plums

… if you pull up at this sign

… and follow this sun-baked, dusty track just around the bend

… with one sweet girl to help pick and one to mind that the fluffy one doesn’t get into the long grass – this is TICK country!

… you reach a wild plum tree, lavishly garlanded with rich red plums

… its ancient and twisted arms and legs, almost the only thing preventing the bank of the railway track crumbling into the field of cows beneath

… we came prepared, with the canning pot to fill

… not that we filled it completely, only half

… there’ll be more ripe treats to pick on our return – hopefully, there may even be blackberries

… but not the funny, little gnarled apples – even if we ever discover them ripe, I daresay they will all have been munched by the local wildlife.

… we returned to the car, mama pleased as punch with the harvest, friend charmed with such an Ann of Green Gables adventure, daughter composing an opera describing the hell that is summer cattle flies.

… time to move on, there’s still a few hundred kilometres to go