Epilobum angustifolium and Dictamnus albus

A Burning Problem

Mysterious footwear?

      Have you ever thought about shoes in the road? The number of times you come across shoes left along the highway seems to have something significant about it. It's possible you haven't noticed this phenomena but, having read this, I can guarantee you will. The odd pair of knickers behind a park bench speak for themselves but shoes? and usually only one (nearly always a woman's)??

      Alien abduction is the first thing that springs to mind - the victim was hauled up so suddenly that the shoe was left behind and I suppose it's conceivable that it could be only one, perhaps because the lace was undone. However, I think this is a bit unlikely, based on the fact that it never happened to Spock or Captain Kirk when they were beamed up. Another possibility is a broken heel.  I saw it happen to a woman in a film once: a heel broke off and she simply took the other one off and walked barefoot, keeping her dignity. That's the 'sod it' factor, how can I walk if I'm listing to port? This solution may work for Hollywood but she wouldn't do that round our way - not with the amount of dogcrap on the pavement. A better solution would be to walk with one foot in the gutter and the other on the pavement, rectifying the uneven elevation. However this could be problematic if it's your right shoe that's lost the heel and the kerb is on the left due to the direction you're travelling: the foot with the heel would then be twice as high. My first reaction to this conundrum was that you'd have to walk the other way round the block in the hopes that you could reach your destination that way. When I think about it though, this, of course, that's ridiculous - you'd just have to walk along the gutter on on the other side of the road.

      And what about the one-legged person? Did Long John Silver have to buy two shoes and throw one away? I should have thought that, in the cause of decency, the shop should  sell them one at a time. Probably there is a balance between one legged people with the left leg and those with the right so, in the long run, they'd be able to sell them both. However, if they do have to buy two, one may end up chucked through the car window.

      These things are possibilities but the most likely answer, I feel, lies in spontaneous combustion. In Bleak House, Dickens describes how Mr Krook is a victim of this. In that case there was nothing left of him but an evil smell, greasy soot, a chunk of burnt thigh and a pool of oil. Although this was a novel, Dickens had done copious research and the story was based on a number of known cases. Lots of theories about how this happens have been propounded, the most widely accepted one being that of the wick effect: having first been ignited by a fag end or something, the person burns and fat from the body works like candle wax, keeping it lit for ages. Whatever the cause, it's a fact that, in 1951, a Mary Hardy Reeser of St. Petersburg, Florida was found almost totally cremated. All that was left was a pile of ash and a foot. The point is though, that the foot was still wearing - wait for it - A SHOE! I rest my case.

      A plant - Dictamnus albus - is also known as 'burning bush'. It produces volatile oils from its leaves and these may become ignited in hot weather. You can hold a burning match close and watch the resulting conflagration. It sounds advisable to only do on someone else's Dictamnus, because it wouldn't do a lot for your herbaceous border. However, the burst of flame is fleeting enough to not damage the plant. It's thought that this was the burning bush depicted in the Bible, when God spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai. I can't remember the rest of the story, maybe Moses used it to light his pipe. It grows to about three foot high, with woody stems, and looks a bit like rosebay willow herb, another plant associated with fire.

Rosebay willowherb or fireweed (Epilobium angustifolium)

      Rosebay willow herb is also known as 'fireweed'. This is due to its characteristic of colonizing areas of woodland which have been burnt down. A perennial herb, it dies out as the trees reestablish but the seeds stay viable in the ground for many years, ready to make another bid for glory should fire or felling again create the right environment. At one time it was a rare plant in Britain and only really exploded onto the scene with the coming of the railways in the 1800's- the bare ground accompanying them suited the plant and the 'wind tunnel' effect of the trains helped spread the airborne seeds. The bombing of the cities created a wealth of new sites and a new name 'bombweed' became popular, as harsh areas of rubble became hidden under a sea of pink.

      The soft, downy seeds become a snowstorm in late summer windy days and, at one time they were used with thistledown in Scotland to stuff mattresses. The fluff was also used, mixed with cotton or fur, to make stockings and other items of clothing. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the young tender stems can be cooked and eaten as a vegetable and are claimed to be a good asparagus substitute. I haven't tried it yet but will give it a go next summer. The dried leaves are used to make tea and I've heard it said that it's difficult to tell it from the real thing.

      Although it was once considered a garden plant, rosebay willow herb quickly outgrows its welcome: the thick woody roots spread horizontally and its dense clumps suppress other plants, although foxglove seems to thrive happily with it. However the white form - Epilobium angustifolium album - is a bit less belligerent and can be a stately addition to the herbaceous border.

