Pilosella aurantiaca (fox and cublets, tawny hawkweed)

Failed garden lighting

      My wife was keen to get some lighting in the garden and came across something which seemed ideal: it was a string of glass globes each with a small bulb enclosed, and powered by a small battery in a water-tight control case. The whole thing was supposed to be weather-tight and it worked perfectly for the whole of last summer, creating a halo of light around the arch I fixed it on. However the winter rain brought into question the meaning of 'weather tight', because each globe contained a pool of water when I came to look at it. At first, this seemed to offer interesting possibilities when I thought about it: why not inhabit each globe aquarium with some sort of miniature fish, so that giant piscatorial shadows moved round the garden when I switched on. If wouldn't matter if the water were to short out the bulbs because the resulting electrical hiatus would simply result in fried fish ready to supplement barbecue festivities. This theory bit the dust when the whole damn thing refused to work at all.The only benefactors of this failure were the theoretical fish.

      Fox and cublets' ( Pilosella aurantiaca) is the name my wildflower book gives a plant which moved in with us a year ago. This is related to hawkweed and dandelion, so I was chancing my luck when I decided to let it be and see what happened, the invasive potential of anything close to dandelion being worrying. It just got a lot more worrying when I read up about it in order to write this: apparently it can propagate itself vegetively by rhizomes as well as by seed and pundits strongly recommend that you don't grow it in the garden. With this in mind, I'm going to allow it to gift me the benefit of its flowers, before uprooting it and embarking on some less worrying challenge,

Fox and cublets behind emerging Agapanthus

      Another name for fox and cublets is tawny hawkweed,  It was introduced to Britain and Ireland from alpine regions in Central and Southern Europe in the early part of the seventeenth century and has widely naturalised since then.

Fox and cublets (Pilosella aurantiaca)

Poisonous Plants

Poison in the Garden

Ragwort (Senecio jacobea)

      It seems to me that you can overdo it when it comes to safety and poisonous plants. I've heard of people removing a Laburnum tree from the garden because their child may eat the seeds. This ties in with the wrapping- in- cotton- wool philosophy which ignores the learning potential in their own garden. What happens when the child plays in the park or friend's garden where the tree hasn't been taken down? The warnings and explanations which could have been gained at home have been lost. Many of the common garden plants are poisonous, including Rhododendron, Pieris, Hypericum, Euphorbia - the list is endless. And, because a plant is classed as poisonous, doesn't mean you are going to drop dead after a mouthful: apparently yew (Taxus baccata) which is widely known to be toxic, only carries out this promise after you've eaten enough leaves to stuff an average sized sofa. Maybe it should still be seen as dangerous but it isn't in the same class as telling the truth when a woman asks 'does my bum looks big in this?'

      I once suffered from mild poisoning when I'd taken the advice of a 'free wild food' book and tried chickweed, which is recommended as being fine in salads. I'd picked it in the garden and inadvertently included some sun spurge (Euphorbia helioscopia), which looks vaguely similar when you haven't got your glasses on. The Euphorbia had the effect of numbing my mouth and tongue so that I could hardly talk. At this point my wife, always sympathetic, said it was a good thing because it shut me up. There's a similar effect accompanying the consumption of the houseplant known as dumb cane (Dieffenbachia spp), the sap swells the tongue and justifies the common name. This is well known, but I pride myself in having personally carried out the ground-breaking research on sun spurge.

Choosey diner

      On the whole, animals seem to have an instinct which prevents them eating plants which may be harmful (although goats seem to be an exception to this). It's widely known that horses are poisoned by eating ragwort (Senecio jacobea) but they rarely eat the growing plant - only that which has been cut and lies unrecognised when mixed with  hay.

      Cows seem to be victims of other aspects of danger in plants: I was fishing on the River Dane opposite a fifteen foot high clay bank, when a cow appeared at the top of it and peered longingly at a patch of grass and wildflowers growing on a narrow ledge some distance below the lip. It disappeared and I thought it had decided to make do with the thirty acres of grass in its field, but a couple of minutes later it came back and repeated its thoughtful perusal. Then, overcome with longing, it stepped gingerly onto a bulge of eroding bank with the obvious intention of working its way along the face to where dinner beckoned. It got further than I'd have thought possible before the clay suddenly crumbled.

