Tucked away, in many quiet corners of our garden, are patches of wild strawberries. Unobtrusive for most of the year. I always imagine they were originally brought into the garden as alpine strawberries. Maybe labelled with a botanical name and potted up. Over the years, they’ve gone feral. Shaking off their confines. Spreading themselves wherever and whenever. Each year, the patches grow larger. Unnoticed until the red, miniature strawberries hang like lanterns on bowed twigs.
Each spring, the first of the family to find them ripe and ready to eat, usually keeps it quiet. Nibbling surreptitiously, until another notices. Guilty faces. Eventually everyone is in on the secret. It can takes days, if not a week.
This year, it was me. I found them first. Go me! Although, in all fairness, I think it was me. I mean, I can never be quite sure. It could easily have been already found and kept quiet. Knowledge has been denied. Hmm. They are, undoubtedly, a tricky lot when it comes to wild strawberries.