Blackberry-Picking 2013

Seamus Heaney's grave, Bellaghy

We were in Portglenone yesterday collecting vegetables for the kune kunes and decided to drive over to Bellaghy to visit Seamus Heaney's grave. It is just over a fortnight since he was laid to rest in that quiet cemetery and, it appears, that there is not a daylight hour passes that his grave is without visitors. It is a beautiful spot, Heaney's last resting place. Homely. I found myself thinking, as I've often thought at graves -  Taken far too soon. There was still so much to do.

And that is the way it is. We live and we die.

Last year when I picked blackberries I filled my ears with Sebastian Faulks' Birdsong and Nelson Mandela's Long Walk To Freedom. This year, no iPod so I just did thinking. Last year I thought about blackberry wine and jam and crumbles. Last year my audiobook blocked out anxious thoughts about my cousin Joe who was dying from a brain tumour. This year I thought of the very first Heaney poem I ever read. The blackberry one. I must have been in my early teens, the poet in his late twenties. It was the first piece of poetry I'd ever come across that spoke of the life I knew. I recognised that lust for picking.

So I picked blackberries and I got scratched and stung, my fingers stained purple and I thought about how fleeting and ephemeral life can be. We live, we die. We wither, we rot. No matter how much we love people, no matter how much we need them - they might leave us. Or we leave them.

Morbid? No. It is just life. Which is for living. The very best we can.

And that is why I will be making wine from my blackberries.

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Spit of the Devil

After a few fine, bright days the rain came back. I had made the most of the fine weather gathering blackberries and rose hips by day and making, progressing and tasting country wine in the evenings. Wednesday was a very productive day for I was out in the fields for hours berrying and listening to Nelson Mandela's 'Long Road to Freedom'. The reading was so engrossing that I probably stayed out longer than I had intended.

Nearly twenty years ago, and after a few failed attempts, I finally passed the driving test and got my driving licence. Within weeks I decided that I'd make the trip to visit my sister in Kerry. It was quite a journey back then, as roads were not as good and there were many little towns and villages that could not be bypassed. I was over ten hours on the road and by the time I got to the sister's house, ten miles west of Dingle, I was completely exhausted. It was good to get to bed that night. The only problem was that every time I nodded off to sleep I woke with a jolt, my hands on a steering wheel and the dusty road ahead of me. I've never had such an experience before or since - until Wednesday night.

That day in the fresh air and the evening sterilising, racking, stirring and tasting had me ready for a good night's sleep. My only problem was that each time I drifted off I was jolted awake, my hand stretched out to pick just one more juicy berry...

Postscript: Bert has just informed me that blackberries picked after the 29th September are 'no good.'

Who says so?
Alan Titchmarsh. He says that after the 29th September they are as bitter as gall.
Why?
Because the devil spits on them.

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Blackberries, A Funeral And An Eely Song

After the blackberries were gathered I went to my cousin's house. He'd died in the early hours of the 26th September after a long illness, patiently and bravely borne. He had enjoyed the support of a very loving family and it seemed to me that he was happy during the last year and a bit of his time on this earth. He said as much too. His funeral was on Friday past and it was a big one for he was greatly loved.

It was at the funeral of another school friend about five years ago that my cousin addressed me as 'Nelly' in the graveyard. I was surprised. Somehow I'd thought that my neighbours and relations from way back when wouldn't know about the Garden. I should have had more wit. Anyway he said he enjoyed it and ever since then I'd always thought of him when I was putting together a new posting. This following post is an old one from around that time and, I think, the sort of post he liked reading.

I'll miss thinking of him when I come to Nelly's Garden although, not as much as he'll be missed by the family who adored him.

Eels! Eels! We Like Lots Of Eels!

FROM NOVEMBER 07, 2007

Yesterday evening while excavating the freezer I found a bag of frozen eels. Bert was ecstatic for he'd forgotten we still had them. He has only recently discovered the joy of eels and he cannot believe he lived until the ripe old age of 48 before tasting them. Those of you who know him personally will hardly be surprised he took to the Lough Neagh delicacy, as eels, like most of Bert's favourite foods, fall into the category known as 'close to minging'.

That's not to say I don't enjoy a bit of eel myself but in moderation only. I couldn't gorge myself on them nor eat them on consecutive days.

Bert fried a huge panful of them, ate two helpings and set aside a large portion for today's lunch. I merely nibbled on two small pieces.

When I returned from work this evening I asked him,

Did you have a nice day darling?

He answered,

No. I had a terrible day.

Why? What happened? 

Well you know the eels I was keeping for lunch? I refried them and they were just perfect. My mouth was watering for them. I was even singing an eely song while I was buttering my sodas and making my tea. 

The one that goes, 'Eels! Eels! we like lots of eels!' sung to the air of the Bavarian Drinking Song? 

Aye. That one. 

What happened? Did you burn them? 

Pearlie rang over wanting me for something.

Oh God! Were you over there for ages and burned your eels useless? 

No! They were out on the plate waiting to be eaten. 

Oh dear. Not...?

Yes! I came back over and there was the plate sitting where I'd left it. Not an eel in sight. The plate was spotless! 

Bonnie...? Aye! She's the only one big enough to have reached it. Not one solitary eel left....

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