St Michael and All Angels. Don’t pick any blackberries after today: the Devil spits on them. Or possibly wees on them. Actually, they’ve been looking a bit sad for a while now. There’s the odd one or two that still look tempting, but mostly they’re all very shrivelled.
It’s definitely getting to the end of the fruit harvest. As always, there has been more than I could triage despite my best efforts. Not so much in the way of apples and pears, this year (the apples mostly went bad and fell before they got good); a few raspberries eaten straight off the canes; loads of Victoria plums; the most greengages we’ve ever had.
Yesterday I filled four carrier bags with grapes – too small and pippy for eating off the stalk, but enough people from the local free-sharing Facebook group wanted some to make it worth the picking. Again, we’re approaching the end of the harvest: I passed some bunches over for being either mouldy or wannabe raisins, and the recipients will have to pick them over before making wine or jelly or whatever it is they’re going to do with them.
Last night I made baked apples: the last three from the tree. There’s still a punnet of greengages in the fridge. I think I’ll make another plum torte. Green, not purple, in this case.
And everything else will have to be for the birds, or the invertebrates, or the compost bin. Or, I suppose, for the Devil to leave his bodily fluids on. Time to accept I’ll never get to everything, and move on.