      I've always thought cows' faces were pretty mild and expressionless, but this one proved the exception as widening  eyes and gaping mouth conveyed a definite impression of surprise and horror. The accompanying bellow completed the bovine version of OH SHIT! before cow and large section of banking obeyed gravity and plunged into the river.

      I don't know how much a cow weighs, but it certainly displaces enough water to give Archimedes a 'eureka' moment. The resulting tsuname headed my way as I sat peacefully fishing and I sprang into action too late to stop my ham butties and half my tackle  disappearing into the torrent.

      I didn't catch anything after that.

Allium ursinum (ramsons) and Lamium album (white dead-nettle)

Henry VIII

The flowers of ramsons (Allium ursinum)

A friend who is a primary school teacher told me this true story: she was taking history with the class and they were currently looking at Henry VIII. She had given a brief outline of Henry's activities before looking for feedback from her captive audience:

"What was unusual about Henry the Eighth?" she asked the class, and nine year old Billy's hand shot up.

"Please miss, 'e was unusual 'cos 'e 'adn't got a willy", he said, a serious look on his face.

There was a frozen silence which eventually gave way to suppressed sniggers from the rest of the class. Billy looked round indignantly. It wasn't often he came up with the right answer  but he knew he was on the ball with this one. Unfortunately he was known to be disruptive in class - a bit of a joker - but this was one step beyond, even for him.

"I beg your pardon".

"'E 'adn't got a wi.....".

"That is very rude  Billy Jones. Before I send to to the head's office, why did you say that?"

Anthony looked mystified. "Well, 'cos it sez it in the song".

"What song?"

To those of you who missed the more intellectual musical entertainments of the 'sixties, a group called Joe Brown and the Bruvvers recorded a song about a bloke called Henery who married the widow next door who had been married seven times before. At one point in the chorus, she firmly proclaims that she 'wouldn't have  a Willy or a Sam' (because she preferred an 'enery), and it was this, hearing it on his dad's 'Hits of the Sixties' CD, that Billy had unfortunately misinterpreted. Although Billy had got it wrong, the incident made me think of the potential for teaching through rhyme and music. For example:

Henry stepped down from his throne
To marry Anne Boleyn, it is known
Broke the rules of the church
And left the Pope in the lurch
By making a church of his own.

O.k. Maybe Wordsworth it isn't and as a full history of Henry it's a bit constricted, but I bet Billy'd go for it.

And believe it or not, there's a plant called Good King Henry (Chenopodium bonus-henricus). Actually, it's a weed - often one of the first to appear on newly cultivated ground. In the past it was used as a vegetable and was widely grown in Lincolnshire, where it was known as Lincolnshire Spinach. However the Asian spinach then arrived on the scene and Good King Henry abdicated. It is useful as a green manure, its deep roots absorbing valuable nutrients which can then be made available for shallower rooting crops by being cultivated into the soil. The common name comes from German meaning 'good Henry' and is supposed to refer to an elf. Somewhere along the line the English stuck 'king' into the name and it has stuck. It has absolutely nothing to do with Henry the Eighth, but is the perfect bridge into gardening from the above anecdote.

A healthy bank of ramsons

A surprising number of hedgerow plants are edible and the survivor of some sort of holocaust could probably get by on native plants. During summer, at least. Ramsons (Allium ursinum) is one example, and can be found in damp woodland and riversides in  spring. Although having a strong smell, the leaves have a mild onion flavour and make a pleasing addition to omelettes, when finely chopped. They can also be used in salads and, until fairly recently, were commonly boiled like cabbage in the Scottish Highlands. At one time, ramsons was popularly used applied to infected wounds. Bulbs would be picked and pickled in brown sugar and rum in the Isle of Man, shipped to the mainland and used during the winter as a remedy for coughs and colds. Its efficacy was reflected in a seventeenth century saying:

Eat leaks in Lide (March) and ramsins in May
And all the year after physicians may play

Probably one of the biggest deterrents to walking in Scotland is the merciless attention of midges and a couple of leaves of ramsons, crushed and waved round your head, will keep them away. Don't wave too vigorously though as this may be misinterpreted as a cry for help and, before you know what's happening, you've been mountain rescued.

