Getting fruity

I smiled when I heard the words: “Daddy. Got tummy ache, Daddy.” Delivered in a slightly whimpering tone, and accompanied by a furrowed brow and exaggerated massaging of his stomach, it seemed little Z was suffering somewhat.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am the first to rush to the aid of my little son if there is something seriously amiss but on this warm sunny Sunday afternoon we were in the car, returning from a stint strawberry picking. And yes, you guessed it, one member of our family trio had gorged rather than gathered.

The fields of Dunloe Farm were alive with the drone of bees and dancing a sway of wildflowers in the summer breeze. Amidst this idyllic scene were the bent backs of six or seven pensioners, all intent on filling baskets with sweet Haliburton strawberries.

“Pick your own eat till you burst,” I half said as we walked towards the field, remembering the words whispered to me by my mischievous granddad many years previous.   

“Daddy, what are the people doing?” inquired little Z, before bursting into an “Ooooo!” as he spotted the first of a myriad juicy red fruits. Strawberry picking to a child is as near as it gets to being let loose in the candy store.

Watching my lad’s delight brought back many similar memories from my childhood. Of being told to tread carefully between the rows. Of being instructed to pick only the reddest ripest fruits. And, of being warned not to eat too many on pain of punishment by the farmer!

My brother and I beat the system, though. Finding a particularly fruity patch, we’d lie down between the furrowed rows, and, sniggering at each other between the plants, polish off pints of succulent crimson berries. After this seriously high strawberry intake, a call from Mum would beckon us and we’d hastily throw a few into the basket before sprinting to the end of the field where we’d pool our pick ready for weighing.

“That’s not many. What were you two doing over there?” Mum asked with a knowing smile. “Are you sure you didn’t eat any?” I’d look at my brother and he back at me. Simultaneously, we’d feign horror and retort, “NO!” All the while hands frantically wiping mouths to remove the only too obvious signs of our feast. As if smearing strawberry juice from ear to ear somehow disguised our deed.

And in the car home: “Mum, I’ve got tummy ache…”

I write these words with mixed feelings. Little Z’s stomach ache doesn’t bother me. Oh no; he’ll be fine, and he’ll no doubt do it again next year, I know we did.

The reason I lament is that on a recent visit back to England I drove past the pick your own fields of my childhood. Or I think I did. Where once we pilfered those juicy red berries there is now an estate of executive homes. The faux Georgian villas and immaculate black tarmac, having obliterated the scene of many a glorious gluttonous summer stomach ache.

As is the way in that tiny island of my birth, rural land is being sold off and built up at a speed unfathomable in times when no one is meant to have any money. Where once families picked their own, now they trim verdant lawns (the size of your average horseshoe pit) and leave the strawberry harvest to immigrant workers in Brazil or Ecuador.

Where once the outing to the pick-your-own was a family treat; now, the supermarket truck delivers picked, processed, perfect (you can never find those funny shaped ones that look like bums in supermarket strawberries) fruit to the front doors of little Englanders in their phony castles. 

So, I say thank you Dunloe Farm and Haliburton County for transporting me back to my childhood; for giving us the privilege of picking our own; and, for giving little Z the tummy ache he deserved for eating one (or five) too many strawberries. See you again, same time next year.