Behold! The berry hunter!

I DID my annual hunter-gatherer impression at the weekend.

On reflection, I more closely resembled a burglar, about to do a three-year stretch at Her Majesty’s pleasure for breaking and entering.

I was actually embarking on the innocent pursuit of bramble picking, but I really didn’t want to have to explain that to a police officer.

I’d spent a couple of weeks scoping out spots, planning for the perfect attack and waiting for the berries to ripen to the preferred juiciness.

Confident that time had arrived, I donned my berrygathering finery and readied for a frontal assault on the dense, thorny bramble bushes.

Thick trousers, a big hoodie, wellies, and gardening gloves.

Perhaps not your average outfit for wandering about in The Meadows.

In August.

But it was the backpack that really piled on the suspicion.

Because I had waited a few weeks for the brambles to properly ripen, all the low-hanging fruit had long been taken.

The brambles at knee height and below are a no go, for canine urinary reasons, leaving only the very high berries.

To get round this quandary, I took a pair of giant bolt-cutters, so as to be able to reach these lofty, forbidden fruits.

The only trouble with this plan was that the big garden snippers didn’t fit in my rucksack, meaning the top of the cutters were poking out of the top of my bag, in a very “come and arrest me, please, officer!” fashion.

Caveman-style, I left the womanfolk in the house and went out to forage in the bushes.

Leaving women and children behind was not for any misogynistic reason, you understand, but primarily because dragging my fourmonth-old daughter through bushes would have been wildly inappropriate, and also because I presumed my fiancee wouldn’t want to be seen in public with a man dressed as such a weirdo.

I was fully aware that I’d be stopped and questioned by any police officer worth their salt, so I turned the brief walk to the berry-picking location into a scuttle, all the while trying – and failing – to look as innocent as possible.

But, I’m pleased to report, I managed to evade awkward questioning from the constabulary, and now have several kilos of brambles in a giant air-tight jar, gradually marinating their way into gin.

I may have looked a total berk, but this time at least I will definitely get the last laugh, while quaffing homemade bramble gin.