We are in the process of moving house, so I have decided to move in0to my parents house with a few children, whilst the husband and eldest son finish up at our old house. My parents live just down the road from our new home, so in theory, this is going to make everything run smoother ?! I have spent nearly a year clearing out all our unnecessary possessions, so we now all own a small collection of clothes and about 700 books (plus a few other essentials). The 700 books and other essentials are in my parents extensive loft, whilst we all live out of bin bags. It is complete chaos and despite the house being a grand gothic victorian building, with many large rooms, we are all on top of one another and need space! My parents are generous and hospitable, but are not used to the hurly burly of children any longer and need peace. I also need peace, but have no choice, so the children and I find ourselves enjoying lots of the beautiful Yorkshire countryside around us. We walk in the woods, the fields and country tracks. Today, as it’s August and blackberry season, we go in search of the seasonal fruit.
Tumbling down a lumpy track looking to and fro for fruit, we mither among the hostility of the brambles and young nettles. As we walk, we see a crooked looking man, bent over with a walking stick, hooked nose and battered wax jacket. He comes hobbling towards us, clutching his own bag of juicy, squashed blackberries. “Stealing my blackberries?!” he accuses. I nervously smile and engage him in, what transpires to be a, not so brief and actually quite intimate synopsis of his life.
The man is a failed pig farmer, from one of the surrounding villages, who after doing away with pig farming, diversified into dog food. He told me his main passion was horses and how he was a great rider in his younger day. He had married a younger, Irish woman, who was apparently “mad as a hatter”. They had moved to central France, taking 6 horses with them, but she had apparently lost interest in horses (and him) and started drinking and reading Mills and Boon novels. Before long, she had an affair and divorced him.
“She was obviously reading the wrong book”, I quipped, “She should have been reading the Good Book!” Brushing off this comment with a glint in his eye, he told me he had had his own fair share of affairs, being dark and handsome in his younger days! I looked at him, bent over and aged, and saw in his eyes, a dark, handsome young gent on a horse. A man, who at heart, was still young, yet a body that was wearing away.
I changed the subject from affairs and asked if he knew the local farmers around these parts? I always ask about farmers and fields. Maybe in the hope that one day someone will offer me a field, to keep a cow in! He shook his whispy grey and black streaked hair and said he only knew of the cousin of our farmer neighbour who had squandered his farm and land on drink and now lived in a council bungalow close to where we stood. I knew this story very well and had often heard our farmer neighbour lament about his ‘foolish’ cousin.
The conversation soon came up for air, back into the realm of blackberries and apple trees. The man told us about a prolific apple tree that drops it’s apples by the dozen in autumn, but was clear he would not tell us its whereabouts. We exchanged names and said our goodbyes, continuing our journey in opposite directions from one another. A crooked man with a colourful past, or maybe more accurate, a colourful man with a crooked past!
Following the edging of the farmers field, we anticipated some blackberries along the wall, hidden by brambles that the crooked man may have missed. Unintentionally prepared in trousers and jumper, I courageously and heroically stamped down all the nettles and crunchy tangles, in order to pick some blessedly large juicy fruits. These were then thrown unceremoniously into a tupperware, as little purple, stained, grubby hands pick out the best ones and eat them immediately. The walk continues quite predictably, until we reach the last leg of the journey, up a dusty track where the blackberries are small and mishapen. I pick a few before we meet another gentleman who stops to greet us. He is not an interesting man, but pleasant and spends his time conversing with the children. He is barely able to hold their interest, despite having a very well behaved dog at his heel. The children pet the dog and give it some blackberries. The gentleman has a very bulbous nose, almost cauliflour-like. I am distracted by this throughout the entire, uninteresting conversation, almost worried about how one would get a nose like that. He goes onto say he is the treasurer for the local church, which I thought may explain his dull manner. What a boring job, I felt, but didn’t say it. He did not converse for long as he was on his way to the pub. As we said goodbye and went on our way, I created the idea that the alcohol he drinks at said pub is the reason for the nose to become such a blight on an otherwise ordinary face.
Onwards we continue and turn left along an overgrown path, where the blackberries are back to large and juicy. I spend more time stomping on brambles to get to the far back hidden berries. I am stung and prickled, whilst the children have entirely given up. A wiry, intelligent-looking man needles past us, making quick conversation with the children as he speeds on by. He is a positive, helpful type of person, I felt.
As we near our final destination, we have one last hurdle. I hide the blackberry tupperware under my jumper and sidle past a house with feigned confidence. This man does not like ‘interlopers’ picking blackberries along ‘his’ lane, despite not picking any himself. Having been born and raised in this village, I’m not sure if i qualify as an ‘interloper’, however I surreptitiously pick a few of the best berries, just three foot before we pass his window. We casually stroll past the window, before breaking into a run and giggling, we all arrive back on safe ground.
As I close my eyes in bed that evening, the meowing of my parents tom cat, Pushkin, signals the introduction of a mouse into the house. Next comes the squeaking and scrabbling of this macabre cat and mouse game! Then an eventual silence, which finally allows my senses to rest. Later in the night, I make sure I two-step into the bathroom, concerned about stepping in any squelchy remains. The morning light would tell all.
