A tiny harvest for my love – blackberrying nostalgia

Blackberry picking NostalgiaIt’s blackberrying season!

If you want to make a lasting memory for your children, go out and get them sticky and covered in scratches. No, seriously! Even if they don’t remember the blackberries, they’ll certainly remember the wounds…..

Whilst out walking the dogs this weekend I came across a single bush of wild raspberries. They were half-hidden in the bushes and fiercely guarded by giant nettles, but in my mind was a romantic fantasy …..I would lovingly harvest these tiny rubies and carefully transport them home to my waiting love. I would present them to him in a colourful breakfast and he would delight in my rustic cache, showering me with kisses and praise. I could see it all in my mind’s eye.

Unfortunately that is where the romance ended. The only suitable vessel I had with which to carry these little crimson delicacies was a doggy poop scoop bag. Nice.

Undeterred, I fought off the brambles and nettles (all I have to say about that is ‘ouch’) and carefully stowed them in the small black poop bag. Unused. I battled with two rabbit-hungry dogs and a further mile-long walk until I reached home and unpacked them.

After a careful rinse, my jewels were ready for their Prince. He would surely be filled with nostalgia at this sight. Childhood memories of those scratchy little devils in the hedgerow.

“Darling, I brought you a present. It’s a tiny harvest of wild raspberries, picked personally just for you! What do you think?”

“Oh. Right. Cheers.”

Exit Prince.

Is it just me? Do I watch too many movies? Do your efforts to create sweet ‘moments’ in the lives of your family fall on deaf ears too?

Blackberrying Nostalgia

Perhaps when I was a kid I had to be dragged reluctantly to the blackberry fields. Perhaps I too was nonchalant and disinterested in my mother’s attempts to thrill me with wild and natural pleasures. If that is the case, then I’m certainly not sorry she tried.  Today the memories of the sweet black juice and the ever-filling bucket of sticky fruit are as ripe and fresh as ever they were in 1973 and I shall plough on feebly attempting to infuse my family with nostalgia, as long as there is breath in my body.

Ignore the sighing and get out and about with your buckets. Or your poop bags. Go make some memories!

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