Elm

July 2025. A hot field with wildflower mix is sweltering in South Suffolk sunshine. The clay-rich topsoil has cracked over the past few weeks of drought. Foraging bees lend a desultory drone. Nearby, an ancient woodland is inviting us out of the heat, but we will need to struggle through fallen twigs, branches, grass tussocks and nettles and beneath its leafy skirts to enter there.

Inside, the vista expands into an ample space of hard trunks and lofty limbs; zones of light and shade; those myriad green flakes we call leaves clustering in aerial mosaic overhead.

The elm tree is very large and correspondingly old - evidently it is a remarkable survivor.  The lofty elms of my childhood have gone; only their clonal regrowth reminds us where they were before the bark beetle finds them and they die off after about 20 years. Their desiccated skeletons rattle in East Anglian hedgerows for a decade or so before rotting away. Meanwhile another generation of suckers is reaching for the sky. This elm is different:  it has inbuilt disease resistance which makes it a desirable variety - potentially a variety with a destiny. 

We are here for look for elm seeds. Emerging into a clearing packed with waist-high bracken and nettles, we can examine the branches of this venerable old tree to find clusters of petalloid seeds on twig tips. There aren't any to speak of - the tree has taken shock at the drought and dumped its children.  They lie like papery, brown farthings underfoot among the leaf litter. I have to pick up and bag handfuls of debris to get enough of them. 

The elm seeds contain an invisible message packed in their DNA.  Once they begin unpacking it, we hope they will grow into disease-resistant Ulmus laevis. With a bit of tree nursery help, we hope to spread them elsewhere in Britain. I will never see them grow great in my lifetime but perhaps a little fiddling labour now sorting through a bag of papery seeds is a gift to an uncertain future which others will enjoy, just as I enjoyed the towering elms of my Suffolk childhood. 

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Text and images © Tim Holt-Wilson, 2025

No-Mow-May

May returns and “the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land”. Sadly, the voice of the lawnmower is more likely to be heard today, as the grasses, dandelions and daisies surge ahead, and normalising lawn management fires up again. A lawn is a meadow passed under the yoke of culture. For some people even a striped lawn is too wild, and they replace it with plastic green turf. All this ‘normalising’ comes at a cost to the diversity of living things which thrive in grassland. 

Grasses were invented by nature about 120 million years ago, though it is unlikely that dinosaurs ever rolled on a prairie. It would take 70 million years or more before grasses were prolific enough to carpet the ground, so the pleasure of rolling on a greensward belonged to browsing and grazing mammals of the early Tertiary epoch. Later, whole ecosystems such as savannah, steppe and pampas evolved as a joint project of mammals and grasses. Grazers such as aurochs are likely to have maintained forest clearings and floodplain grasslands in prehistoric Britain (Yalden 1999, p.72). Wrested from woodland and valley scrubland for the purpose of livestock farming, hay meadows and grazing pastures are a Neolithic creation (Rackham 1987, p.330). Sheep, cattle and horses need them, and we need these animals.  

The familiar British meadow has become a rarity, particularly in the lowlands where 90% of it has been lost in the past century (Lake et al, 2020, p152). Ploughed up in favour of arable or replaced by monocultural grass leys, too many old meadows and pastures have been deleted from the landscape and, along with them, the vibrant populations of herbs, insects, birds, mammals, fungi, et cetera,  which had thrived on them for many hundreds of years.

One place in Suffolk with long-established grassland was Brome Park. The Hall was built in Tudor times, about 1550, and an engraving dated 1707 shows the house surrounded by extensive parkland and trees. The Park survived until about 1963 after which it was converted to arable land. The only areas not ploughed up were the grounds of the Hall, its tree-lined avenue and a scrap of land attached to a cottage known as The Bungalow, which is where I have lived since 1992.

Brome Hall, illustrated by Jan Kip, 1707.
The site of the Bungalow is just out of the picture, beyond a pond and dovecote (far left).

At first I mowed the lawns assiduously, to keep on top of the vegetation in a drive for order. I was worried what the neighbours might think if I didn’t. Later, led by a mixture of laziness and botanical curiosity, I began to make a first cut much later in the season. I began leaving some areas of grass longer than others – frankly, I hadn’t the heart to mince up the flowers that began showing themselves. As years went by, the lawn began to lose its carpet-like quality and became more like a meadow, with a tussocky grass structure interleaved with a variety of other plants. Some patches were left longer than others, following a three-tier regime. I became aware of the diverse flora within my care. I noticed discrete populations in different parts of the lawn: stands of cocksfoot grass and common sorrel on brown soils contrasting with timothy grass, ground ivy and mosses on sandier soils.

