There are quite a few runs of pretty good wild blackberry hedges around where I live in Donegal and as the roads are quiet enough too, they don't get infused with exhaust fumes so much. But this year, while nosing around a few old back roads I hit the jackpot and found a good quarter-mile of the biggest, juiciest, most bountiful blackberry bushes I've ever seen! I parked up the car and pulled out the wee bowl my daughter, Lily, had taken with us just in case we found some of these luscious fruits of the forest. It turned out that I needed to use the basin I had in the boot of the car since the last cooking demo I had done! There were blackberries as far as my eyes could see - I was like a wee boy again - smiling to myself as we picked the berries, eating almost as many as we picked! They were so perfectly ripe they almost fell off their husks into our hands.
I was reminded of when my brother and I used to stay with our aunt, Nora Boyle, a few miles out of Donegal town, for two weeks during the summer months, so that Mum could have another room for the bed and breakfast guests. Nora is a great baker and instilled in me a lot of the older Irish recipes that I still love to make. She grew fruit and vegetables at home, baked every day, dried Dillisk on bedsheets in the garden and used to send us out picking blackberries so that she could make her apple and blackberry jam to put on to the yummiest homemade treacle and gingerbread ever.
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