Rich flickings

The annual whinberry excursion took place today. These little bloom-dusted, juice-packed, blue-black (bil/whortle/blae) berries grow best among the abandoned workings of Rosebush slate quarry where blue-grey terraces  carve up the hillside, half-concealed pits and adits lurk among the heather and piles of sharp-sided scree crush and slide underfoot. Although the industrial rawness of the place has been softened by layers of mossy  growth the area remains full of hazards and what endears it to me is the complete absence of fences, cautions and keep-out signs. Anyone is free to risk the danger of slippage, rockfall and precipice , to impale themselves on rusty ironwork or to test the icy temperature of the shadowed lake.  The crumbling cliffs and  treacherous footings add a touch of danger to the berry-picking enterprise, although as a rule the only adverse consequences are stained clothing and a damp posterior.

Today the haul was the best ever: three of us picking for a couple of hours and we came away with 19lbs. Much of the success was due to the .berry rake (or comb, or scoop), an implement used, in slightly differing versions, all around the high latitudes of the northern hemisphere where low-growing berries are the norm: Russia, Siberia, Scandinavia, Canada, New England. This one comes from Maine, USA, and was obtained for me by my good friend Guinea Pig Zero, to whom I am most grateful. Without it the picking would have been slower and sparser. (To use it you gently brush or flick or swipe  the bush with an upward motion and the loosened berries roll off and are retained on the tines.)

Extra images of the quarry, the berries haul, and the muffins son made  with  a fraction of them are here. The challenge of how to use/store all the rest I will have to tackle tomorrow.