Germander speedwell (Veronica chamaedrys), ground ivy (Glecoma hederacea) and creeping buttercup (Ranunculus repens) in a sward of springy turf moss (Rhytidiadelphus squarrosus), May 2022.

Germander speedwell (Veronica chamaedrys), ground ivy (Glecoma hederacea) and creeping buttercup (Ranunculus repens) in a sward of springy turf moss (Rhytidiadelphus squarrosus), May 2022.

Lady's smock (Cardamine pratensis) starring the lawn, with a large anthill (right), May 2022.

Twayblade orchid (Listera ovata), May 2022.

In 1999, I began making a list of as many species of plants and insects as I was able to recognise. I counted seven species of grass and two kinds of speedwell. I was amazed to find a twayblade orchid in one place and a spotted orchid in another; my lawnmower had never given them a chance to grow before. I found an incipient anthill beneath a plant pot, with yellow meadow ants scurrying about. I replaced the pot, and later discovered they had earthed up around it. This gave me the idea of encouraging anthills, of which I now have four – the largest is 30 cm high x 70 cm across. The lawn is now a texturally rich habitat: it may look a bit ragged and untidy in places but it now supports a much richer flora and fauna. In August I notice small moths flying up from the grasses round my feet. Frogs shelter beneath cool, matted tussocks, and voles forge a complicated network of tunnelled pathways. The spotted flycatcher swoops from a vantage point to snatch flying insects.  The green woodpecker bangs away at the ant hills. Rabbits scuff holes and leave scatterings of bare earth which are host for fresh seeds. Plumes of gnats dance overhead, sometimes following my head disconcertingly as I move about. 

Ant activity amid leaves of creeping cinquefoil (Potentilla reptans) and tufted vetch (Vicia cracca), May 2021.  

Having this meadow on my doorstep has transformed my engagement with and understanding of wildlife, particularly plants and insects. It has prompted photography, microscopy and the gathering of a small reference library. 

What I have done here is allow the inherent richness in this small corner of Suffolk to express itself. The diversity - the seven species of grasses, for example – is a legacy of the past, and argues for habitat continuity here. I didn’t plant them. I argue that my lawn is the final, biodiverse remnant of the old Brome Park which goes back to Tudor times, at least. The sward reminds me of old churchyards; it may never have been ploughed. None of the other land round here – not even the grounds of the Hall – is anything like so rich. I admit of having made additions to the garden over the past 30 years, for example alexanders, hyacinth, marjoram, lungwort, mahonia, box, magnolia, and – on the lawn – a clump of greater knapweed. I argued that none of these have modified the baseline plant population, which I think is an ancient one. I fear that when I leave here this little world will be endangered by someone who does not appreciate just what a special place it is.

Common sorrel (Rumex acetosa) and fading leaves of lesser celandine (Ficaria verna), May 2022.

My advice to gardeners is to stop mowing in May and see what comes up on your lawn. See what plant and animal diversity you already have – get to know and identify it, discover it close up; take macro photographs. If you find a monoculture then by all means diversify it, with native species chosen to typify a Suffolk meadow in your corner of the county. Someone in the future will thank you. Vary your mowing regime – I use a hand scythe in July to cut the longest grasses in the centre of the lawn while carving out swathes of different lengths in other parts with a petrol lawnmower. Sit back and note what happens. Give yourself a decadal timescale. Prepare to be surprised and delighted by what you find. Remember: it’s not all about ‘you’: the world is a fabric of other lives, from slugs to hedgehogs, frogs to daisies, and your lawn is part of the tapestry which makes theirs possible. Make space for nature, and remember that there is nowhere on Earth that we can take wildlife for granted any more. You have a scrap of our planet in your care.

A small hay meadow in the making - first growth of grasses Alopecurus pratensis, Arrenatherium elatius, Dactylis glomerata, Lolium perenne, Poa trivialis, Poa pratensis and others, May 2022

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REFERENCES

Lake, S. et al 2020. Britain’s Habitats. Princeton University Press.

Rackham, O. 1987. The History of the Countryside. J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd.

Yalden, D. 1999. The History of British Mammals. T & AD Poyser Ltd.

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A Blackthorn Spring

Cold winds easterly have been blowing across East Anglia for the past week, though temperatures are set to rise this weekend.  Blackthorn blossoms are flourishing in this 'blackthorn spring': their froth of cold, white flowers starting out of the rattling, winter blackness of branch and twig.

