dense thickets of wild blackberry line all the roads and ditches of southern france, and border most of the patchworked parcels of grape vines. they are impenetrable. and if you spend any time, any time at all, in the open spaces surrounding the villages, you will soon find your shins and calves covered in a fine cross hatching of scrapes and scabs. i bitch about them constantly when i am in the languedoc. and now, here i am, only one week returned to the land of lobed leaves and smooth bark, and i am already nostalgic for these damned lethal beauties. it’s like being nostalgic for wood ticks.  it makes no sense at all. but nostalgia doesn’t play fair.

wild blackberry canes

autignac, france