I'm pulling up ragwort in case the horses return- but only after it has finished or almost finished flowering. I love ragwort and resent having to treat it as a weed. It makes a glorious show- and- as Mike remarked yesterday with a note of surprise in his voice- also smells delicious.
Our neighbour Mary, who we sort of invited to my mother's birthday party- says you shouldn't pick rhubarb after June. Poppycock! We're still harvesting our patch in September and there's nothing wrong with it.
The raspberries have done well this year. We've been eating them all through the summer.
It looks as if we're going to have a goodish crop of apples.
I pick blackberries even as I destroy the brambles on which they grow. It seems an ungracious thing to do- but no more ungracious than what we do to pigs.
Ailz says the languages of the American First Nations (or some of them anyhow, because there are an awful lot of them) have no impersonal pronouns- because nothing- to their way of seeing- is merely an object, merely a thing, an it. Everything- ragwort, rhubarb, pigs, brambles, angels- has spirit. Or rather, is spirit- because in the last analysis spirit is the only thing that exists.