Prunus spinosa, is respected by country dwellers for its fruit (sloe gin), its hard, durable wood and particularly for its long, piercing thorns like stiletti. They are able to pass straight through clothing, gloves and even boot soles and car tyres - things I know from experience.

I now have a terrible story to relate. It was told me by my friend C. and began about a month ago when her boyfriend D. was working in a Suffolk wood. Blackthorns make bristling thickets that require careful handling. Even though he was wearing goggles, a chance branch whipped his forehead and embedded a spine in his brow down to the bone. Naturally he pulled it out, but that evening redness and swelling set in, followed later by deep inflammation. Over the following days his condition worsened as his head swelled up and he became very unwell, with symptoms similar to sepsis (blood poisoning). Luckily neighbours noticed his silent home and telephoned C. She drove over immediately and what she found appalled her; a man in delirium, shivering with fever, with a necrotic lesion on his forehead. He was taken to hospital by ambulance and given intensive care. Over the next few days the hallucinations faded - at one time he said he thought his bed was surrounded by tall trees - and his temperature subsided. It was evident that he would need a skin graft to repair the damage, but this would have to be delayed because the hospital had started dealing with a flood of Coronavirus casualties. That is the situation now: D. is waiting and convalescing, wearing a head bandage and lucky to be alive.

What is it about blackthorn that makes it wound so grievously?

A look through my bookshelf did not turn up much useful information.

"A scratch from the thorns would cause blood poisoning. This was thought to be because Christ's crown of thorns was made from it".(1)

"Long associated with dark forces".(2) 

"Other tannin-rich barks were also used [for making inks] particularly those of blackthorn ...".(3)

A trawl through the WWW was more promising.

"On Tuesday evening I was scratched on the hand by a blackthorn, not deeply, but enough to draw blood. Fortunately, I know about blackthorn poisoning: it can be very unpleasant. A piece of blackthorn burying itself under the skin might cause severe infection, blood poisoning, swelling and pain. If left too long before treatment, amputation might be the result. Blackthorns are covered in unpleasant bacteria. If you have a piece buried in your flesh, the best course of action is to get yourself off to the hospital if you have a rapidly escalating and unpleasant reaction; don’t leave it until the area around the wound turns black. My light scratch was reacting badly to the blackthorn toxins within 5 minutes. I sprayed the area liberally with surgical spirits on my return home, which quickly reduced the angry redness and swelling. I woke in night with the swelling raging ... ".(4) 

A comment was appended to this blog post: "Our friend has just died from black thorn poisoning. Thought it was flu …".(5)

"Years ago I ignored a blackthorn wound. Within a week I had a red line running from the inside of my wrist to my elbow warning of the onset of sepsis".(6) 

"Blackthorn injury can give rise to a wide variety of manifestations ranging from mechanical dermatitis, cellulitis, abscess, foreign body granuloma, peritendinitis, tendinitis, pericapsulitis, synovitis to acute septic arthritis. Human synovial tissue is very prone to react to organic substances like blackthorns. Removal of the blackthorn fragments causes prompt resolution of the inflammation".(7)

It is clear that blackthorn wounds can be dangerous, particularly if remnants of thorn are left in the wound. I think D.'s injury was down to more than just a bad-luck thorn-prick.

"Why do [blackthorns] cause so much trouble? Clinical research undertaken at Oakham suggests that the painful tissue reaction to blackthorn injury is not caused by infection. In fact, contrary to popular belief among the equine veterinary community, the joint is sterile after a thorn penetration. The substances that make blackthorns black are alkaloids, and this thorn contains more alkaloids than other plants. Our research indicates it is this that causes the severe tissue reactions".(8)

The website 'Botanical Online' in its 'Blackthorn Toxicity' page states that the toxic principles of blackthorn are: prussic acid (seeds, bark, leaves); hydrogen cyanide (seeds); tannins. Anecdotal evidence from online discussion forums suggests that the blackthorn is particularly poisonous during the growing season.

So, I suggest that what makes a blackthorn wound so grievous is that the bark and thorns at this time of the year are exuding small quantities of plant toxins known as cyanogenic glycosides, notably hydrocyanic acid (HCN, aka prussic acid), "one of the most toxic of all plant compounds. ... The occurrence of cyanogenic glycosides is widespread. Amygdalin and prunasin are very common among plants of the Rosaceae, particularly the Prunus genus".(9) Oakham Veterinary Hospital is probably wrong about alkaloid poisoning: the blackness is caused by tannins, and the toxicity is caused by HCN. The presence of other pathogens such as bacteria from bird muck may play a secondary role, although I imagine most humans and other animals have a measure of immunity against them.

