Picking Berries in a Swedish Farm
On my way to work, I cross oat fields. From my bus, I watch thick grey blades of the crop spread across acres of land pulsate in the wind. At times, I wonder what it would be like to walk through these fields, touch the pointy top of the crops, pluck a few heaps. Essentially, touch the food that I eat almost daily in breakfast in its rawest form -- unprocessed, unblended, unpacked.
I give up the idea soon though, for it takes a lot to get off in the middle of the road and walk into someone else’s field. However, the thought remains with me, even when I am walking the aisles of the grocery store to pick up essentials. In the food section, I pick up some berries. ‘Fresh, ecological, Swedish berries’, the pouch in which berries are packed, read. Where do these berries come from? What would it be like to go and pluck them, like our foraging ancestors? So distant are we from where and how the food is grown that we, at least I, have forgotten that there is a farm somewhere where the plants carrying these fruits grow.
“Oh, but you can go and pick berries yourself at this farm nearby,” casually remarked my colleague when I shared my thoughts with him. And, so I learnt, that in the town next to mine, there is a farm which allows visitors in, let them wander around and pick their own fruits and berries.
It is an experience I have longed for, and last week I made a trip to the Swedish city of Trelleborg to visit one such farm. The farm, Hallongården, literally translates as The Raspberry Farm. However, the farm has much to offer beyond raspberries alone. Located at the edge of the town, the farm was fast preparing for the incoming autumn – blue tarpaulin sheets were out, and the farm owners were at work to cover multiple little gardens that punctuated the farm to protect the crops from autumn rain.
I walked to the small makeshift reception and to check out the prices. Yes, the berry picking is not for free. For instance, one must pay 128 Swedish Kroner (close to a thousand Indian Rupee) for a kilogram of handpicked raspberries. ‘Our raspberries are the heart of the farm's business,’ so read a placard placed above the reception, ‘based on them, Hallongården has developed into a rural company that welcomes around 70,000 visitors a year – most of them in the summer. With us you can stroll in the farm shop, enjoy homemade raspberry cakes, and greet our animals.’
I was given a wooden basket and a few plastic containers to collect my picks. Once outside, I noticed different farms, many nestled in tunnels, and each one dedicated to different kinds of berries including not only raspberries, but also strawberries, blackberries, and gooseberries. I tentatively walked into one of the farms, knowing little about where to start. I sought inspiration from other tourists who had gathered around the bushes. Most were with children, teaching their little ones the art of plucking berries and thus bringing them get in touch with nature. A touch that I had missed. No wonder, most Swedes grow up to be environmentally conscious, so much so that one leading national political party thrives on the sole agenda of protecting the environment.
As I stood clueless in the middle of a tunnelled farm aisle, help came. A volunteer at the farm, as she introduced herself, nudged me to go and pick a small bunch. I went ahead, still unsure. “You can try to smell them first,” she suggested, “for most berries when ripe for plucking will give a fruitier smell than a sour one”. I tasted a berry from the bunch I had plucked. It tasted sour, still not ready. Go on, try another one, she encouraged me. As I went along, I asked her about why the farms were nestled in tunnels. She explained that tunnels not only protect the fruit from frost but also makes the quality better. “And it is also more fun to pick in the rain,” she said with a smile as we parted ways after she had taught me the basics of berry picking.
An hour or so later, I was carrying four containers of different berries in my arm. I wouldn’t be able to consume them all before they spoil, but I couldn’t stop myself from picking them. It was meditative to look at the plants studded with these pink and red jewels, gently touching them, and letting the almost ready berries fall in your hand with little effort. I surely would enjoy eating these fruits of labour.
As I walked out of the farm with my bounty, I realised what a fun way these farms offer to learn what it takes to grow and touch your own food in its rawest form. One certainly becomes more mindful of how food is grown and despite innovation in agriculture, there is a certain primitiveness about it – a rawness that we have lost touch with while we casually and unmindfully order our food to be delivered at home via a tap on our phones.
