The raspberry is the most sensual of fruits. The peach, admittedly, is more voluptuous, but the peach is unabashedly bawdy while the raspberry is exquisitely subtle. Strawberries are seductive enough, yet there runs through the strawberry a fickleness. The sensory imprint of the raspberry lingers long after the strawberry is spent.
Native peoples get their physical characteristics from wild game, their resilience from roots and leaves and their fertility and bloodlust from raspberries.
The raspberry is the romantic fruit. The raspberry is the one most willing to spend itself in passion, to leave its indelible mark.
You can’t stain your lips with a banana…
The raspberry is the virgin on her wedding night. The raspberry is what happens when the cherry finishes with the lychee… If the rose is the muse, the inspiration for love, the raspberry is the wildly beating heart of the real thing.
The raspberry was Boudicca’s favourite fruit. You can see it in the blush of her cheek.
In Europe, there is grown widely a large raspberry called Rubus Ideus. Perhaps it is Rubus that we see in Boudicca’s complexion. Certainly, there is Rubus Ideus coursing through the veins and the dying vats of the Welsh ‘Warriors in Red’.
Of course, there are pale raspberries. Raspberries that ooze sugar instead of blood, but it is the red raspberry with which we are concerned; The variety that blushes and swells like Princess Diana’s earlobe in response to an overzealous nibble by Dodi.
An old witches tale warns, “A night that begins with a raspberry will end in trouble.”
That is a risk we have to take.