us kitted out in polyester wind-breakers that snagged and crackled on bramble thorns, with woolly hats that spent more time caught in the hedges than on our heads. We each had a small container that we’d pop our pickings into, dumping occasionally into the bigger main bowl left on the ground.

The notion was that small pots were easier to manoeuvre into the thicket, which is fair logic. But it’s also useful if you stumble on uneven ground and your arms flail. Then, you’d only risk losing a few berries rather than the entire stash. Very practical.

I still follow this rule today, like a hymn passed down to me.

Picking berries in the open countryside appeals to me in a similar way to how knitting and crochet and all the other slow crafts I practice do. Picking each berry is like making a stitch. On the whole, an insignificant act, but it’s mindful and healing and given enough picks and enough stitches, you will inevitably find yourself with a sweater or a shawl, or a batch of blackberry jam.

I think there’s a good lesson to be had in that. Nothing magnificent materialises in a heartbeat. Things that are worth having are worth taking time over.

Something else blackberry picking reminds me is that each berry – however big or small or misshapen – is worth its space. I think we forget that wonky food is still food sometimes. We’re so used to perfect carrots and leeks and peppers lined up in the supermarket that we forget about all the food that wasn’t beautiful enough to make the shelf.

In the hedgerow, that hierarchy doesn’t exist, and I pick and eat the big and the small and the misshapen – just like the birds and the mice and the wasps do.

It took me two hours of solid picking before I cleared one side of my favourite spot today.

I did it in the rain, under grey skies and with the sounds of swallows and rooks and wood pigeons overhead.

It was just complex enough to keep my mind occupied on the task, but it allowed enough repetition to ensure my head could still amuse itself with random thoughts about greenhouse-building, a knitting pattern I’m currently working on, and my latest Patreon offerings.

Picking is hard work. All that reaching and balancing and almost falling into the thicket is a great little work-out. I joke that it’s the only form of yoga I’m willing to attempt.

The prickles on the brambles coupled with the backward-facing thorns on dog roses and the mad spikes on blackthorns mean every reach could lead to a nasty jabbing. Add to that, the myopia that hits when I see a lovely bunch and reach in, forgetting to check first if nettles have insinuated themselves among the more benign leaves.

I brushed against two nettles today. Small penance for the treasures I retrieved in return, though.

But. As tricky as it can be, and as itchy as my poor, nettle-stung wrist is now, and as drenched as I was when I returned home, I still arrived in the door triumphant with 2 and a half kilos of berries.

For those of you who speak American, that’s 5 and a half pounds, or enough to make 6 bottles of mead and 12 jars of jam.

Or… 12 bottles of mead.

Guess what I’m gonna be doing with my treasure.