... Picking Blackberries. Far, far away.
This morning Lebowski and I took a stroll to the Corpus Christi Playing fields, over the railway tracks.
We spotted lots of blackberries. I've been meaning to pick some all week and keep forgetting to bring out a punnet to collect them. All I had on me was a 'poo bag' (without poo, I hasten to add!)
There were some lovely bushes full to the brim with ripe berries, ready for the picking. I managed to collect 1.5 kilos of them, however, I made sure I left some for the wasps and birds and spiders too.
Whilst picking the blackberries it made me think about fairy tales - the use of brambles and thorns and overgrown forests. It all seemed quite enchanting and peaceful... until Lebowski started barking that is!
According to folklore legend, on the 10th October the Devil pees on the blackberries and they become unfit to eat.
Lebowski was rather impatient and continued to whine and bark at me every time I stopped at another bush. I did try to explain that she wouldn't be complaining when she's having toast and jam!
We discovered a plant which seemed as if it was related to Lebowski...
We also spotted the places where the deer had been lying the night before. I really like the different directions of the flattened grass, it seems to possess lots of movement.
When I got home I rinsed the blackberries and left them to drain on a clean tea towel, ready to turn into jam. I have been trying to find an interesting blackberry jam recipe, and thought about adding vanilla. We'll see.....
When I got home the smell from the blackberries reminded me of when I was a child, picking blackberries with my Mum by the cemetery. I remembered all the little worms crawling out of them when she left them to soak before making them into jam.
Jam recipe ideas:
http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/8075/beautiful-blackberry-jam.aspx
http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/8112/blackberry---apple-jam.aspx
http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/8450/seedless-blackberry-and-elderberry-jam.aspx
http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/9293/blackberry-chilli-jam.aspx
Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
