If you go down to the woods today, you may not see any picnicking teddy bears.

But you could find The Mother and myself treading cautiously through acres of discarded lager cans, bicycle wheels and dog excrement.

Taking our cue from the hibernating wildlife we, too, have been stocking up for the winter months. Nuts to the squirrels, I say, but the blackberries are all mine.

Not many of the best things in my life are free but blackberries are the exception. It is true, I could more easily buy a couple of pounds at a greengrocers but to my mind eating something you have just picked (if not grown) yourself makes it doubly delicious.

Oh, I go all Nigella-ish at the thought of blackberry and apple crumbles, pies and tarts smothered in double cream ... pathetic isn't it?

Unfortunately, my passion is shared by many others who all descend on my local patch of woods and shrubs at this time of year. You may not always see us but you'll hear us rustling in the bushes.

We're a competitive lot, we blackberry pickers. We eye each other's brimming Tupperware bowls and boxes (this year one man even filled a plastic bucket) and determine we will find and harvest more.

It's all a matter of location, location, location and once we have found a blackberry-trove, pickers become furtive and are not inclined to share this information.

"Psst!" I hissed at The Mother. "Over here, I have found some absolute beauties. Keep your head down and don't let anyone see where you're going."

Anyone, was the wearer of a denim hat, sex unknown, whose arms could be seen tentatively reaching through the brambles a few bushes to our right.

Obviously a novice picker, I thought. An experienced blackberrier like myself comes dressed and prepared for action - thick gloves, long sleeved jacket, heavy jeans, thick boots and never mind if the temperature is 70F plus.

Blackberrying is not for wimps; it can be hazardous in the extreme. Beware scratchy brambles, vicious thorns, unrelenting biting midges, stinging nettles, predatory wasps, thick-bodied spiders, doggy doo cunningly camouflaged by the soft earth.

Beware, too, the staining power of the blackberry. Like beetroot, red wine and leaking Biros, these juicy little berries love anything white or flesh-coloured, like blouses, shirts, fingers and mouths.

The Mother's tip after a blackberrying session is to rinse her hands (she never wears gloves) in water mixed with bleach but I'm certainly not recommending it.

Admittedly, The Mother does possess a very useful, and dextrous, pair of hands (obviously thick-skinned too, which is why she doesn't need gloves).

She can pick and plunder the parts of a bramble bush that no other hands can reach.

"I think we have got enough now," she said when we had filled five empty 500g margarine cartons and a Pyrex bowl full of berries during our latest expedition.

"We have got more than we could eat in a year and there is no room in the freezer."

"Then we will make room ... no problem," I told her.

But it was a problem. The freezer was full to capacity and no amount of rearranging frozen lasagnes and sherry trifles made the slightest different.

We started baking that evening and three days later we still have a crumble and two pies awaiting consumption.

I am fed up, quite literally, with blackberries. My lips and teeth are stained blue and I have a stomach ache.

"There is one dish you didn't make that would have been most appropriate under the circumstances," said The Mother as we cut yet another slice of pie.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Blackberry fool," she replied.