A Year in my Fenland Kitchen

When my girls were small, we would often stay with my mum in the West Country, usually at the end of the long summer holiday, just as August slipped away into September. Long, slow days, bathed, it always seemed, in soft summer light. Little people are creatures of habit and a walk along the length of Warmley Brook, to the local wildlife centre for pond dipping and a drink in the café was always a must. The brook was at the bottom of a steep hill and following its course took you past the church, perched high up on a mound, where mum and dad now lie buried, over stiles, and through ancient woodland, with a steep, rocky bank on one side and the babbling brook a constant companion on the other. Invariably, we took a container or two in which to collect blackberries. Maybe it’s the hunter/gatherer instinct buried deep in our DNA, but foraging of any sort is always accompanied by a frisson of excitement. With a handy stick to beat back the worst of the thorns, the containers soon filled up