Yesterday was the annual family blackberrying trip, and a fine time was had by all.
The hedges were packed with blackberries, aswell as rosehips and haws; and were all picked to the scents of honeysuckle (still in the hedge) and fennel and the annoyance of a group of linnets. And drizzle. The panic was on because this was the last weekend we could make it before 29th September, when the devil rises from below to piss on the blackberries. I don't think we would allow the picking to go ahead after this date.
I remember when I was small we used to be sent out beyond the suburb, the cul-de-sacs and Closes, armed with buckets, and a bottle of orange Corona, to the common beyond. We wouldn't come back until all the buckets were filled and we wouldn't go up there after 29th September - my mum wouldn't allow it.
This was, and is, a truly felt tradition of folk suburb.
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