There's something truly special about the tradition of blackberry picking with my family. Each year, as the summer days begin to wane and autumn whispers on the breeze, we eagerly anticipate our annual trip to our secret blackberry spot—a hidden gem known only to us. It's a place that holds countless memories, where the excitement of the hunt for those perfect, ripe berries is matched only by the joy of sharing the experience together.
Timing, as always, is everything. We’ve learned from years of experience that if we venture out too early, the blackberries aren’t ready—still tart and clinging to their stems. Wait too long, and someone else might discover our secret location, leaving us with only the picked-over remains. This year, as we approached the season, I was anxious to get the timing just right.
The weather on the day was perfectly calm and warm—well, warm for Wales anyway. There was a soft breeze, and the sky was a serene shade of blue, dotted with a few lazy clouds. The conditions seemed ideal for a successful outing, but there was something a little different this year. The blackberries were already plentiful, a little earlier than we’ve seen in the past. Perhaps it was the mild winter we had or the wet, mild spring and summer that seemed to have coaxed the berries into ripening ahead of schedule. Whatever the reason, it felt like nature was giving us a gift, and we were more than ready to accept it.
As we arrived at our spot, there was a familiar sense of excitement in the air. The children rushed ahead, baskets in hand, eager to find the juiciest berries before the rest of us could claim them. The bushes were heavy with fruit, their deep purple clusters practically inviting us to pick them. With each pluck, the baskets began to fill, and the laughter of the kids mingled with the occasional call of a bird overhead.
There’s a certain rhythm to blackberry picking that feels almost meditative. The gentle pull of a ripe berry, the way it gives way just at the right moment, and the satisfaction of seeing a basket slowly fill up—it all feels so grounding. But beyond that, it’s the conversations we have, the silly jokes, and the shared moments of discovery that make this tradition so cherished.
Of course, blackberry picking isn’t without its challenges. The occasional thorny branch reminded us that the best berries often require a bit of effort and maybe even a tiny scratch or two. But that’s all part of the experience. The rewards far outweigh the minor inconveniences, and the kids wear their scratches like badges of honor.
By the end of the day, our baskets were brimming with blackberries, each one a symbol of our collective effort and a reminder of the simple joys of life. As we made our way back home, already dreaming up recipes for jams, pies, and maybe even a little blackberry wine, there was a deep sense of satisfaction that only comes from spending quality time together in nature.
This annual tradition has become more than just a family outing; it’s a celebration of the season, of togetherness, and of the simple pleasures that can be found when we take the time to slow down and appreciate the world around us. As we enjoy the fruits of our labor in the weeks to come, I’ll be reminded of this day and the memories we created, knowing that we’ll do it all again next year—because some traditions are too sweet to let go.
After our successful day of blackberry picking, we returned home with our baskets overflowing with the rich, dark fruits of our labor. The excitement didn’t end with the picking, though—there was still much to do before we could fully enjoy the bounty we had gathered.
Once home, we set up a little assembly line in the kitchen to sort and wash the blackberries. It’s a task we’ve perfected over the years, with everyone knowing their role. The kids carefully picked through the berries, separating the plumpest ones from the occasional leaf or twig that had hitched a ride. Meanwhile, I rinsed the blackberries in cool water, watching as their deep purple hue deepened, readying them for their next destination—the freezer.
Freezing the blackberries is our way of ensuring that we can enjoy the taste of summer long after the season has passed. We spread them out on baking trays, allowing them to freeze individually before transferring them into bags. This way, we can grab just the right amount whenever we need them, without them sticking together. As I closed the freezer door, it was satisfying to know that we had a treasure trove of berries waiting for future crumbles, smoothies, and perhaps a jam or two.
With plenty of blackberries set aside for the coming months, it was time to indulge in some immediate gratification. I knew exactly what I wanted to make—a blackberry and rhubarb crumble, a family favorite that never fails to delight. And luckily, I didn’t have to go far for the other key ingredient. Just a few steps out into the garden, and I was standing beside our rhubarb patch, which had been thriving in the mild weather.
Gathering the rhubarb was as satisfying as picking the blackberries. The thick, rosy stalks stood tall and proud, their large green leaves shading the earth below. With a few swift cuts, I had enough rhubarb to balance the sweet-tart flavors of the blackberries. Back in the kitchen, I washed and chopped the rhubarb, adding it to the juicy berries already waiting in a bowl.
As the oven preheated, I mixed the crumble topping—flour, oats, brown sugar, and butter—crumbling it together with my fingertips until it reached the perfect texture, a delightful combination of soft and crunchy. I spread the blackberry and rhubarb mixture in a baking dish, then generously sprinkled the crumble topping over it, making sure every bit of fruit was covered.
The kitchen filled with the warm, comforting aroma of baking fruit and buttery crumble as the dish baked in the oven. There’s something so comforting about a crumble—it’s a simple dessert, but one that brings so much joy with each bite. After what felt like an eternity, but was really just a short wait, the crumble was ready, its golden topping bubbling slightly around the edges.
As we gathered around the table, I served the crumble in generous portions, each one accompanied by a scoop of vanilla ice cream that began to melt and swirl into the warm fruit. The combination of tart rhubarb, sweet blackberries, and creamy ice cream was pure perfection. Every spoonful was a reminder of our day together—the laughter in the blackberry bushes, the teamwork in the kitchen, and now, the shared satisfaction of enjoying the fruits of our labor.
This annual tradition of blackberry picking and turning our harvest into a delicious treat is more than just a family activity; it’s a celebration of the season, of nature’s gifts, and of the simple pleasures that bring us closer together. As we enjoyed our crumble, there was a sense of contentment that only comes from the effort of a job well done and the joy of sharing it with those you love.