Blackberry Picking

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August 28, 2012 by hattersleysmith

London; the shiny, sparkling light drawing winged graduates across the country, across the globe.  London; the centre of culture, art, business, with buzzing streets, shops, things to do and see and absorb, a rush of people and experiences and opportunities and life; I for one am currently planning to be en route to The Capital, fingers-crossed avec an exciting job in advertising, to be a part of the heartbeat of England.

It’s interesting that, come September, there seems to be a mass migration of uni leavers to The South.  As a proud Northerner from the countryside it’s something I’ve been concerned about for a while, the adaptation to city life, the way people don’t speak to you on the Tube, the noise, the crowded streets, the anonymity of it all.  But here I am starting applications for London jobs and internships, and almost all my friends are doing the same…

Today, for the first time in a long time, I started to ask myself why as I looked over bright green sheep-strewn fields, purple-mouthed and laden with a heaped Clover pot of blackberries and glowing from (and cherishing every moment of) the all too rare Northern sun.

Today at around quarter past one, letting the blackberries pretty much drip into my grubby fingers with the squelch of mud underfoot, I found myself making a silent promise to the leaves and the thorns scratching and splintering my arms and the gormless ewe glaring me down from across the field, that I’ll always come back to Yorkshire, whether that’s in two years, ten years, or twenty.

Not entirely sure why I suddenly felt so sentimental at this precise moment, maybe it’s the prospect of packing up the long collared coat, the heels and the iPad and leaving the Barbour, wellingtons and retriever behind…

Yorkshire has never seemed so glittery.

I brought my blackberries inside and proudly heaped them as the centre piece in the kitchen.  What were they?  A monument, a declaration of intent…

No, when I looked at my blackberries I saw hundreds of doors, a multitude of opportunities, tables laden with crumbles, pies, sorbets, jams! NOM NOM NOM!!

Screw Dickens and Ballard, I’m baking tonight!

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