It's been a hazy, misty week this week. That type of weather in which it doesn't rain, yet you somehow get home soaked to the skin. That clammy kind of wet. It's hard on your chest and you begin to cough like you're a 40-a-day smoker.
Yes, I know, I'm discussing the weather. How utterly boring I am?!
In my defence, it has put a dampener on my most favourite aspect of this time of year: blackberry picking.
Illness prevented it last week. The week before, holiday. This week it also looks a bust because of the fog and rain. I am sad. If I can't get to go soon, the season will be over.
Blackberry picking was a thing I loved to do as a kid. I still have fond memories of it.
My eldest brother would bring us. We would be mucked up to the eyeballs, hands black from the juice and pockets full of conkers that we'd find along the way. The smell of fire fermented the air as smoke rose from chimney-pots in the near distance. And the aroma of stew would hit you the second you stepped over the threshold of home, leaving your muddy boots in the porch.
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