It is a week of alternating sunny days and soaking days, with the occasional mashup of sunny downpours to add spice. The humidity on the hot days is punishing and so we try to keep Lyra’s walks to the woods or the river, where at least she can jump in to cool down. A planned strip out at the groomers has to be cancelled due to a massive downpour, so she is sweltering under the floof and, for once, happy to move into the shade. I feel compelled to offer up the last of my chicken stock in jumbo lolly format which leads to some (surprisingly successful) redcurrant gravy innovation.
The river is high from all the rain and it curves and swells in glassblower loops of bottle green between the beats. The quiet tones of fishermen speculating drift up and over the bank. We spot our family of herons, neatly spaced each a few yards upstream from an angler, running interference. Perhaps there will be enough for all. Judging from the splash of jumping fish and the schools of tiny fry swarming over the cobbles at the reedy river beaches where Lyra likes to go in, it may be a good year. It is so hot I am half tempted to join her, but the thought of sticking to the car seat on the way back serves as a deterrent. The wheat is golden now, the combines will surely be running soon. A field of oilseed offers a glorious melded tapestry of green, gold, copper and a dark bruise purple from some interloping weed – another perfect possibility for my portfolio of agriculturally inspired carpets – they will need to use the American name, Canola, though. Only the deeply suspect would buy flooring called High Summer Rape.
Walking along the line of the woods, at the edge of the wheat and barley fields, there is now a sultry heaviness in the air, with an ever present hum of bees from five foot tall thistles towering above the swelling brambles. Along the track, scent pockets, telling of warm wet raspberries further in the undergrowth, tantalise. It is almost impossible not to drift off into vague imaginings. Then suddenly, a tiny twitch at the end of the track pulls my focus on a young red deer. Lyra snuffles away, blithely unaware and I creep closer, glad of my stealthy recuperation trainers. The deer and I exchange stares for a long time before it jumps away, following the line of the field, not in any hurry I think. We carry on, broadly in the same direction but taking the shadier path through the woods (and past some more accessible raspberries). Mum is lagging behind, fussing over Lyra, who is snuffling up all the best unspeakable smells at the edge of the track, and I stride on to come face to rear with the same deer. I turn to wave to Mum but it is gone, melted into the trees.
Lyra spends the weekend with Lachlan and his cats (I understand an uneasy detente has been reached) and Mum and I resolve to go raspberry picking, Lyra not being keen on this activity. We set off armed with a Jacobs cheese biscuit tub. The rain over the last few days has made some of them a little watery, but where the canes have been sheltered there are still some perfect, bitingly acid, fruits. Previous pickers have left trails in the long grass to help us find the more accessible canes (most are defended behind shield walls of brambles). Up the hill I find several canes of golden raspberries. They are a rather lovely velvety cream colour and taste fine. These have not been so well picked by the previous foragers which makes me muse on Darwin. Might a mutation rendering you less visible to jam making grannies be a successful one in this hotbed of preserving…? I shall be checking the pink to cream balance next year in the interests of science. With the tub half full we meander down the hill again, trying out the early ripened brambles. There is talk of trying another path but a massive downpour definitively closes play. Within two hours of getting home I have five jars of jam and feel distinctly smug.
On rainy days I am reading the Tribunal Tweets live transcripts of the Sandra Peggie tribunal with the conflicted, mortified, glee I used to feel watching Frank Spencer or The Office. This has necessitated a lot of biscuits (here and here are the recipes for the favourites so far). The transcripts are collected here (http://tribunaltweets.substack.com ) for anyone who can face the cringe/outrage. Remember to stock up on biscuits first. I found a good hack back at the border afterwards with my Japanese sickle proved an appropriate corrective.
