Sloe Hunting on Foot

Yep ... I took the No Through Road!

Another chance today to get out into the old droves and lanes to the North East of Winchester, but this time with a mission. Making sloe gin is, for me, a winter tradition which I inherited from my mother, and I suspect she inherited form hers and .... Simple, delicious, and the only way to make it is to get outside as the days grow short and pick your own sloes. That close physical bond with making the stuff makes drinking and sharing it all the more special. 

On Sunday morning I set out with a rucksack, a couple of plastic bags and a mission: pick three pounds of sloes, to allow me to make about 4 bottles of sloe gin.  I'd seen plenty about along the lanes over the last few months and was confident I'd find plenty. So off I ran in search of the clumps of shiny blueblack berries. And I ran. And ran. They had all disappeared. I found plenty of Blackthorn bushes, their thin leaves turning autumn yellowgreen, but hardly a single sloe.  Picked by other sloe gin enthusiasts? Had the birds got them? Flocks of Redwings and Fieldfares flew overhead, tweeting and croaking respectively, mocking my vain search. 

I had a lovely run. Down to Fobdown and then back through Abbotstone. I'd pretty well given up on sloes when I came across a single bush on the side of an old drove, dripping with them, bunches hanging like grapes. I have no idea how this single blackthorn bush had retained its fruit when the others were bare, but I eagerly relieved it of its burden, gathering about 2lb of sloes. 

The Elusive Target

A lovely run back after that. Back up over the hills and a final drop down through the leaf covered beechwoods to the car. 

Mission complete!

(Well it is now. A demijohn with 3 litres of gin, 3 lb of sloes and a shower of sugar is sitting in the back kitchen, getting shaken and turned at regular intervals.  It'll be ready by Easter!)