Thinking of Prince’s song, ‘Raspberry Beret’, I venture into the garden, wearing pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. It’s Sunday morning and I don’t want to frighten the neighbours…
Squinting in the July sunshine, I begin. The front rows are easy; a few deep red trophies are on display. Last year’s bargain ‘3 for £5’ raspberry canes, have sprouted into a waist-high spiky forest, several layers deep. I glimpse scarlet hiding under many green stems and leaves, that I gingerly bend out of the way. Navigating without horticultural Satnav…
Tiny thorns on stems create red blobs, if my thumbs and fingers aren’t careful. Kneeling, I brush against a web reminding me that a spider could anoint my forehead at any second. I’m a city girl, a novice playing at this garden lark, with much to learn.
Raspberry picking becomes a mindfulness practice. Little scratches on my arms are already smarting, reminding me not to get distracted. Pulling me into the present moment, paying attention to what’s right in front of me. Gentle pressure, or I’ll squish the ripest ones into jam between my fingers.
Nodding to the bees, I thank the bushes and head inside to make breakfast with the ‘homegrown’ berries from supermarket bought canes – the irony! Long sleeves might be a good idea tomorrow…