Easy pickings

Blackberry picking has to be one of the most enjoyable September past-times. No, I have not suddenly become a thieving pykey, rifling the heavy pockets of city folk for e-gadgetry. (Ooh…bit political, so bludgeon me with a sprig of heather.)

Au contraire.

I have been trawling the bounteous Gallic hedgerows for plump, bluey blackberries of the sweetest, juiciest persuasion. Our bulging butts (of rainwater) signal that this year a bumper crop of Rubus fruticosus awaits, lurking with dark promise. Stained of finger and lip, Sprog and I tramp happily for hours, collecting enough berries for pies, crumbles and triple star Michelin belly rolls.

I think I might try jam. Although, I have to agree with Mrs Beeton, I find jam a bit of a head-fuck. It’s a bit too scientific. Too precise. I want to wear my mauled, chocolate-stained Asterix pinnie, not a white lab coat. All those boiling temperatures. Thermometres. Sterilising jars. Labels, ferchrissakes.I can’t be arsed with that.

For me, cooking is all about instinct. It’s a creative thing. You do what feels right. Sometimes, you have spectacular disasters, admittedly. And sometimes, most of the time actually… I don’t.…I drive Spouse insane because I can never replicate a culinary masterpiece. But this sharpens him up, makes him appreciate my efforts all the more. He knows he has to enjoy it….he’ll never get it again.

So, in my usual altruistic fashion, I have collected a few blackberry-hunting tips to help fellow pickers in their endeavours:

Don’t wear slingbacks

Do use tough containers to gather berries. Plastic bags rip on brambles, spreading your precious booty all over the place and shattering the rural silence with vulgar effing and jeffing.

Don’t pick low growing berries – Cocking. Canines. Legs. Comprends?

Don’t let a squirrel know you’re scared or it will really take the piss. At this time of the year they are obviously very territorial and protective of their scavenging rights, rabid little tree-rats.

Do wear purple.

When in France, dive into the hedge and hide if you see anyone else blackberry picking – they will only scold you and tell you that only they have picking rights to this particular line of hedge, and have done for the last three centuries. They’ll be talking complete bollocks, but who needs the aggravation? Pas moi.

Wear an orange helmet

If you see an enraged wild boar, throw your helmet at it.

If you see a drunken hunter pointing his rifle at you, do your best not to look like an enraged wild boar. Blow him a kiss and ask him politely if he can point you in the direction of the bibliotheque.

Just because they’re called blackberries doesn’t mean you pick any old berry that is black – unless you fancy a cut-price colonic at the polyclinique. Pick with discernment, my dears, as my darling Grandmother used to say to my sisters and I. Fell on deaf ears,unfortunately.

Tread quietly. Blackberries are known to be timid.


You will find a pair of secateurs and a long stick useful. Elastic bands would also be useful, but not on this occasion.

To avoid limb-loss, wait until heavy farm machinery has cleared sunflowers and evacuated immediate area, before attacking interior of hedgerow.

When the going underfoot is slippery, resist the temptation to grasp electric fences for support.

If you see a bear, don't panic. He'll probably just be on his way to the bibliotheque to change his books.

Don’t sing folk songs – this will annoy everyone within earshot, from the woodlice at your feet to the buzzards in the sky, who will probably shit on you.

Don’t smear yourself liberally with blackberry juice and knock on your front door, hoping for your husband’s touching display of horror/despair and sobbing call to the SAMU. If he notices at all, he’ll just ask that you clean yourself up before using the car.

One final tip. Don’t be afraid to experiment with new culinary combinations. Blackberry and apple is delicious, but perhaps you could be a little more daring? Why not try juxtaposing blackberry sweetness and apple tartness against the herbal tang of sheep poo? Surprisingly good. Yes…you’ve guessed it…another one of my happy accidents in the kitchen. Note to self – wash all fruit thoroughly next time.

You just wait…next year ‘Tarte aux pommes, avec les mures et les crottes de mouton’ will be on all the cutting-edge, forward-looking Parisian menus.

Happy picking.

Over my dead body

Sprog wants a motorbike.

In France, you can legally ride one on the road at fourteen years of age.

He tells me when nine years have past, he will be riding a motorbike. He will be on the lookout for fun and frolics on his own – Maman will not have to drive him anywhere.

No.

Maman will be sitting at home, chewing her nails to the quick, tearing her hair out and suffering wave after wave of panic attack.

No.

This is how events will actually unfold.

Sprog will be taught to drive a car at seventeen. Once he has passed his test, I will purchase for him an armoured Volvo. Whilst he is still my responsibility he will never have a motorbike.

Now I have to convince him that this option is equally exciting. Go-faster stripes seem a bit...hypocritical of me. Mixed messages and all that. I suppose he is only five years old...perhaps I'm worrying too much.

Leave cancelled

If the greasy film of crud coating my keyboard is any indication….I have been away some time. My mind is a complete blank. I have no memory of the past few weeks. Is it possible the aliens stole my brain? Perhaps they needed somewhere to store their socks. Those guys sure had a lot of feet. Here’s my hot tip – forget Armenia as an emerging market. If Manolo, Jimmy and Mr Clark opened outlets on Jupiter, they’d clean up.

I am actually back on planet earth, flip-flops/wellies (open shutter and delete accordingly) planted firmly on the ground. It’s my favourite time of year. La rentrée. Everyone, kids and drones alike, have returned to their desks – leaving all the more of la belle France profonde free and empty for me to enjoy. All the grockles have returned to the cities and the village is breathing slow and easy once more.

The weather is beautiful. Still and warm. The only sounds are sheep bells and the thin cry of a buzzard up high. I spent last week in Blighty – it rained constantly and I saw the sun once, but that was on TV so it didn’t count. When did British newsreaders become so irritating, patronising, whiney, plasticky, fatuous, and frankly, dim?

We didn’t pack coats. Sometimes I worry for us (evidently not enough on this occasion.) We got soaked walking from car to supermarket. So wet. Someone was standing, just off-screen, hurling buckets of water at us. Sideways. Dripping.

What else?

Err. We did a big rellie-meet. Extended family. Being friendly to strangers. Doesn’t come naturally. I have to admit, a little social lubricant was required. Then, soon enough…I was everyone’s bezzie mate. It wasn’t appreciated when I dripped my glass of red over the parchment of the family tree. Fancy leaving it rolled out over the dining table. Der. I found out I’m distantly related to King Kong. Honestly. His great grandmother’s cousin’s brother, was a circus ringmaster and apparently used to take liberties with the lady-chimps. Et voila! I always thought there was something disconcertingly simian about Aunt Esther.

Hey guess what? We’re skint again! Yay! But when you live in such a beautiful, fab place, surrounded by those you love, it’s not so bad. We are stinking rich in ways that matter so much more. I sound drunk. I’m not. Except, perhaps on life.

So, a cheerful Mya signs off. My fecund jardin calls, I’m off to pluck, pick and plunder the fruits of the cinnabar soil.I promise to come back soon. Have a great day now! Mwah xxx