HCN has been tested as a chemical weapon to be absorbed through the skin. According to a Wikipedia, a concentration of 2000 ppm will kill a human in about one minute. "The toxicity is caused by the cyanide ion, which halts cellular respiration by acting as a non-competitive inhibitor for an enzyme in mitochondria called cytochrome c oxidase".  Basically, it kills cells. No wonder D. suffered toxic shock and now has a necrotic lesion on his head.

According to the University of Maryland, "All 400-plus Prunus species are toxic to livestock. ... The most commonly recognized species are the stone fruits: cherries, peaches, plums, almonds, apricots, and nectarines. All parts of the plant are toxic except the mature fruits. ... Hydrogen cyanide acts as a poison by preventing red blood cells from releasing oxygen".(10)

I think I now understand how D. came to be so badly affected by a single puncture wound. Fragments of thorn are likely to have released HCN which led to localised cell death, followed by toxic shock from sepsis and a dermal necrosis. His immune system struggled to cope with the chemical arsenal of Prunus spinosa, and also probably the effects of some bacteria and algal detritus.

I think it would be worth somebody researching more about HCN in blackthorn For instance, I'd like to know whether it is the live or dead thorns that do the most damage. The results would be worth publicising for farmers, gardeners and any other outdoors people likely to encounter this baleful, though attractive and interesting, bush. 

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SOURCES

(1) - R. Vickery (ed.). 'Unlucky Plants - a folklore survey'. Folklore Society, 1985.
(2) - Tess Darwin. 'The Scots Herbal'. Mercat Press, 1996.
(3)  - Richard Mabey. 'Plants with a Purpose'. Collins, 1977.
(4)  - Michael Griffiths. 'Blackthorn Poisoning. A warning'. The Wilden Marsh Blog, 3-12-2015.
(5) - Ibid, comment from 'Debra', April 17, 2018.
(6) - John Shelley. 'Nature. A Thorny Issue'. The Mayo News, 1 April, 2014.
(7) - H Sharma & AD Meredith: 'Blackthorn injury: a report of three interesting cases'. Emergency Medical Journal, vol.21, no.3, April 2004.
(8) - Oakham Veterinary Hospital, online: 'Blackthorn injury in hunters / sport horses'.
(9) - Andrew Pengelly. 'The Constituents of Medicinal Plants'. Allen & Unwin, 2009; pp.44-45.
(10) - Sara BhaduriHauck. 'Toxic Plant Profile: Prunus Species'. University of Maryland Extension, 3-8-2015.

All online sources accessed April 2020.

Text and pictures © TD Holt-Wilson, April 4th 2020.

Norfolk Island Pine

There's a Norfolk Island Pine (Araucaria heterophylla) sapling on the 6th floor at County Hall, Norwich. 

It is not looking particularly happy, but I'm told it is a lot happier here than in its previous location downstairs in the foyer. A gift to the County Council from a well-wisher, it was given a home by the Environment team last year when a decision was taken to remove all potted plants from the foyer.

I am delighted to make the plant's acquaintance. It is a member of the Araucariaceae, a family of primitive conifers with their evolutionary roots over 200 million years ago, in the late Triassic period. The Araucariaceae once thrived around the globe, including Europe, but since the great extinction event at the end of the Cretaceous, about 65 million years ago, they are only native to the southern hemisphere. Members include the monkey puzzle tree (Araucaria araucana) which makes spectacular forests in Chile, the towering New Zealand kauri (Agathis australis) which produces kauri gum, and the extraordinary Wollemia nobilis, a living fossil discovered in a remote Australian ravine in 1994. They are thought to have diverged from a common ancestor in the early Cretaceous period.[1]

The plant has an upright stem covered with pointed, scale-like leaves towards the top and bristling branches that emerge radially. It has an aromatic, resinous smell. I can imagine a small Composognathid dinosaur hiding behind it.

