One of my fondest memories of summer holidays, my mother and living on the edge of Epsom Common woodlands, is when my mother, brother Cliff and I collected blackberries.
It began with the summer holidays waning and feeling that creeping dread of The Return: to school, routines, early nights, homework - reality and time itself. As the late August sun lazily emptied the evenings, Mum took Cliff and I on a tour of the Common boundary: the borderline between meadows and suburban gardens, where a snaking path took us to scruffy patches of No Man's Land. The best spot was the Ebisham railway embankment: a rarely visited zone of unkempt undergrowth, a scruffy wilderness. In all of these places grew wild patches of nettles, untrimmed grass and weeds, immature trees creaking as they reached for light. Here also we found the Holy Grail of the Common’s edible fruits: the blackberry bushes. Gathering blackberries took patience and dexterity as we plucked the small black jewels from their thorny safes. The thorns themselves were not the problem but rather the trailing limbs that flailed around as the plant spread and grew. These had to be gingerly eased aside or gently pressed down so we could reach in and claim the prize. Care was also needed in tasting the prize. The rule was that gathered berries went into the opaque plastic tub, the same one used year after year, an oddly reassuring cuboid of plastic. A few exploratory bites revealed pulsating white maggots that we spewed out in disgusted learning. At the end of the process, hands bleached with bloody juices and the declining summer sun sighing, we returned home. Mum soaked the blackberries in hot water overnight. The next morning the water’s stained surface looked like the sea after a shipwreck: bobbing on the surface where dead maggots, sometimes still squirming when pressed; sailors with a few remaining breaths. Only when drained, could the real tasting begin. We were given a samples but the majority of the fruit was fated for something far grander: a blackberry crumble pudding. The crunch of biscuit topping over the slab of sugary fruit truly marked the bitter-sweet end of summer.
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AuthorA poetic-essay style blog with a limit of 365 words. 365 like the days of the year - my name being one of those days! Archives
March 2020
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