Picking Blackberries

I'm on a bit of a healthy living kick at the moment.  Well, since Wednesday.  It is all Italian Foodie's fault.  She mentioned on Twitter that she wanted to lose a little weight and get fit and then it snow balled.  Before I knew it I was signed up to fatbet and rooting out my runners.  It has come at a pretty good time to be honest.  I've got a nice holiday to Barcelona coming up soon and every time I even contemplate trying on my bikini I swear I can hear that thing sniggering, "not a feckin' hope love", from inside the wardrobe, and the scales has taken to walking back and forth in the bathroom with a placard. Really, there was no need for him to scrawl 'no more heifers' on it.  Anyhoo, as part of my efforts to get in shape a daily walk has been added to my routine.  As I was out walking this morning I spotted some big, juicy blackberries weighing down the bushes that lined the pathway and I was instantly transported back in time.

When we were younger we would spend our summer days in Clontarf Baths.  In the evenings when it was time to go home we would gather up our bits and bobs and throw our bags on our backs.  Mam would give us a choice once outside, "we can get the bus, or, we can walk and you can spend your bus fare in the shop".  It was the same every night, and the answer was the same every night too.  "We'll walk and spend our bus fare".  So off we would trot, our 30p bus fare safely nestled in our pockets, the orange sun, low in the sky and radiating just enough heat to dry our still drenched hair.

We would reach the shop just before we had to turn off the sea front for the last half of our walk and our 30p was just enough to purchase a Loop the Loop.  A few minutes of blissful silence followed as we happily munched and slurped our way right down to the lime layer and then made our lips sting from repeatedly pulling the stick through them to ensure we had extracted every last drop of refreshment.

As the days drew closer to the end of summer a change would occur in the bushes and brambles that lined our way.  One night, out of the blue and as if by magic the familiar green would be gone, hidden behind a myriad of delicious, enticing blackberries.  Once this change had occurred we would leave the path, manouevre our bodies through the hole in the fence to walk through the grass and harvest a feast.  Bags would be pulled from backs and rooted through ferociously to find anything suitable to transport our precious cargo home.

Mam would comment that we could bring them home to dad and she would bake something nice for him.  A genuine intention but by the time we reached our hall door there would barely be enough left to prove their existence.  With berry stained lips and fingertips we would proffer forward a tiny handful for dad to enjoy.  They would sit on the little table beside his arm chair in whatever beaker, or flask or other make shift container we had to hand until we were safely nestled in bed, exhausted and with the smell of the sea still clinging to our hair and sun kissed skin, dreaming of doing it all again the next day.