White deadnettle (Lamium album)

White deadnettle (Lamium album), another perennial native plant, is so called because its leaves resemble those of nettle. However, it is not related and doesn't have the potential to sting. It is often found growing alongside nettles and I've just come across an interesting little story in Hatfield's Herbal - A Secret History of English Plants: it seems that 'fairies became cross at their shoes being continually stolen by centipedes, so they decided to hide them among the stinging nettles. Pick a piece of deadnettle and turn it upside down: in every white flower, you will see two black pairs of fairy shoes, neatly hidden'. I've never tried that, but certainly will when they come into flower this year. The young leaves and stems (and I stress 'young') have culinary use when cooked without additional water and in the company of a knob of butter, some salt and pepper and perhaps spring onions to spice up the rather bland flavour. The plant is also used medicinally for menstruation problems, so, in all, if you are the survivor of the holocaust, this is another one to look out for.

Impatiens glandulifera (policeman's helmet)

One-Way Weeds

Impatiens glandulifera with gatekeeper butterfly

I think I've mentioned before that I used to have an old post office Morris 1000 van. I had a strict maintenance schedule for GPO vans and this was to run them til they stopped and then get another one. Having said this, I did perform occasional highly technical repairs. For example the radiator on this particular one leaked and someone had told me you could solve the problem by putting an egg in. This led to a pleasant smell of cooking in the vehicle but the efficacy wore off after about fifty miles, meaning a new egg was required on a regular basis. I always used free-range, so this was pretty environmentally responsible for the time and there was always a carton of them under the dashboard. Eventually the system got completely blocked with what I suppose, in culinary terms was poached egg, and I forget what happened after that. I've a suspicion I did an unsuccessful experiment to see whether you can run a car without a radiator, but merciful old age memory has blocked out the result.

I was driving down Oldham Road in the van one day and made a left turn down a fairly narrow street. My wife was with me and she suddenly screamed. This over-reaction to  my driving was fairly common in those days and, come to think of it, has steadily got worse. More so when  my daughter is also on board because this means there are three drivers. Anyway, I suppose on this occasion she had some justification, because a policeman was crossing the road in front of us, looking the other way.

"Bloody hell", I yelled, jamming on the brakes "you'd think a copper'd have more sense".

At this point the policeman turned round, saw the egg-laden bonnet about three feet away and, for some reason, jumped in the air. I often think back to the way his helmet came down two seconds after he did,    and have come to the conclusion there must be some law of physics that explains this. Then I realised he was crossing the road at pedestrian lights facing the other way. The evidence was purely circumstantial, but it seemed to point to the fact that this was a one-way street and, more than likely, I wasn't going the recommended one.

The officer of the law banged imperiously on the driver's side window, not looking very pleased.

"Park up over there", he instructed, when I wound the window down, so I pulled over and got out. Its worth pointing out that the van wasn't in the best of conditions: one wing mirror was loose and it rotated slowly when the vehicle was moving, giving a wonderful view of what was in the shop windows but being a bit neglectful of what was actually behind on the road; the engine started when it felt like it, which wasn't often enough for my liking, and various other defects showed up intermittently. No doubt there is another blog in there somewhere. Anyway, the policeman leaned on the back of it and read the riot act.

Another aspect of the van that was a bit defective was the handbrake, and the weight of the arm of the law leaning caused  it to start moving. However, it stopped before he noticed, because my quick-thinking wife had leaned across and pressed the foot-brake. Even then he could have had me when the brake lights gave us away, but luckily they hadn't worked for some time.

He had a considerable rant, informing me I'd taken ten years off his life and giving the impression that going the wrong way up a one way street was subject to the death penalty. I thought he'd throw the book at me but he didn't. For some reason he seemed to be a bit of a nervous wreck and gave me the impression he wanted me out of his sight.

"Bear that in mind and now bugger off", he said when he ran out of rant. I felt quite indignant really. What had happened to police politeness when addressing members of the public?- surely I was entitled to a 'sir' and this was the police brutality they talk about. Maybe I should report him. Police on the telly never used bad language like that (not in the seventies, anyway). Even when a murderer is being arrested they refer to him as 'sir'. He had gone a funny red colour though, and he had nearly been run over, so I thought it best not to pursue the matter. On reflection, I suppose he may have had a point.

 I got back in the van and tried to start the engine. It wouldn't.

