Hidden Hobart: Berry Picking Part II

Ever wonder what fruit picking as a job is like? It’s a hard way to make a living. And picking strawberries, so soft and low, must be the hardest. 

I remember many years ago when my brother was at uni, and worked at awful holiday jobs to survive. The worst? Strawberry picking.

The strawberry field stretched for miles, the sun blazed, and ripe sweet fruit lay close to the ground. Rod remembers the blue of the sky, the lush green plants, and the dark red soil that gave forth the rich produce. He started picking standing, bending over and straightening up as he gently placed the soft fruit in his bucket.

After what seemed hours of this, with his back about to break, he took a cue from his fellow pickers and crouched down, sitting on his haunches. Ten minutes of that, and he found himself kneeling, shuffling along in the dirt, glancing sideways hoping the other pickers wouldn’t laugh.

After an hour of kneeling, his knees felt like they’d been rammed in a pipe, and his back was swearing at him using four letter words even he hadn’t heard. His third bucket now almost full, with his body screaming at him, Rod flung himself at the earth, and began to drag, crawl or slither like a snake.

“I’m not a quitter!” he mumbled incessantly to himself, but quitting was starting to look like the water in a desert that he was desperate to have. Quitting was all he could think of. He took his bucket up to the foreman, who looked at him without pity. “Only another hour till morning tea!” the foreman threw his head back and roared, “Going home now are ya? Too hard is it?” but by that time, his words bounced off Rod’s disappearing back.

I’m sharing this story with my friends in Tasmania as we head out to Westerway Raspberry Farm, ready to be human locusts and pick fruit until we drop. Past New Norfolk (which has an incredible second hand store), through the towns of Plenty, Bushy Park and a blip called Karanja until the big Raspberry Farm sign looms in front.

Elizabeth, one of the Clark family, mans the counter today and issues us the ice cream tubs that are to hold our precious fruit. And we pick. And pick. And pick.

Bronek, who is starting to be known as the lion of fruit picking, ends up with over 5 kilos. I manage 3 ½ and Jane, about the same.

I could add that Bronek and Lidia managed to devour his lot in just over a week. How he did that without breaking out in ulcers is beyond me. I have found that there really can be too much of a good thing.

And the picking is pleasant. We pick raspberries, tayberries, sylvanberries, strawberries, red currants and golden raspberries. There’s enough fruit to go around, and as I catch up with Richard later, he tells me his incredible family story. Richard is sixth generation Tasmanian: his great great great grandfather, was born in 1808 to convicts, as James Peaves. Being a thief and a rogue, James changed his name to Clark to escape the law, and settled at Ellendale, near where the family farms lie today.

James had 16 children, 15 of which went on to have 120 children of their own. He lived until 1908 and Richard lives just 6 kms from his original cottage site. Richard’s dad was the first real farmer in the family, studied agriculture at uni and he tried to introduce mechanical harvesting into the industry. That was a difficult passage, and he ended up supplying Henry Jones IXL with fruit for juice.

As a young boy, it was Richard who decided to give the sale of punnets a go, and was knocked back by every fruiterer bar one, who he still supplies today. Richard proudly tells me that they are the only suppliers to Cascade, with 100% Tasmanian berries making up their juice ranges.

Westerway also supply producers with jam fruits, purées  and they’ve 80 acres under berries as part of their 2.5k acres of land. And the future? Richard’s just installed a liquid nitrogen freezing tunnel, to produce retail packs that will travel and keep.

Richard credits Coles and the generosity of their Nature Fund grants aimed at helping innovative producers. Even though Coles aren’t one of their markets, Richard is grateful for the grant, and the machine is proving a savvy, and worthwhile investment.

I froze my berries anyway. And intend to eke them out as long as I can. That berry season is too short! And I also found out that Liz, Richard’s sister, who sorted out our picking day, is an architect in Sydney and was down on ‘holidays’ helping out on the family farm. Who’d have thought?

Before we part, Richard tells me that the family’s got a lot more berry years in them yet, and at a recent family gathering, they all went into a raspberry field and toasted their forebears with whiskey. Sounds good to me. Their spirits are in good hands.

Love to know where your fruit comes from? We do! And even better if we’ve got some sun and air and good times getting it. The berry season isn’t finished yet. Not yet. 

Chrissie