One day, I picked blackberries in a thunderstorm. We staying with friends in Sevenoaks and their children came to help us, their mouths crammed with berries, their faces streaked with juice. The grass was watered with dew and warm metallic rain splashed our faces, the sky grumbled, rolling its clouds. We picked fat, squishy ones, sweet with sugar; smaller, meaner ones with grainy pips, whilst the sky flickered, closing in with menacing growls.
We walked back with berries oozing from plastic bags, rolling around bowls and jars and cups. Some berries made their way into pies and jam, but most went into blackberry wine: dark as love; sweet as summer.