The berry run.

Once the calidity of the day had passed we followed the badger trails and failing sun along the river until we met the abandoned canal.

It once held the promise of connections south, but now it tells the tale, in sandy-silted whispers, of grand schemes lost and boats that never came.

Here, among the honeyed grasses, ghostly thistledown and dandelion globes, is the bramble larder we came to raid.

The blackberries were already fat and full, made sweet by summer sun. We filled our pot to the brim and gorged ourselves on the fruit, our fingers juice tainted and torn by thorns. Our willing sacrifice for such pleasure. Once sated we turned tail in the dying light and chased the night shadows home.

Lammas

We met together, the few of us, to mark the start of the harvest festivals. This is my favourite run, leading up to Samhain and Yule. I like the darker time of the year and Lammas signals that soon Summer will break and Autumn will return. Not yet, though. Not quite yet, but nearly...

So, we gathered on a warm evening for our hlaf-mas ('loaf-mass') on the water. Rob cooked a beautiful stew with blueberries and pork, and to accompany it our loaf, Barry Wheatycorn, our tribute to John Barleycorn.

Barry Wheatycorn (of the burned nipples).

'John Barleycorn Barry Wheatycorn must die.'

And so, only a head is left to be returned to the earth.