A Monday Alone With the Raspberries

 Monday morning, and I was awake before the alarm had even cleared its throat. One of those nights where sleep and I were more distant acquaintances than old friends, tossing about until eventually I gave up arguing with the pillow and got up instead. Any of you who've had one of those nights will know the particular flavour of tiredness that comes with it. It's not quite proper exhaustion, more a sort of foggy determination to get on with the day anyway, because lying there fuming about it clearly wasn't achieving much.

So, mug of tea in hand, strong, obviously, this was not a morning for the weak stuff, I crept out of the house and left Sam and Iris exactly where any sensible thirty-one-year-old and seventeen-year-old should be at that hour: fast asleep. I did briefly consider knocking on their doors to spread the joy of my insomnia around a bit, purely in the spirit of family solidarity, but decided against it. Some sacrifices a father makes alone, and on reflection I quite like having someone to moan to about it later, rather than a house full of equally grumpy company at 5am.

There's something rather nice about having the plot entirely to yourself, though, even on tired legs. No debating who's doing what, no gentle bickering over whose turn it is to move the sprinkler, just me, the quiet, and a fair few snails looking extremely pleased with themselves about the lack of rain doing wonders for their morning commute across my path.

An Hour of Watering and Not a Cloud in Sight

First job, as it has been most mornings last month, was watering. A full hour of it, up and down with the can , because Lincolnshire has apparently decided that rain is something that happens to other counties this summer. If you're new round here, we've been in the thick of this dry spell for weeks now, and I'll be honest, I'm starting to view the weather forecast the way some people view a scratch card: more in hope than expectation.

For those of you dealing with your own hosepipe restrictions, or just a stingy sky, my one steady piece of advice remains the same. Water deeply and less often rather than little and constantly. A good long soak that gets down to the roots does far more good than a quick sprinkle that just damps the surface and evaporates by lunchtime. Early morning, before the sun gets its claws in, is by far the best time to do it, which is at least one small silver lining to being up at that hour rather than three cups of tea further into the day.

Wading Into the Raspberry Canes

Watering done, I turned my attention to the raspberries, and this is where Monday's story gets a bit more interesting, and a little smaller, quite literally.

I waded in among the canes the way I always do, half picking fruit and half getting told off by them. Raspberry canes do love a good arm-scratch if you're not paying attention, cheeky little devils. Now, I don't want to alarm anyone, but this year's berries are noticeably smaller than usual. Not tragic, not a disaster, just modest. Shy, almost, like they're not quite ready to commit. The lack of rain has clearly put the brakes on how much these fruits have been able to swell, because raspberries are largely made of water themselves, and without a decent drink going into the plant, the berries simply can't plump up the way they would in a normal, less stubborn summer.

Still, small is not the same as inedible, and I picked a fair old haul all the same. There's a particular satisfaction in raspberry picking that few other jobs on the plot quite match, that little tug as a ripe one comes away clean off the stem, versus the mild betrayal of an unripe one that clings on like it's got something to prove and simply will not let go. I'll be back at it every other day now until the canes finally tire themselves out for the season, which usually isn't long once they properly get going.

Keeping the Birds Guessing Without Spending a Penny

While I was out there, a blackbird sat in the hedge giving the raspberry canes a very meaningful stare, the sort of look that says "I've clocked those, and I'll be back." If you've got the same problem and don't fancy shelling out on proper fruit netting, old CDs strung up on string, or strips of foil cut from the kitchen drawer, work a treat tied along the canes. They twist and flash in the breeze and unsettle the birds just enough to send them elsewhere, without a penny spent or a single feather harmed. It's not the prettiest craft project you'll ever do, but it is a satisfying one when you're stood there sipping tea watching the blackbird think better of it.

A Berry With Quite a Story Behind It

While I was picking, teeth gritted against a particularly determined thorn, it occurred to me that raspberries have been knocking about this country rather longer than most people realise, so here's a little nugget of history for you, because who doesn't love a berry with a backstory.

Wild raspberries are actually native to Britain and much of Europe, and it's thought the Romans had a hand in spreading cultivated varieties as they moved around their empire. Monks in medieval monasteries carried the tradition on afterwards, growing raspberries as much for medicine as for eating. The name itself is a lovely bit of linguistic muddle, most likely tangled up with an old word for a spiced, raspberry-tinted wine, mixed together with "rasp," a nod to the roughish texture of the fruit's surface.

But the raspberry's real starring role in British history belongs to Scotland, and specifically to a Perthshire town called Blairgowrie, which grew into the beating heart of the country's soft fruit trade from the late 1800s onward. The soil and climate there suited raspberries so well that a whole industry sprang up almost overnight, complete with its own overnight train, nicknamed the Raspberry Special, which carried freshly picked fruit straight from Blairgowrie down to Covent Garden Market in London, arriving in time for the following morning's trade. For decades, whole families from nearby cities would head out to Perthshire for their summer holidays and spend it picking berries for a bit of extra money, which is either a lovely slice of social history or an early example of the working holiday, depending on how romantic you're feeling about it.

These days, plant breeders have carried the tradition on in laboratories rather than fields, quietly developing sturdier, better flavoured varieties for growers up and down the country. So next time you spread raspberry jam on your toast, you're tasting the tail end of well over a century of very determined Scottish know-how.

A Little Beauty Among the Thorns

It wasn't all thorns and small fruit, mind. Tucked in among the canes, a few late foxgloves were still nodding away in the morning light, that soft, freckled pink against all the green, and a couple of bees were making their rounds of the raspberry flowers themselves before I'd even properly disturbed them. There's something rather calming about watching a bee go about its business with such single-minded purpose while you stand there with scratched arms and a half-full punnet, wondering why you didn't wear long sleeves like a sensible person.

I did manage a photo of the light coming through the canes this morning, all soft and golden with the dust still hanging in the air from the dry ground. Some mornings deserve to be remembered properly, tiredness and all.

From Sara's Kitchen

Given how much smaller this year's raspberries are, Sara's decided the smallest and slightly squashed ones, there are always a few casualties in the picking bowl, are destined for the freezer rather than the fruit bowl. Laid out on a tray so they don't clump together, then bagged up once solid. It's the easiest form of preserving there is: no sugar, no fuss, no standing over a hot pan on a morning when the kitchen's already warm enough without any help. They come out of the freezer months from now ready for crumbles, porridge, or simply defrosted with a splash of cream when winter's doing its worst and you need reminding that summer did actually happen. It's frugal too, not a single berry wasted, however small they turned out to be.

If you fancy her full method, along with what she does with the slightly better ones destined for jam, do hop over to her blog, Frugal in Lincolnshire. She's far more precise about quantities and timings than I'll ever be, my method for most things still boils down to "looks about right."

A Question For You

So tell me, ladies especially, because I know quite a few of you read this while your own kettle's on: do you have a "little and often" job on your plot or in your garden that you genuinely enjoy doing alone, even when you'd rather have the company? Or is solo gardening something you actively avoid, given half a chance? I'd love to hear how you all feel about it in the comments.

Happy growing, everyone. See you on the plot.