I'd like to have a specimen of A.heterophylla. It is not hardy in the British climate, so it would have to be kept in a plant pot then brought indoors in autumn. However, it is said to be fast growing and can reach a height of over 50 metres. I may have to think twice about the idea!![2]

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[1] - Kunzman, Lutz (2007). Araucariaceae (Pinopsida): Aspects in palaeobiogeography and palaeobiodiversity in the Mesozoic. Zoologischer Anzeiger. 246 (4): 257–77. Online at http://www.thefossilforum.com/applications/core/interface/file/attachment.php?id=364312 [accessed Jan 2018]

[2] - Araucaria heterophylla. Wikipedia. Online at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Araucaria_heterophyllahttps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Araucaria_heterophylla [accessed Jan 2018]

The Wisdom of Solomon

It is Spring, and flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle dove is heard in our land.[1]

Sadly I expect turtle doves will be in short supply this year, despite the best efforts of bird conservation organisations, Chris Packham et al to explain the catastrophic decline of this species - along with the cuckoo and other precious summer visitors. According to Project Turtle Dove, its numbers have plummeted by 91% since 1995.[2] Cuckoos have declined by 65% since the 1980s.[3]

Instead, the voice of the lawn-mower is heard in our land, as some people strive to achieve uniform, level, striped surfaces. I suppose such lawns are the outdoor equivalent of a plain fitted carpet. The result is just lawn. It is not even 'lawn with flowers', or 'lawn with flowers and bees', or 'lawn with flowers, bees, ants and moles'. Lawn means lawn. It is monoculture.

Here is an example of a lawnista's approach to gardening.[4]

I'm delighted to have some of these species on my lawn. What is a weed?

About 15 years ago, the Bungalow garden was visited by a local TV reporter. Somehow she had discovered a web page I'd made explaining that I have notable biodiversity here, including Testacella haliotidea, a rare carnivorous, subterranean slug living in the vegetable patch. As we wandered round the garden trying to find the slug I wittered on about the wildlife, for instance the seven species of grass and sedge I have identified on the lawn, and its notable anthills. She then asked why I did not destroy the ants. They are "bad for lawns", she said. I was dumbfounded. I did not know what to say. I didn't say how much I love watching green woodpeckers probing around in the anthills or that all the piled up earth must indicate the existence of a phenomenal network of subterranean tunnels. I fell silent, struggling with my disgust at her question.

I feel a similar disgust when I see uniform lawns. A biodiverse lawn is more useful to birds, mammals, insects and plants; it has more ecological value. From a biosemiotic point of view, a biodiverse lawn is more meaningful than a monocultural one because it intrinsically contains more encoded 'difference', and hence more meaning. In my eyes that makes it more beautiful. Where a card-carrying lawnista might see disorder I see beauty and a wealth of meaning - and my heart rejoices. This wealth is not just there for me to perceive but for many other organisms to thrive in, as they search for home habitat and food. This is a shared world.

I suspect the lawn here is the last remaining fragment of the ancient parkland surrounding Brome Hall. The rest was been ploughed up many decades ago.

Uniform lawns are instances of the tide of biocidal monoculture flooding through the world. Rainforests are being replaced by plantations.[5] Faced with this creeping impoverishment of biological meaning, I invite all lawn owners to cherish their biodiversity in practical ways. For instance, wait a few weeks before first cutting, and see what species are already present. (It was only after doing this that I discovered I had two orchid species.) Don't use fertilisers or herbicides. Use a rotary mower with a grass box. Leave areas uncut until later in the summer and cut other areas in rotation. Don't kill all moles. 

Perhaps we should also go out and buy a kelim or Isfahan rug for the house - one featuring a Tree of Life or floral design !

Lesser Celandine

Spotted Orchid

As a joke currently doing the rounds has it, God and St Francis would surely approve of both designs.

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FOOTNOTES

[1] - The Song of Solomon 2.12.
[2] - Project Turtle Dove - http://www.operationturtledove.org/ [accessed April 2017]
[3] - 'Cuckoo decline' - https://www.bto.org/volunteer-surveys/bbs/research-conservation/cuckoo [accessed April 2017]
[4] - Lawn Weeds website - http://www.lawnweeds.co.uk [accessed April 2017]
[5] - 'The Impact of Industrial Agriculture in Rainforests' - http://rainforests.mongabay.com/0811.htm  [accessed April 2017]

Salcombe

Salcombe is a Devon sea town of white houses and grey roofs set on a rounded hillside. Sometimes a quite modest house with a good aspect can sell for a million, especially if it looks onto the harbour or estuary - that steep notch in the coast where tidal waters surge in and out of the South Hams through a drowned valley or ría, flanked on one side by the craggy rocks of Bolt and the lower cliffs of Portlemouth Down on the other. This is the window frame through which Salcombe views the outer world and mariners see the town. Climbing tiers of houses are interlaced with dark holm oaks and umbrella pines, giving the town a Mediterranean feel. Its spirit looks seaward and southward.

28-3-2016

My sister Pip and I went walking today in the sunny, breezy aftermath of a storm which had battered Devon with 70 mph winds and driving rain the night before. Salcombe has interesting routes for walkers to choose from: pretty, high-banked lanes that loop inland through woods and secluded coombes, or climb to bald summits with panoramic views; coastal paths that go tracking out round the estuary's gentle indentations or  threading boldly the harsh, sea-girt declivities of Bolt.

