Late September in the Alps, still warm enough for shorts and t-shirts, but the golden sunlight caught in the strings of spider silk above the meadows a reminder that Autumn is around the corner.
We were looking for some blackberries, and I am sure the cheeky things were hiding when they heard us coming. Down in the valley, we could see but no longer hear the bustle of the city, our daily lives. My daughter’s buggy was hard to push along the dirt tracks, and my son was whining that his legs hurt and he didn’t want to walk anymore.
We were about to head back empty-handed when we came upon unexpected treasures: An abandoned orchard covered in the most delicious plums, then a single giant blackberry bush. I worked on the lower branches while T picked above my head. When we had enough for a tart, we gave in to the children’s whining and headed back, hands covered in spikes and blue juice. T excitedly suggested that we wrote down all the good wild fruit picking spots so we could remember them for next year, and we discussed a promising spot for blueberries and raspberries.
On the way down, “I gotta feeling” played on the radio, we all sang along, waving madly in the car and startling rush hour drivers.