Every autumn, my father would load our family of five into his already ancient 1928 Morris and set off from our home in Portsmouth. Laden, as we were, with baskets, boots, crooked walking sticks, gloves and Elastoplasts, we were off blackberry picking. Apart from annual trips to collect cockles from the mud of Langstone Harbour, I loved those early autumn days more than any other. Unlike school, early-1960s television and just about everything else, they felt so very real; not just a thing to do but the thing to do.
Looking back, I think that we were revisiting the lives of our distant ancestors for whom foraging was an instinctive communal activity, one that nature rewarded with a sense of fulfilment and joy, and, in this instance, blackberries. Now those blissful days are mine every week, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends and family. However, it is still autumn that I yearn for – its sloes, crab apples, sweet chestnuts, hazelnuts, misty mornings and mushrooms.