There are also paths in the town where the nature of Devon and far-off places are mingled in startling southern conjugations. Wooded slopes too steep for houses show a native flora of oak and hazel, pennywort and primrose enriched by all kinds of exotic garden escapes. The mild oceanic climate means that local gardeners can be adventurous with their choice of plants: one of the footpaths is overhung with a pineapple palm (Phoenix canariensis) from the Canary Islands. Southern species such as the holm oak (Quercus ilex) may last have been native here 10 million years ago in the Miocene, when subtropical forest covered Britain, including elements of the beautiful laurissilva now found in the Macaronesian group of islands off the African coast (e.g. Madeira, Tenerife, Cape Verde). They were later pushed south by advancing Pleistocene ice sheets, but have now returned - with human help.

My most joyous discovery has been the tree echium, Echium pininana, from the Canary Islands. As we followed a wooded path we came upon spectacular, long-stalked, bushy plants, rather like dark-green shaggy clubs. Dried woody remnants of last year's dead stalks towered alongside us, reaching well above head height.

Tree echium has an interesting story, recently deciphered by botanists using molecular genetics [1]. The genus Echium originated as a herbaceous plant living round the Mediterranean, then spread to the Macaronesian islands when they formed, one after the other, by volcanic action over the last 20 million years. As Darwin and other have noted, herbaceous plants on islands tend to evolve a woody growth habit, so a new range of woody Echium species evolved in Macaronesia, able to grow to a remarkable height. Echium pininana is one of them, an endemic of La Palma in the Canaries. Research shows that it arrived in the Pliocene epoch about 3.73 million years ago [2].

I have never visited the Canary Islands, but I have been captivated by photos of their enchanting forests, volcanic mountains and luminous atmosphere. They are on my life's list of places to visit. I would not be put off by the thronging coastal holiday resorts; they'd just be a cheap place to roost in between day excursions to explore the vegetated, rocky interior. If I were on La Palma I'd make a point of seeking out Echium pininana. It is not too late for me to do it.

Tree echium is a monocarpic plant. That means it flowers once then dies. It lays down wood then builds itself up over two or three years before spending itself in one final, magnificent, spire-shaped spasm of mauvy-blue flowers. I may never make it to the Canaries, but I'll be happy to visit Salcombe again one July or August to catch Echium pininana at its moment of Macaronesian glory. The plants I saw this week look as though they are preparing themselves for a mighty show.

Echium pininana photographed on Guernsey.
Image courtesy La Société Guernesiaise.

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References


1 - Bohle, U-R et al (1996): Island colonization and evolution of the insular woody habit in Echium L. (Boraginaceae); Proc. Natl. Acad. Sci. USA, Vol.93, pp.11740-11745/.
Online at: http://www.pnas.org/content/93/21/11740.full.pdf [April 2016]

2 - Kim, S-C et al (2008): Timing and Tempo of Early and Successive Adaptive Radiations in Macaronesia; PLoS ONE. 2008; 3(5): e2139.
Online at: http://europepmc.org/articles/PMC2367450#pone.0002139-FranciscoOrtega2/. [April 2016]

The Blue Flower

19-9-2015

Small, intensely blue flowers are scattered in the sandy soil at my feet. They are pricking their way up among grass stalks here at Barnhamcross Common, near Thetford, England.  The terrain is hummocky, showing historic scars from many years of digging for sand and gravel.  This secluded corner of the Common is clothed with sedge and gorse, scattered oak and pine trees. It has a typical sandy Breckland soil, and lies not far from the Little Ouse river on level ground that was once part of the floodplain. In common with several of the Breckland heathland specialities, this blue flowering plant is tiny and unobtrusive, and yet quite beautiful in small detail.

I  have a real sense of a discovery here. Not only is the plant's identity a puzzle to me - its flower-head reminds me of a scabious, but isn't like any kind of scabious I can identify - but its beauty calls out to me: all shades of blue are gathered in its complexion: azure, caerulean, gentian, lapis, sky. I take photographs that barely do justice to this luminous phenomenon.




























24-9-15

I emailed a photo to Martin Sanford at the SBRC, Ipswich, asking for an identification. He named it as Sheep's-bit, Jasione montana, a member of the Campanula family that grows on light, sandy or stony soils. He said Barnhamcross Common is one of its known Breckland strongholds. The species is sparsely present in Norfolk - Beckett and Bull's 'A Flora of Norfolk' (1999) shows it as very localised, 'confined to short, acid turf', with its principal population centred in the dunes round Winterton-on-Sea. The 'Encyclopaedia of Life' maps Jasione montana as a native of the temperate parts of Europe. NatureGate in Finland says it is a native of rocky outcrops, sandy areas and hillsides.

