A few days ago I noticed a blackthorn thicket, a mesh of interlaced thorny branches protecting its crop of sloes. After a frost had bletted the fruits, I returned with a plastic box, eager to pick the little blue black sloes, but found that most had already gone.
This meant reaching high into the scrub to winkle out the leftovers while a flock of long tailed tits restlessly called sis-sis-sis through a line of hazels. The sound of the hedgehopping birds and the foraging for sloes exemplified autumn for me.
Picking sloes is not a job that can be done quickly. Each movement of the arm has to be carefully choreographed through the network of vicious spines.
It’s impossible not to be in the moment, an exercise in mindfulness, for the long thorns that give it its botanical name of Prunus spinosa can cause serious wounds.
The stocky tough bushes were covered in lichens: foliose lichens like silver pompoms, golden lichens pressed flat on the bark.
There was a further tangle of blackthorns lower down the slope, and these were still loaded with fruits.
Edging sideways through ferns and brambles, I clambered over fallen timber that was mossy with age. Here the lack of light had produced flimsier trees, so it was possible to arch down the blackthorn branches, making the oval yellow leaves fall all around me.
It was satisfying to hold a palmful of cool sloes, to see the box filling up where it nestled among bugle leaves.
My mother made sloe gin every year, passing the autumn ritual on to me. Now I sit at the kitchen table piercing each bitter fruit with a skewer.
There are short cuts involving the freezer, but after picking in a thoughtful way, an equally slow method of preparing feels right. Into a swing stoppered bottle, topped up with sugar and gin, they will steep in the cool of the larder until New Year.
Then the fire and sweetness of the ruby liquid will be a reminder of a cold November day.
