Foraging

I love that word, Foraging, it feels wholesome and healthy somehow. I have been a manic forager of late as there is an abundance of blackberries near us. I used to go blackberry picking with my grandma, or ‘Mangar’ as we called her, due to the fact that I couldn’t say the word grandma properly when I was little-so it stuck!

We used to have long walks, along Mersey Rd, along Otterspool Prom and other roads that I didn’t know the name of, we always seemed to walk for miles and there was always blackberries somewhere along the route.

Now the funny thing is, I didn’t like them then, which is what brings me to writing this post. I liked the jam that followed the foraging, I liked the routine that happened in the school holidays, I like the memory of Mangar reminding us often that we mustn’t pick the low down blackberries because the Pooka spoils those ones, she was deeply Roman Catholic, Irish and the belief was that the Pooka was the devils horse. This was a far more exciting way of discouraging us from picking the ones near where dogs may go to the toilet I think.

While on a walk last week, there was a small boy with his family, his cheeks stuffed with the fruit and juice running down his chin, his grown up was telling him that she thinks he has had enough now as he has dinner at home. It was lovely to see.