Chestnut season

Wet trousers off, warmer jumper on. Cup of tea, a small bowl of Brazil nuts and, how did that get there?, a stroopwafel.

Ah well, it’s a tasty delight and it makes the afternoon tea a treat.

I hadn’t plan to be indoors. But it’s drizzling. And how many pairs of work trousers can one own that are grubby and a bit damp?

I haven’t written for ages, so there is a lot to catch up. I’ll do little photo essays so you can see what I have been doing.

First off, chestnut season. Or as I call it, burrs in the thumb season. We aren’t selling any of ours and the chap in the village who used to come and harvest on our behalf has found easier trees to reach.

So instead I have been enjoying watching other people work. And believe me, it’s a mad time for people round here.

Clear the ground under the trees and lay the nets.

Then wait for the nuts to drop.

There was a tense moment last week when friends thought they had assembled all the volunteers a week too early. No sign of the great drop.

But they did. And the harvest looks bountiful this year.

I’ve picked my few kilos (one does tire of the flavour) and am happy with the tiny harvest.

The hardest thing is to take any walk around the farm or on the forest tracks and resist the temptation to reach down and pick some beauties up.

My pockets end up bulging if I go a particular route.

But I have to resist. It slows down one’s walking pace for one thing, and I have more than enough here on the farm. I guess it’s that instinct for harvesting one can’t help.

It reminded me of a time way back when I was walking in a path in (Soviet) Georgia and I found all these gorgeous chestnuts on the ground. I greedily put them in my pocket delighting in the knowledge I had something lovely to try and cook… only to find they were the conkers from horse chestnuts and hardly edible at all.

Silly me.