The native distribution of Jasione montana @ The Encyclopaedia of Life

Sheep's-bit has been expanding in my imagination. Its flowers are true-blue scintillae studded like stars against the gloomy backdrop of my daily thoughts. Harry Godwin's 'History of the British Flora' provides an interesting local history. Its fossil pollen has been identified from late Devensian (Weichselian) levels at Old Buckenham Mere, an almost dried-up natural lake about 15 miles away. The pollen was blown into it from surrounding land and preserved in the mud. This takes its history back over 12,000 years to the end of the Ice Age. It would have favoured the freely-draining, coversand soils and sparse vegetation of the period. He says it was also found in the Roman to Anglo-Saxon levels, and suggests it owes its presence here to agricultural disturbance of sandy soils thereabouts.

Such factors seem to be key to its survival at Barnhamcross Common. There is evidence that someone has deliberately broken the soil surface in places, presumably for bioconservation reasons - so preserving a suitable habitat. Instead of a blanket of over-shading sedge, gorse and trees, we have patches of open, disturbed ground that fosters greater floral diversity. In this way a delicate, late glacial species, with a local history of over 12,000 years, still flourishes in Breckland. Its flowers have the same blue that once reflected in the eyes of a Saxon farmer, a woolly rhinoceros or a tundra vole.

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Sources

*  Beckett, G & Bull, B: A Flora of Norfolk; Beckett, 1999.
* Godwin, H: History of the British Flora - A factual basis for phytogeography; Cambridge University Press, 2nd edition, 1975.
* West, RG: Plant Life of the Quaternary Cold Stages - Evidence from the British Isles; Cambridge University Press, 2000.

Rock Samphire

2nd August 2014

A warm, boisterous wind is pushing me around today on Bigbury beach, south Devon. I am here with family enjoying the wide expanse of sand and sparkling sea. Rough, slaty cliffs make a backdrop to the beach, and their rocky outcrops provide a choice of sheltered places for setting out a picnic.

The rocks and pebbles are a galaxy of subtle pinks, greens and grey slates of Lower Devonian age, classified by geologists as belonging to the Meadfoot Beds. They have been polished smooth in the zone below the tideline, but remain sharp and pitted by salt spray weathering above it. The bedding of the rock is almost vertical, being evidence of severe folding after it was deposited. Up in the cliff, the bedding has been further distorted in places by frost action during the Ice Age, shattering and remobilising it into interesting patterns.

The sea is working a further transformation on the slates, steadily recycling them into pink, green and grey sand. This will, in turn, feed the formation of other rocks - on multi million-year timescales.

Up on the cliff, tiny roots are also doing their part in breaking up the slate. Pale green patches of Rock Samphire (Crithmum maritimum) are growing in any places where their roots can penetrate. They have sought out joint planes in the rock, where rainwater is concentrated and a rudimentary soil has formed. The result is a pattern of hanging gardens scaling the rock face, with neat rows planted by nature.

Rock Samphire gives me a pang of nostalgia for southern skies. It looks as though it belongs - as it essentially does - to the Mediterranean world; it is found along warm coasts from the Black Sea to Atlantic Europe. It has a pleasant, aniseedy smell which reminds me of fennel and the holiday aroma of ouzo and pastis; they call it 'sea fennel' in Latin countries [1]. Its fleshy, drought-resistant leaves look good to eat, but reportedly taste like 'a mixture of celery and kerosene' [2]. I suspect this may be an effect of the phenolic and tannic phytochemicals it contains [3].

Rock Samphire has evolved to exploit this rocky niche; I can't see any other plants competing to occupy this bit of uncomfortable, salt-blasted, sun-baked habitat. It is triumphantly doing what it is best at. 

Every plant expresses the special will of its species, and says something that cannot be expressed in any other language. [4]

Schopenhauer's thought leads me to new insights. Living things may be seen as verbal forms as well as nouns. They are dynamic doers and effectors. Crithmum maritimum does what it does - says what it says - according to the deployment of its genetic programming. It 'crithmums' at the genus level, and 'maritimums' at the species level. We can see it as a kind of selfhood - deploying life-seeking information specific to its own kind, existing and acting in the service of maintaining and reproducing itself. If Rock Samphire tastes like ‘celery and kerosene’ that is because it needs phytochemicals to defend itself from being eaten where it stands.

