D'you want yer drive tarmacing missus?

The time - a couple of years ago - October half term week
The place - here and up on the hills
The people - Himself, myself and two youngest children
Animals - two labs and a JRT

There we were in the really scruffy clothes one wears to carry out the cleaning of chicken sheds, these were not just untidy these were 'next stop- bonfire' type and by the time we had finished our chore they smelt pretty awful as well! We had finished our horrible task and feeling a bit sorry for the boys because it was a beautiful day, I gathered up some sandwiches, a flask and some fruit for an impromptu picnic up on the hills behind us. It was a gloriously clear day and we had great fun pointing out distant landmarks, identifying hills and distant Welsh mountains. We rooted around in the old squatters cottages and wondered how they lived in such cramped conditions- but they sure had good views!

We walked quite a way along the old roads and the sheep tracks eventually finding a hollow out of the stiff breeze, we sprawled out in the heather to have our picnic. There was not another soul to be seen, the only company we had were the partridge darting about and a couple of ravens watching us from a craggy rock nearby. The boys wandered off playing in the heather, rolling and hiding, jumping and squawking with the dogs. I think I probably dozed in the sunshine only to be rudely awoken by the boys, "What are these mum, what are these?" with grubby hands outstretched full of red berries.

The Stiperstones hills are renowned for the whinberry (or blueberry) harvest that runs from June to Setember. During those months the hills are covered with people picking away for all they are worth - ever tried Whinberry Pie? In years gone by the whinberry harvest was a way of supplementing a meagre income and whole families would spend days on the hill picking. 'You picked your clothes and boots off the hill' was a quote I remember from 'Never on A Sunday'. There is however another berry that was harvested to a lesser degree that to some is called 'cranberry' but is also known as 'cowberry'. These small, hard berries are bright red and are much smaller than the cultivated cranberry we see in bags at Christmas time. There was no market for them so they were used much more in the home than the whinberry. It was possible to simply bottle these berries in cold water, the juice would be later sweetened with honey for colds and coughs whilst the softened berries would be baked in a tart.

Now I love making preserves of all kinds, jams, jellies, chutneys -you name it and I make it - the boys renamed the kitchen ' The Pickle Factory' because of the smell of boiling vinegar in the autumn, which has become the name I use on my labels. So knowing these berries were not poisonous I set my team of pickers a task - to fill their sandwich boxes with the little red berries for mother to make something with! They are used to these sort of tasks, dread the PYO season, the blackberry season, the crab apple time - they have been picking fruit and berries since they could walk and never go out without pockets stuffed with bags 'just in case' -groan groan!

So there we were, bums pointing heavenward, picking frenetically when we were joined by a couple out walking - in all the right gear of course -not like us higgledy piggledy lot! Himself straightened up and passed the time of day - well that must have been a frightening spectre in itself - much too long red scruffy hair and hadn't shaved for days -designer stubble? Pah- this was the real Mcoy - red fur on the way to beard! It transpired that they were ever so slightly lost ....and were soon passed on to me to give directions back down the hill by a suitable path. It was then the very nice lady asked, "My deah, what on earth are you all picking?" I explained that they were cranberries for Christmas cranberry jelly to which she replied, "Oh how perfectly quaint----the travelling people gathering their Christmas lunch...!" She was very lucky not to end up sitting in the heather I can tell you!

I was still spitting after they were daintily picking their way off the hill - Oh how I wished I had given them the path through the boggy bit! Himself was absolutely hysterical as were the boys ...with tears running down his face he pointed to my tatty quilted jacket -"Just look at you!" he cried, "its no wonder they thought we were tinkers!"
I looked down and horror of horrors my jacket , not only tatty and smelling of chicken was buttoned up in the wrong holes- about as classy as tucking your skirt into your knickers I fear!
Himself practised his broadest Irish/Welsh/West Midlands accent on comments like, "Have yer got any scrap missus?" and "D'yer want yer drive tarmacing missus?" all the way home!

They passed us as we yomped down the road, they were in a pale green merc , they waved regally......we smiled and nodded - we knew our place! But I bet my Christmas cranberry jelly with port tasted better than theirs!