By mouth{JT}

The Ramblings of A Batologist

Generally, the first words that come out of a batologist’s mouth are “Ow,” “Shit,” and “Fuck” – well, they do mine, anyway. A batologist is not, as you might think, someone who collects and studies bats, but a person who collects and studies brambles. And I do.

I pick blackberries. to be precise. It all started on my way to work. I drive past a lovely section of a river where the blackberries grow wild and free, and every year, people go there and pick them. Mostly old folks, to be accurate. They pick the fruit, then have a stall on the side of the road with a great hand-made sign saying “BLACKBERRY JAM FOR SALE: $5”, or words to that effect. Now, God forbid, I dont want to sit in my car on a stinking hot day waiting for someone to give me five bucks, but the thought of picking blackberries was kind of appealing. Reminders of my childhood as a country girl where we’d go out and pick berries, or mushrooms on a frosty day, or the forgotten apple tree and raspberry canes growing in a vacant property (country folk gather anything for free), so I thought, “Why not?”

First of all, you have to find a secret spot.Those old folks are wiley and get up real early in the morning and strip a patch bare. I kid you not, they leave nothing.

So I discovered a secret spot, and let me tell you, I kept it a closely guarded secret. I know other people that pick, who wouldn’t hestitate to nick my spot. As luck would have it, I found my spot across the road from a small railway station. It was an abandoned paintball field, no longer used or kept tidy, and the brambles had grown real high, creating a natural wall from the passing road. I could see them from the road as I drove past and it didn’t look disturbed (batologists trample a lot of the ground down to reach the “good ones”) – probably the “KEEP OUT – PRIVATE PROPERTY” had something to do with it, but no one was around. It was an abandoned field. Yes!

At dusk one night, I parked the car in the nearby railway car park and walked around the field casually. The brambles had to be ten feet high, but that wasn’t stopping me, no siree. I ambled my way around, away from prying eyes, and at the side of the field found a natural opening. A quick glance around showed no rapists or muggers watching and I ninjed my way through a tiny gap. That was my first “Ow shit fuck” of the night as brambles tore at my hair, and not the last, I might add. Note to self: Wear a beanie next time. I got my balance after a while and took a look around. Holy moly, I had found Blackberry Mecca.

Now, as every good batologist knows, two things are needed for great blackberries: Rain and sun. And the enemy of the black luscious fruit reaching optimum growth? Wind. Plain and simple, it stunts their growth. So this ten foot wall of brambles not only kept prying eyes out, but had also created a natural thick barrier against the wind. On the inside of the field, the other side of the ten foot wall, the fruit grew thick, fat, and huge. But best of all? Untouched.

I got my plastic ice cream container and started picking. But there’s always that branch just a little out of reach, a little too far in – so you strain, go up on tiptoes, and plunge your arms into the most wicked spikes around. Rose thorns? The spines of a lion fish? Pfft. They got nothing on brambles that don’t want to yield their fruit. The ground was neglected, and I was soon falling over rabbit holes and tripping over hilly tussocks of what could loosely be called grass, only thicker, deeper and longer, landing on my arse with another of many, “Ow, shit, fucks”.

Blackberry juice stains a nice deep dark purple, and soon the color was mingling with my own blood as the brambles tore into me. I got scratches over both eyes, all down my arms, and I found out later that some vicious looking brutes had even worked their way through my jeans, tearing at my thigh. But no matter! My container was filling nicely. I had to slap the mozzies away as they honed in on fresh blood, as I picked “just one more”.

When it got too dark too see, and my self imposed one container limit had been filled, I stumbled, crawled and groped my way out of the field. No jumping over bracken and brambles now – I couldn’t see them, and I got slapped in the face many times, but finally I was back at the car, triumphant, my container filled to overflowing with great big dark luscious fruit. Ha!

I would go back many many times, swearing the obligatory words over and over to my secret spot, and I would have to say overall, it was a (kind of) pleasant, calming experience.

Now – what to do with the 47 containers of blackberries stuffed in my freezer.

Jam anyone?