The friendly constable stood watching, and I swear he went a deeper red than the traffic light when I had to ask him for a push. It was alright though, I was used to this. With him and my wife pushing and me running and shoving alongside, steering through the open door  until we reached speed, I was able to dive in, ram it into gear, and roar off, leaving Plod looming through a cloud of black exhaust smoke. He looked a bit like Clint Eastwood in that scene in 'A Fistful Of Dollars' and I got the impression he'd have liked to blast me to oblivion, like Clint did with the baddies. He looked even worse when I did a three point turn and came back.  It was a one way street, after all.

Not surprisingly, this incident reminded me of policeman's helmet (Impatiens glandulifera), that ubiquitous weed of damp places. It was first introduced by the early Victorians as an attractive garden plant. One of those things that seemed a good idea at the time. Now it is rampant along river banks throughout the country, out -competing native plants for light and nutrients and making some places inaccessible. At times it can reach a height of 9ft.

Called policeman's helmet because the flower is the same shape as its namesake, it is also known as Himalayan balsam, with reference to its place of origin, and is closely related to the busy Lizzie we grow as bedding. The reason it has taken hold so successfully can be seen in its seed pods: the plant forces water into them until the pressure is so great that they explode. Sometimes even a fly landing on one can set it off, sending seeds as far as twenty feet away. This gives it tremendous potential to exploit new ground and also probably explains a preponderance of flies on crutches in the vicinity.

Explosive seed capsules

Much disliked for the reasons outlined, balsam bashing days are organised in many places, the object being to destroy the plants before they set seed. However seeds are viable for a couple of years, so only regular 'bashes' are going to make an appreciable difference.

On the positive side, the flowers are attractive and bees love them, climbing out positively plastered with pollen and, if you look closely, smiling. In addition to this, all upper parts of the plant are edible for humans.

Bee emerging from flower

Coming back to one-way streets: maybe the policeman's helmet and various other alien plants are destined to move inexorably forward until the day comes that we forget they're foreigners. It's happened with sycamore, conker trees and many more, so why not? Be nice to think that the people of different nations will eventually blend in the same way.

Roll on one world.

Garden Wildflowers

Wildflowers In The Garden

'If it's a native of this country it'll be a doddle to grow it', seems a logical way of thinking about wildflowers. However, though we are expert at growing exotic things like Dahlias and a multitude of other species, we often fall short in our ability to grow something that proliferates in our own countryside (unless we think of marestail and dandelions - I'm the world champion at them without even trying). One of the main showgrounds of wildflowers is the field regularly cropped by  the farmer for hay. The reason for this is that each year the grass grows, using up nutrient from the soil. Then it is cut and removed for use on the farm, leaving a soil progressively less rich in nutrients - especially nitrogen. This is a boon to the wildflowers, because grass thrives on nitrogen and is subsequently less able to out -compete the other plants.


Hyde Hall Wildflower Meadow

Bearing this in mind, our wildflower patch should not be treated to the constant addition of organic matter and blood, fish and bone butties so loved by the foreigners, but actually allowed to become depleted of these goodies. Copying the hay farmer is one way of achieving this, but obviously that takes time, so it is sometimes recommended that we remove the topsoil to a depth of about six inches and plant in the relatively poor subsoil. This can be a massive task on a large plot, so the slower method may be used and helped along by the use of plants like hay rattle, which is semi-parasitic on grasses and consequently weakens them. An attractive plant in its own right, the ripe seeds do actually rattle when the pods are shaken. Other help is also at hand in places like The National Wildflower Centre in Court Hey Park, near Liverpool, where they display different growing techniques and mediums, while also offering courses and adult training.



Hay Rattle

Anyone not convinced about the merits of wildflowers should visit gardens like Harlow Carr in Yorkshire and Hyde Hall in Essex, where the displays can be mind-blowing. However, for me, the advantage of wildflowers is not simply in the aesthetics they provide, but in something far deeper: for example, at Fletcher Moss where I used to work, we changed the mowing regime in the meadow from fortnightly to once a year in late summer. The result was a proliferation of cuckooflower (Cardamine pratensis). However, not only did we get the pretty flower but it was soon noticed that there were far more orange tip butterflies around. Orange tips rely very much on cuckooflower for feeding and egg laying, so the wildflower had encouraged the insect. If there are plenty of insects, birds are attracted to feed on them and if these insect-eating birds are around, there is also the chance that their own predators, like sparrowhawks and kestrels will be attracted.



Cuckoo Flower

Orange Tip Butterfly

And so we learn the lesson that all living things depend on other living things and the more we garden with nature rather than opposed to it, the richer our experience of the natural world will be.