August 30, 2006
Fruit of the Harvest
As my grand-uncle used to say,' The evenings are bet'*. I set off for New Quay yesterday evening before eight, as the evening sun beamed down on Renmore. From my kitchen window, the Clare side of Galway Bay is only eight miles away. But driving there is a circuitous route to Oranmore and Clarinbridge, turning at Kilcolgan for Kinvarra, and then on to New Quay, at the foot of Abbey Hill.
By the time I go to the Martello Tower at Finavarra Point, it was nearly dark, and it was just nine o clock! Where did the summer go? I had a specific mission yesterday evening - to collect blackberries. Last Sunday, walking around Cornamona with the Walking club, there was as much time sent gathering blackberries as walking [the bags that the walkers are holding in this picture are full of berries. And yes, it is mainly women who walk in the club - think how hard it is for the likes of me to get a word in edgeways **]. Now, from previous years, the lane leading up to the tower in Finavarra is covered in brambles laden with fruit. However, when I got there last night, there wasn't one to be seen. Holy local microclimates, Batman, what's going on?!?
In hindsight (and that's how I solve most problems), the answer was obvious. The walk in Cornamona is in a sheltered valley (start at Mac's Bar and turn right before the river bridge and then take a left onto an old bog road. Follow the stream into the valley). The valley protects the laneways from the wind whipping off Lough Corrib, and on Sunday, honeysuckle, rowan berries, blackberries and even hazelnuts were positively dripping from branches along the laneways. In contrast, the laneway at Finavarra is completely exposed, and most of the berries on the brambles have just begun to form.
It wasn't a wasted journey, though. Driving past Linnane's on the way to the tower, a juvenile cuckoo flew in front of me for about 100 yards, looking for a place to roost for the night (probably someone else's nest). And I can't think of a better place to watch the dying embers of skylight than at the Martello tower as the wind urged the tide in across the rocky shore.
This evening, I was more successful. I was hunting, not for berries, but for mushrooms. On a humid, wet and dull late summer evening, the mushies practically bloom in front of you. Despite the attentions The field has always produced a great crop of mushrooms and always in the same place - roughly betwixt the old children's grave and the old ring fort at either end of it. Despite the attentions of a herd of bullocks that galloped up and down the field, kicking over some of the precious crop (but friendlier than the last bunch I met), two bags were filled. One didn't last another half an hour. As soon as I got back to the house, the were chucked on the pan with a little oil and salt. Dear God, what a feast ! No manna that fell from the heavens can compare to freshly picked mushrooms. The other bag won't last much longer. We are approaching the month of the harvest - time to eat our fill.
* sic beaten
** and I'll get no chance if any of them read this
**Taciturn, you?
And as my grandad used say 'if you were at a loss for someone to talk to, you'd nearly go to confession!'
Posted by: Deirdre at August 31, 2006 11:08 AM