   

Davidia involucrata - the ghost tree

Spooky Goings On

 Where the hell did it go?
Picture shot on Farne Islands during holiday

The lack of a blog last week is down to the fact that we went on holiday to enjoy a bit of luxury. The sleepy little seaside village of Alnmouth in Northumberland was the ideal setting for this and we knew we'd made the right choice. Until we experienced the 'bargain price' hotel room, that was. I suppose the large spider in the en suite bath was the first inkling of all not being well. Spiders are sometimes seen as being lucky, but not when they're the size of a tarantula, and this one looked as if it hadn't eaten. We hurriedly left the spider to its deliberations and decided to wind down by watching something on telly.

The television was tiny and  mounted on the wall, near the ceiling. When I tried to turn it on nothing happened, so my wife went down and complained to the girl on reception. As a result, the 'handyman' turned up carrying a large plasma TV. This was more like. However, when I explained how the one in situ didn't work, he immediately pointed out that it was because I hadn't switched the box on. This took some time, because he spoke in a Geordie accent which was completely unintelligible to me. There are only so many times you can say "pardon?" without eventually giving in with a hopeful "yes". However, in this case the word 'box' is difficult to mangle and that was the one I clung to.

"What box?", I asked.

He looked at me as if I was daft.

"This one", he said, moving a sign about breakfast times on the dressing table below the telly, to reveal a plastic box adorned with a red light. He then launched into another unintelligible and obviously patronising Geordie explanation of 'boxes'. I swear that if I'd made out the word 'pet', I'd have got really mad and set my wife on him. Anyway he  then flicked the remote a few times before the light eventually turned green. At the same time Andy Murray appeared on the set, knocking hell out of a tennis ball. The handyman gave me a sympathetic smile, hoisted the plasma TV back under his arm and left me to watch the tennis. By this time my wife was downstairs in the bar enjoying a free glass of wine (for the trouble she'd been put to)  and watching Andy on a screen covering half a wall.

This was the smallest screen I've ever seen and the only way of viewing (there were no chairs in the room) was to lie on the bed, propped up by pillows. This was nice and comfortable, but had the disadvantage of being at such a distance from the screen that it was hard to make out faces. I overcame this difficulty by using my binoculars but, by this time, Andy had won. Later in the evening we started  to watch a film but gave up because it was awkward with only one pair of binoculars.

Everything in the place worked, but only when you got the knack: the lavatory flush handle did a complete circle and threatened to come out unless you pressed it in while jerking it quickly and the sash window opened but refused to close unless you threw all your weight on it, then it came down with a crash that caused other residents to fall out of bed. The shower was a contraption I remember using back in the '50's - a rubber tube with a nozzle on one end and dividing into two at the other, each ending in sockets you attached to the bath taps. This worked alright for a while but, because the tube wasn't quite long enough, you would inevitably pull it slightly, causing one of the sockets to come off and scalding water to hit your feet while the spray went freezing cold. As an interesting diversion from this, it would occasionally do it the other way round.

"Hey - love the lipstick"
Puffins on The Farne Islands

When we went down for breakfast the following day, it was to be served by a female version of Basil Faulty. When everyone complained that the milk was sour, her reaction was to wordlessly retire to the kitchen then return with the news that the sell-by date on the carton was in a week's time. There was no apology, simply the implicit threat that the milkman would die and some Manuel - type waiter would get his head slapped. We never saw her smile but, working in that place, maybe she could be excused.

On the positive side, after putting my glasses on, I determined that the 'tarantula' was actually a large crack in the bath enamel, probably caused by someones head as they slipped while trying to use the shower.

The hotel is a seventeenth century grade 2 listed building and apparently has been labelled as 'the most haunted hotel in Great Britain' by the Poltergeist Society. We never experienced anything spooky apart from a neon light which flickered each time we went past (and each time we didn't). However, the spooky claim was enough to justify my gardening topic, which is the ghost tree.

Ghost tree at Harewood House, Yorkshire

The Latin name for the ghost tree is Davidia involucrata. It was given the genus name because the French missionary and naturalist Armand David sent reports of it growing in Sichuan, China in 1869; involucrata refers to the white involucre of bracts which surround the flower. The common names ghost tree, dove tree and handkerchief tree all refer to the appearance of the bracts.

