Blackberry Picking: A Love Letter

Or, how to feel like a real person in the digital age

On a mid-September Saturday, after a week of rain, the sky over my home is sun blushed. Soft tendrils of diffused light creep around the corners of the residual cloud. I lace up a battered old pair of trainers, grab an IKEA plastic mixing bowl from the back of a cupboard, and leave my phone on the counter. Stepping outside into the fresh, brisk air, I’m ready to relish in one of my favourite Autumn activities: Picking blackberries. 

Captured by Seamus Heaney in his poem of the same name, Blackberry Picking is a quintessential part of Irish childhood. It exists in a collective muted nostalgia, a core memory rippling between generations. Especially in rural communities, like where I grew up, it signifies a turn of the season. The smell of burnt turf, sweet late-summer hay, and the skies alive with murmurations and brilliant sunsets. It’s something I treasure so deeply, becoming a rhythmic part of the cycles of my years. 

I’m incredibly lucky to live in the beautiful countryside, right by the sea. The largely unspoiled landscape, the mineral tang of sea spray creating lush growth of wild plants in the hedgerows. Brambles curl themselves into the crevices of stone walls built by hand long before I was born. It’s easy to be complacent, though - when your lunchbreak walks are in one of the most beautiful places on earth, it can still become mundane. 

Blackberry picking is the direct antidote to this sense of apathy. The deliberate act of going outside and interacting with the landscape forces me to be observant. It makes me pensive and it slows me down. It’s a methodical task rich in sensory input. I work in silence, concentrating on the task at hand, taking in only what’s going on directly around me. Popping plump, purple shining berries from their branches. The scrapes of brambles against my palms. The staining of the juice on my fingertips, gentle bruising that remains for a day or two. Noticing the spiders, insects and birds sharing the food with me. The feeling of unspoiled childlike excitement when I find a fresh patch of brambles, sagging with almost-black jewels. It reminds me of being five, doing this same activity with my father. The feeling of weightlessness as he lifted me above his head to reach higher branches, sneaking sour fruit into my mouth. I become more cognisant of how climate change is affecting my part of the world, as the harvest comes later and later. The sun stays too hot and it rains more than ever. More than anything, though, it makes me feel connected to the world around me. I’m a person, stood in a field, foraging from wild hedgerows. It grounds me in a way that’s so specifically seasonal.

I take the berries home, rinse them, and soak them in salted water as my mother taught me. While they soak, I prepare a crumble topping. Cold butter and soft white flour yield to my  touch, my body temperature melding them together into something new. Compiling this simple dish, putting it in the oven and waiting patiently. Having the sense of a job well done. I enjoy the genuine satisfaction of having worked with my hands. Having taken something from the very beginning and processed it into a dish I can share with someone I love. There’s such a simple, tender joy in seeing my partner arrive home from work, taking in the scent of the cooking I’ve put so much love in to. Gratefully accepting a bowl of hot fruit and sugar, nourishing and warming them. 

It’s really easy to feel disconnected from my own life sometimes. I work an office job, where tasks are relentless and nothing is ever fully done. I’m engaged in an endless news cycle, draining any drops of empathy I have for people I’ve never met in places I’ll never be near. I find myself hunched over my laptop, working, jaw set in place. Feeling like a brain in a jar, pickling in formaldehyde, inputting information into a void. I realise I’ve been concentrating for hours, look up, and have to adjust to being in a physical space. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy it most of the time. I’m an active consumer, and I like working a job that requires me to be thoughtful about what’s happening in the world. 

Sometimes, though, it’s nice to feel really small. To just do something from beginning to end, to complete a task that feels tangible and takes time. It feels like a meditation. A process of patience and a labour of love. Blackberry picking reminds me to slow down to a more human pace, even if just for an afternoon. If you find yourself feeling tense and anxious, caught in a stress that feels too big to comprehend, I really recommend going outside and filling a bowl with some fruit. I have a great crumble recipe if you need it.