Blackberries and the traditional Essex accent

Autumn begins in August, according to my character Edwin Craugh, and I agree with him. In the corner of Essex where I was raised, the leaves on the horse chestnuts begin to brown in the first week of the month, and the blackberries start to ripen on the bramble a few days later. It happens like clockwork every year.

Summer often holds on for a while though, and the weather can stay humid into September in these parts. Those who live in the countryside know the seasons overlap and roll into each other; there is no abrupt switch from one to the next. Miraculously it all works, unaffected by the purported climate catastrophe.

I have a circular two-and-a-half-mile route that I like to walk with some regularity. I am fortunate to live in a part of mid-Essex which sits between two towns – too close to both to be truly remote, but far enough away to give a sense of detachment. It’s a pleasant mix of farmland, meadows, woods and waterways.

There were still plenty of blackberries on the bramble today. As Edwin would say, there is no better time to eat them than the moment they are picked, and I enjoyed a handful or two. The combination of tartness and sweetness in those fresh drupelets is magnificent. It’s been a good month for England’s finest fruit.

The blackberries set me up nicely for the rest of my walk. The shrill cry of a bird of prey soon caught my attention, but it was too far away for me to identify it by sight. There were dragonflies on the wing too – fast but plain little darters that patrolled the hedgerows at the side of the lane. I couldn’t name them either.

And yet my first surprise of the day was not the wildlife. Nearing the end of my walk, I encountered an old woman and her brother who were out with their dogs. The woman waddled rather than walked, and the reason became clear when she commented on her arthritis. We spoke briefly about blackberries.

And while I’m happy to pass the time of day with any friendly person during my walks, this very short chat astonished me because she spoke with a traditional Essex accent. The accent is all but extinct in mid-Essex. You have to go to the north of the county near the Suffolk border to have a chance of hearing it.

I had not heard the rural accent in my corner of Essex since my childhood. Researching it for my Edwin Craugh stories was done almost exclusively from documentary sources, although I did find a couple of audio recordings which helped a little. Few things surprise me, but hearing the accent certainly did.

As an author I try to listen to my characters, imagining not just their personalities but how they speak. That was more important than usual for Edwin and his friends because the stories were specifically about rural Essex life in decades past. But it’s hard to replicate an accent with authenticity when it is no longer heard.

I was heartened by today’s encounter. This region of Essex changed demographically during the ’70s as people moved here from the London suburbs (including my own parents). I’m an Essex native and have centuries-old Essex ancestry, but the county I grew up in was very different from the one Edwin knew.

It is good to know that the traditional voices of mid-Essex have survived for longer than I had believed. Perhaps I will not hear the cadence and drawl of the accent again, but that brief awakening of a folk memory was an intriguing moment that certainly surpassed my indifference at the old lady’s ailments.

We said goodbye and expressed our wishes for an enjoyable walk. The whole conversation lasted less than half a minute, but I knew I had to write a short blog post to document the moment. And yet one more surprise awaited. A few minutes later, nearly at the end of my walk, I had a rather special wildlife encounter.

In a small pen at the side of the road, in which the owner usually keeps pigs and goats, two roe deer watched me as I walked closer. These alert and timid animals usually bolt at the first sign of danger, but on this occasion they stayed still, partly concealed among a mass of nettles. We were just yards apart.

I saw at once that it was a doe and her fawn. I had never seen a young roe deer before. The white spots on its coat indicated that it was just a few weeks old. It was tiny but just as attentive as its mother, staring at me with dark eyes over the nettle leaves. The moment of mutual curiosity was thrilling and enchanting.

The doe eventually decided to retreat to the woodland behind the enclosure. She nudged her offspring with her nose, prompting the fawn to climb the slope toward the trees. The distinctive flash of white on the doe’s rump caught my eye as she left, and then they were both gone from view, safe in the undergrowth.

And so I went home to write this short account. As an author I am enthused by rare moments like these, for they spark something in the imagination and form connections that might not ordinarily be obvious. Edwin Craugh might be my creation, but on a day like today, that old Essex countryman seems quite real to me.