The plant hunter Ernest Wilson was commissioned by Veitch, a British nursery man, to find seeds and send them back. Because the original tree had gone, this led to a nightmare eight month journey via Hanoi, Shanghai and the Yangtse gorges before he reached the village where a specimen had last been sighted. Unfortunately, it was to find a newly cut stump next to the house where the timber had just been used for roof beams. In view of the facts that his boat had been wrecked in rapids, his Chinese guide was a heroin addict and the Boxer rebellion was going on all around, he could have been forgiven for giving up and taking to stamp collecting. However, apart from reportedly vowing to never buy another Chinese take-away, Wilson continued his search and, in 1900, found a grove of the trees.

He triumphantly sent 37 seeds back and one of these, thought to be the first one in Europe, germinated. However, in true British Captain Scott style, it was then determined that a French nursery had grown one five years earlier. Wilson's mission had became yet another heroic failure.

It may seem a good idea to plant a Davidia in the garden but you must bear in mind the fact that it can take up to 20 years to come into flowering. This makes it a poor bet if you're getting on a bit and not starting any serials.

Ghosts

Davidia seed - about size of a walnut

Deadly Nightshade

Dangerous Spuds

      Years ago, my wife and I went to see a film called Black Christmas - the 1974 version. I think she was under the impression that it was one of these sweet Santa films the Hollywood studios produce three of before breakfast, like Ernie Wise's plays. However, it turned out to be about a nutter living in the attic of a sorority house. From what I recall, he kept sneaking down, bumping girls off and storing the bodies, wrapped in cling film, in the attic. Where anyone with a single brain cell would have burned rubber in the direction of, well, anywhere but the sorority house, the girls stayed there and waited their turn. Otherwise the film would have been too short. Anyway, my point is that it was pretty scarey.

      When we got home, my wife went in first while I put the car away. She hid behind the door then jumped out and said boo! as I came in. In terms of the Richter scale, the boo was pretty low down. Relate it to the film we'd just seen though, and you can see why it resulted in her scraping me off the ceiling. Later on, I was still thirsting for revenge and, as she was changing in the bedroom, stood on the lavatory seat and peeped over the door, looking along the landing and waiting for her to appear. She didn't, so I then tried a long drawn out wail and this resulted in her coming out, giggling nervously. As moving  towards me, she pushed doors open vigorously, checking each room. The 'vigorously' bit should have struck a warning with me, but it didn't and I waited, anticipating the shock I'd give her. When she got to the bathroom she paused,  'tee hee'd' girlishly, then gave the door a shove powerful enough to start an overweight Olympic bob-sleigh team. It hit me full on the chin and my foot slipped down the lavatory, causing my ankle to twist excruciatingly as I crashed down. Everything went black and for a moment I thought I'd gone round the u bend. However, it was just my loving wife looming over me.  Then she did that convulsion thing for a while, before going to get the Elastoplast for my chin. I still haven't got her back for that.

      All this set me thinking about how I'd murder someone. I wouldn't use the sorority bloke's methods - couldn't afford the Clingfilm. I'd go for something more subtle, like poisoning.

Woody nightshade (Solanum dulcamara) flowers

Woody nightshade fruit

      Deadly nightshade would probably be the first thing to come to most peoples' mind. The Latin name is Atropa belladonna and the 'belladonna' bit, meaning 'beautiful lady', comes from the fact that Italian women used to drip the juice into their eyes. It enlarged the pupils and improved their looks much more cheaply than a face lift. Perhaps some of these celebrities whose dimple in the chin used to be their belly button would do well to take note. Apparently, opthalmologists still use the same substance, atropine, to dilate the pupil and facilitate easier examination of the eye. The wise women of villages would make an ointment from the plant, rubbing it into their bodies in order to give them a feeling of flying. The wise women were witches, and I suppose this was a sort of L.S.D on broomsticks.

      Deadly nightshade is in the family Solanaceae and most relatives share its poisonous properties: woody nightshade, shown in the pictures, is a common hedgerow wildflower; potato, the humble spud, produces poison in the form of solanine if allowed too much light, causing it to go green, and it seems that all parts of the tomato, apart from the fruit itself, are poisonous.

      All of which leaves me wondering who found out? Perhaps if you came across a new vegetable or fruit that looked attractive, it would be the thing to bake it into a cake and give it to someone you didn't like, just to test it. That way, you either make a friend or get rid of one. It's the ultimate win-win situation..

      Anyway, if my wife reads this, I'd like her to know I'm still going to get her back for that lavatory thing.