Here, I find Crithmum maritimum growing in rocky clefts. As a species, it is bound to its particular ecological niche, and as individuals these plants are bound to their clefts. They are constrained to make the best of their circumstances, and as individual plants fixed to the soil in which they are rooted (for better or worse) they can only transcend them through effective reproduction strategies. I reckon plants are absolute, blind optimists: they must wait for their environment to bring them what they need. By contrast, animals can move around and seek better circumstances, mate with whomsoever they will, but as a consequence they are naturally prey to the ceaseless, questing dissatisfaction which Schopenhauer identifies as their existential condition of all living things, and which the most conscious beings experience most acutely [5]. Psychologically, I reckon the more conscious an animal is the more capacity it has for pessimism as well as pleasure. Animals in zoos may mope or go mad [6].  

I am an example of the most mentally complex species present on Bigbury beach today - a human being. As an animal, I can exercise existential freedoms that are denied to Rock Samphire. I am able to make choices about where to lay my towel down on the beach or what food to eat. Like a dog I can choose where to dig a hole in the sand, or like a herring gull I can think how best to tackle a picnic hamper.

The onshore breeze is strengthening as the afternoon wears on. As an animal I am free to decide many things for myself - I can change my circumstances.

I think it's time to put on a pullover and fetch an ice cream from a café a few hundred yards away.

My innate pessimism tells me the café is sure to be closed by the time I get there.

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References

[1] - Crithmum maritimum L. Gardening in mediterranean climates worldwide. Online at: http://www.gimcw.org/plants/Crithmum.maritimum.cfm [accessed August 2014]
[2] - Crithmum maritimum L. Plants for a Future. Online at: http://www.pfaf.org/user/Plant.aspx?LatinName=Crithmum+maritimum [accessed August 2014]
[3] - Houta, O, Akrout A & Amri, H (2011): Phenolic amounts, antioxidant and antimicrobial potential of Crithmum maritimum cultivated in Tunisian arid zones; Planta Medica 77. Online at: https://www.thieme-connect.com/products/ejournals/abstract/10.1055/s-0031-1282826 [accessed August 2014]
[4] - Schopenhauer, A (1969): The World as Will & Representation; Book 1, chap.28. Dover Books. 
[5] - Schopenhauer, ibid; chap.56.
[6] - Masson, G  (1996): When Elephants Weep: The emotional lives of animals; Vintage Books.

Enchanter's Nightshade

With such a compelling name, Enchanter's Nightshade must surely have magical powers. Its Latin name Circaea lutetiana was given to us by Carl Linnaeus, that intrepid genius of the imaginative epithet. 'Circaea' comes from Circe, a powerful enchantress in the Odyssey, and 'lutetiana' presumably from the ancient Gallic town of Lutetia, which is now Paris.

A plant of shady places, the white flowers of Circaea lutetiana shine like tiny candles in the gloom of woods and hedges. The contrast between its large, robust-looking leaves and its spindly, fragile-seeming stalks fitted spaciously with small, luminous flowers is remarkable. Its large leaves seem equipped to harvest as much of the scanty daylight as they possible; its flowers seem devoted to the art of luring micromoths. Linnaeus, who had an eye for the mythic and erotic dimensions of the plant world, has cast the plant is the role of an attractive Parisian enchantress - all libido and lace.

Enchanter's Nightshade and Cuckoo-Pint

The plant has been slipping in and out of my thoughts for the last few days - not entirely sure why. Perhaps it is because I found some Black Nightshade (Solanum nigrum) recently in Norfolk, and have been meditating on its name. Perhaps it is fallout from a relationship with a certain lady in which I feel powerless to move in any direction that satisfies my heart. The painting of Merlin and Nimue by Burne-Jones comes to mind - the enchanter finds himself enchanted. 

I came across Circaea lutetiana yesterday in a Devon hedgebank - a high bank sheltered by trees with a magnificent view over hilly South Hams countryside between Harberton and Totnes. It was keeping company with Arum maculatum, otherwise known as Lords-and-Ladies or Cuckoo-Pint. The one a spindly complex of dull green and flickering whiteness; the other a stalk topped by lurid orange knobs. The two could hardly be more different.

I am not sure what sorcery Enchanter's Nightshade can work. Perhaps it has the power to manage painful separations.

      Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night

      In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade.

                                          [Matthew Arnold, 'Thyrsis']

Perhaps it is just a light in dark places.

Meanwhile, cloud shadows move over the Devon landscape, and life moves on.