‘Virtually invisible, I creep, panther-swift, into the thicket…’

Illustration by Clara Dupré

I tie my hair back, remove earrings, my watch, so nothing can entangle me or catch the light and reveal my hiding place. Then I pack: my oldest rucksack, lined with a plastic bag, for the drips.

But I must hurry. As I approach the undisclosed location I set multiple alarms; I must return promptly or my absence will be noticed. And the cover story must be perfect: variations for strangers, acquaintances, so-called friends.

I am at the target. It is time.

Except it’s not. My miniature freezer is already rammed with ill-judged harvests: under-ripe mulberries, overripe raspberries, ice-cube trays of tarragon and basil. I have apple-and-blackberry leathers drying in the oven (on the gritty side, thanks to my patented no-sieving technique, but definitely delicious). Here’s a toothpick. And jam: loads of jam, shudderingly sweet but sacred, because the blackcurrants were allotment-born. Also chutney: the sale rail of unattractive vegetables.

But when it comes to damsons, I’d hoped I was safe. The prime moment for picking damsons is… never mind. The point is that it has passed. It’s been Glut Summer. I’ve had far too much fruit to deal with already; the fulfilment of a lifelong dream. So, with the relief of an addict temporarily reprieved from utter self-abasement, I’d made the sensible, sober decision to leave the damsons this year. Yet here I am.

Virtually invisible, I creep, panther-swift, into the thicket, on a hill by a road. It is, admittedly, more scruffy crime scene than virgin savannah: windblown vapes, hawthorns, blackthorns, shredded carrier bags. But I am light of foot and sharp of focus. Once I’ve scented my prey, no nettle sting or impalement can detain me. I hear footsteps, avert my face, wishing – not for the first time – that military-grade camo face paint was included in the Snazaroo mini starter party kit. Any lost dog or mislaid toddler could blow my cover. I’ll say I’m searching for… chutney? A baby? No. It’s hard to think straight, so tight is the grip of my craving. I’m irritable, jumpy, terrified of being caught in the act – not because of embarrassment, though I’m grubby and tangle-haired as a feral bookkeeper, but because then the world will know my secret: where the treasure lies.

The thought makes my blood – what little remains of it, post blackthorns – run cold. The footsteps pass. I am safe. For now.

Which is lucky. Because, deep in the hedgerow, I am far gone, defying gravity, my mind swept clean. There is nothing like this perfect peace. I’m Nabokov with his butterfly net. It’s probably good for my creativity, and I don’t even care. Distantly, someone’s silly phone alarm is still chiming. Let it ring. I’m above such petty concerns.

And I am, let’s face it, a genius at this. Decades of short-sighted searching for tiny slugs on my roof-terrace spinach, or fossils on friends’ gravel paths (they don’t mind at all – often lend me a lovely warm, tight jacket), mean I can spot minor distinctions of shade and texture among the murk: the submarine glow, the glaucous bloom, which tell me my prize is within reach.

So where are they? A familiar desolation is creeping over me. Each year, here in this sacred grove, the inky, sour-sweet damsons (the emperor of plums) are fewer, thanks to the encroaching ivy choking these few spindly trees. This year I can see almost none. I gather the squashy windfalls, those I have not yet fallen on to, but I am heavy-hearted. I know what I must do. Like Beowulf, or Crocodile Dundee, I must risk everything. I must go into the open, and face my foe.

That is, passersby. Out here, on an extremely visible path meandering right past the sunny side of the damson trees, any fool, sic, could spot me. The thought of being beaten by another pro is bad enough, but alerting someone new, an amateur… it cannot happen. As I slip, barely mauled, through the hedge, I refine my alibi. I’ll say I’m after sloes, or bullaces (also a wild plum, but less friendly-sounding).

Every bough is blue. I’m surrounded by fruit balloon arches, branches so weighed down, so groaningly overloaded with those dusty-violet glories that even a single tree limb would be enough. But, like cows overdue for milking, they need rescue. They’re at risk of breaking; I must do what I can.

And if my journey home is painful, as I totter like an overambitious pirate under my bulging rucksack, a delusional hermit-crab, I don’t care. A lifetime’s supply of the world’s most intense jam awaits me. The disappointing blackcurrant goo is for the compost; now we will feast.

I’d forgotten we were out of sugar. It’s bedtime before I’ve de-spidered and sterilised my jam-jar collection, weighed the fruit and nipped out for corner-shop granulated. Rushing from saucepan to rucksack, I mistime the setting point and return to find a Vesuvial geyser of boiling fructose pouring off the hob, pooling on the floor. Do I cry? I do not. I didn’t have enough jars anyway. This is barely a year’s worth. Thank God, next year I’ll have to do some serious picking.