I've got terribly distracted cycling along the line of the old light-railway and started brambling. My fingers are stained a purple so dark as to be almost black, and so are my lips. I (and others both two-legged and four) have kept this section of bramble-hedge picked carefully bare over the last few weeks but the few days just past have been the most perfect bright dry autumn I can remember, and the sun has ripened more than enough of a new crop to satisfy demand and keep me happy for a good few minutes at least.
I scan the hedgerow, looking for the next ripe one; there's the sharp green of the completely unripe, blending into the leaves. Scattered here and there is the glowing, translucent red of those I'll not be eating till next week. All of these I pass by, of course.( more brambling here! )
I lose track of time amid the close concentration of the search and the carnal pleasures of tasting each sweet berry while basking in the heat. Eventually, though, I find that I've picked the patch bare of the finest and ripest and finally move along. Brambling is done for today – but not yet for the season. I'm glad to say.