I have been a-foraging. I have cuts, bruises, scabs, grazes and thorns in my feet (because I was in a hippy happy mood and wanted to wear my sandals in the sunshine) and up my arms. Thankfully my face has remained un-harmed by my endeavours into "Death by Blackberry Bush".
The dog found it all vastly amusing and sat huff-huffing behind me as I balanced on my tippy-toes, reaching for just-one-more-black-berry... and went arse over tit into the bushes. MY GOD they have the tiniest little thorns on them that weave their way under your skin like splinters. I really wanted my mummy. At least twice.
She used to take us (my baby bruvver and I) blackberrying on the way home from school, every September. We'd get home with purple fingers and faces, and decide that we were going to come and live in the brambles and feast on the berries for ever and ever and ever...
... until one of us would say "I bet you ate a maggot".
Aren't kids lovely... I used to tell my brother that we found him in a dustbin.
Where were we? Blackberry Ice Cream.... Oooooh.... right... I inherited my dad's decrepit Ice Cream maker and have only recently pulled it out of the attic and cleaned it up so's I can play. I have never, ever made ice cream before. Definitely. Not at college. Not in my yoof. Not in my house. Not in my life.
I have now made blackberry ice cream.
I will be making it again.
I will not be telling anyone next time.
I will not be sharing it.
You won't want to, either.
