I love walking at this time of year – Mid-Late Autumn – for so many reasons. Yes, we get the odd day of dodgy weather, but mostly it’s ideal walking conditions: bright, cool, dry(-ish), and full of fabulous sights and sounds. No more sweating through your shorts and trying to get everyone exercised before 10am! This is a time to really languish in the colours and textures that our amazing countryside offers. And, if you time, to let your mind wander around the web of stories and folklore that seem to come alive in these months.
Hunting with Phoebe just outside of Farnham this weekend, we found ourselves in the most gorgeous, dense copse. Part-deciduous, part thick hedges, it was alive with pheasants and voles. Once beyond the challenge of “close” (essentially, ‘look but don’t touch’ for spaniels!), we got to take in our prickly, bracken-y surroundings. Entering a rough clearing, we were surrounded by hawthorn and rose bushes. This being autumn, the pastel flowers had fallen long ago, so what greeted us were a blazing array of bright red berries. Like most of nature’s most precious fruits, each branch-offering is surrounded by an army of prickles and spikes: another case of ‘look but don’t touch’!
Hawthorn – in summer, a gorgeous puff-ball of tiny white flowers nestling in thick green leaves – has a long and established place in folklore. Its name actually comes from Anglo-Saxon word ‘hagedorn’, which means ‘hedge thorn’: in bygone days, farmers planted hawthorn among their hedges to protect their crops or cattle from witches. Before the ‘New Style’ calendar act of 1750 (also known as Chesterfield’s Act or the British Calendar Act), hawthorn was often found to be in bloom on or very close to 1st May. Ever since, if any person (typically a lay person or servant) who found ‘May Blossom’ (aka hawthorn) blossoming on May Day itself, he or she was instructed to bring home a sprig, and as a prize would win a bowl of cream.
Well, in early November, I wasn’t going to be winning any prizes, was I? Not to worry: checking Phoebe was okay, and leaving the pheasants alone, I turned my attention to the rose-hips.
Pretty much all roses produce ‘hips’ – the large red berry left after the bloom has died and fallen. But it is the wild-growing Common Rose that really intrigues me. Often called ‘The Queen of Herbs’, rosehips have also occupied folklore and mythology for centuries. You’ll be familiar with some of these: for instance, ancient Greek legend connects the wild rose with Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty and love. Rose hips are also symbolised in Sleeping Beauty, for the true legend advises that her slumber was not a result of pricking her finger on a spinning wheel, but rather came from a sprig of rose-hips that were placed under her pillow. Then, there are the more archaic and region-specific legends. In most East-European countries, rosehips have been used to fortify the body’s natural defenses… as love potions… and even for gastrointestinal and bronchial diseases. Today, extract of rosehip can be found in a lot of face-cream (I actually think I have some on my bathroom shelf… who know?!)
So there we have it: a tale of two berries. Not that Phoebe took much notice… nose-to-ground, as usual, she was occupied with much more serious matters. Good job one of us studies the bushes and hedgerows, eh?
Happy walking
Happy hunting
Hail Be Thou x
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