Turning our bicycles at Larkin’s We head towards Gillogue Dad carrying a tin can jumps the low wall stomping down nettles on his way to the lower field to pick the biggest juiciest blackberries you ever saw. Mam sits on a fallen tree trunk mothering the baby as we pick at our height and run slithering on cow dung to thunder handfuls into her can our fingers and mouths purple. All containers full we head back to the Parish to feast on hot blackberry jam spooned over thick slices of Tubridy’s black crusted cottage the juice running down our contented chins. Written by: Mae Leonard
