On the back playing fields, growing along the far edge where the children didn’t play, the raspberries grew.
I only knew about them because once I’d had a friend who lived in the houses down the lane there which backed onto that part of the field which had been left wild. It was his parents or grandparents who told him about the wild berries growing around here and he told me one summer.
Since then, I always come back here in summer to pick the wild raspberries and taste a burst of summer sweetness.
The branches hang heavy with the plum red berries which peer out shyly from large leaves. When they are ripe they fall to the long grass and bugs delight in their feast.
I bring a basket and spend a few hours taking the ripe raspberries off the plant and collecting them. Sometimes when I pause for a few moments, I put a raspberry in my mouth and enjoy it like it’s my first ever one.
At home with my prize, I put some in the freeze to keep and others I make into pies and smoothies.
I don’t know what it is but there’s something so satisfying about picking your own food.
The Story Files 