This afternoon I enjoyed a reprieve from what has been a productive day off. I pushed the Shakespeare, library books, notebook and pen to one side, and set out with my father to enjoy the autumn sunshine.
We brought along an ice cream tub, and shortly we were tugging blackberries from their stalks and depositing them into the container with a satisfying thud. The brambles snagged our fingers, stained purple with blackberry juice. It reminded me of the ink which had earlier worked its way on to my fingers while I was taking notes on Charlotte Brontë.
In my mind I had prospects of apple and blackberry crumble, and homemade blackberry jam. As we walked through the familiar fields, those fields of home, countless memories leapt from the bushes, from the very views, and confronted me.
I was forced to realise this was probably the last time I would pick blackberries with my father, but the warming sunshine cured my heartache before it could take hold. Instead, I enjoyed the precious time with him, seizing the moment, one that I will treasure for always; one that will always be conjured up whenever I am served apple and blackberry crumble.