Wednesday Weed – The Wild Service Tree Revisited

Fruit on a Wild Service Tree close to Heartwood Forest near St Albans

Dear Readers, it’s always a joy to see a Wild Service Tree thriving, and I was astonished at the amount of berries on this specimen, seen opposite the Heartwood Café in Sandridge (the café is highly, highly recommended, especially for breakfast). I had a look at my original post, from 2015, and note that I said then that summers in the UK were rarely hot enough for Wild Service to produce a good crop of fruit. How things have changed! This tree was not shaded, and so conditions were probably ideal for berries, but I would be very interested to know if any of you have noticed an increase in berries and other fruit this year – I’ve noted before that our Rowan street trees are laden with berries, so it will be a good year for thrushes, for sure.

Now, let’s have a look at the Wild Service Tree, in all its glory, with a trip back to 2015.

IMG_4981

Wild Service Tree (Sorbus torminalis)

Dear Readers, when I was in Cherry Tree Wood last week I made a point of popping by to visit an old friend, the Wild Service Tree that grows next to the cafe. It is so easy to overlook trees, for all their size,  and indeed I would have walked right past this if it hadn’t been pointed out to me by Brenna Boyle of Wild Capital when we were on a wildlife walk (an experience that I can heartily recommend if you want to learn about London’s plants and animals). But once identified, a Wild Service Tree  is very distinctive, with its extraordinary criss-cross bark. This one also bears a little red triangular badge, which shows that it is under a Tree Preservation Order, and so should be protected from the worst excesses of over-enthusiastic council tree surgeons.

IMG_4983Never common, these trees are seen as being an indicator of ancient woodland, because they rarely disperse far from their parent tree – in his magisterial book ‘Woodlands’, Oliver Rackham describes the problem. The fruits (of which more below) are probably designed to be dispersed by birds, but for hundreds of years either the wrong birds have eaten them, or the seeds are not carried away. Rackham speculates that maybe the tree co-evolved with a bird that is no longer resident in the UK, or is extinct. So, when you see a Wild Service Tree, you can be fairly happy that it’s a relative of a tree that grew very nearby.

As Cherry Tree Wood was once part of the Bishop of London’s hunting grounds (as was Coldfall Wood) it is a reminder that this spot has not always had tennis courts, a children’s playground and regularly-graffitied public toilets. The Mutton Brook is said to arise somewhere in the wood (behind the aforementioned public toilets judging by the iris-covered bog behind them), and once upon a time deer and boar were killed amongst the oaks and the hornbeams. Maybe the ancestor of this tree was there when bugles were blown and hounds scuffled amongst the fallen leaves.

IMG_4985The Latin species name of the Wild Service Tree, torminalis, means ‘good for colic’, and the fruits, sometimes called ‘chequers’ were used as a remedy for this affliction. More to the point, though, the fruit was used to flavour a ratafia (another new word). This is a drink made by marinating berries or fruit in some kind of spirit – think of cherry brandy or (my favourite) sloe gin. This may account for the number of English pubs called ‘The Chequers’, though some folk also think it might refer to the pattern on the bark. And there’s me thinking that these hostelries were named for an innocent board game.

"Sorbus torminalis Weinsberg 20070929 5" by Rosenzweig - Own work (own picture). Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sorbus_torminalis_Weinsberg_20070929_5.jpg#/media/File:Sorbus_torminalis_Weinsberg_20070929_5.jpg

The fruit of the Wild Service Tree – Photo credit below.

The fruit is said to be too astringent for today’s tastebuds, and is described as only being edible when over-ripe and allowed to become almost rotten, a process known as bletting. This is also used with wild fruits such as medlars and rowan berries. In Flora Britannica, Richard Mabey describes the taste of Wild Service berries as being:

‘…not quite like anything else that grows wild in this country, with hints of apricot, sultana, overripe damson and tamarind, and a lightly gritty texture’.

Actually, that sounds like a perfect fruit for a Christmas pudding to me. I wonder if anyone has ever tried it?

Unfortunately, summers in the UK are rarely warm enough for the Wild Service Tree to produce much fruit, and it tends to reproduce by suckers instead. However, there are exceptions: Richard Mabey describes a tree at Parsonage Farm, Udimore, in East Sussex, which has a 13-foot girth and in a good year bears two tons of berries.

"Mespilus germanica 01" by Takkk - Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mespilus_germanica_01.jpg#/media/File:Mespilus_germanica_01.jpg

Some bletted medlars – photo credit below.

The leaves of a Wild Service Tree resemble those of a maple, though they also look to me like inverted angels.

"Sorbus torminalis leaves kz" by Kenraiz - Own work. Licensed under Public Domain via Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sorbus_torminalis_leaves_kz.jpg#/media/File:Sorbus_torminalis_leaves_kz.jpg

Wild Service Tree leaves (photo credit below)

In spring, the tree produces flowers which look very similar to those of my garden Whitebeam (not surprising, as they are closely related)

Wild Service Tree flowers (photo credit below)

Why, though, is this tree called the Wild Service Tree? There are a number of possibilities. One is that the word Service is a corruption of the Roman word for beer, cerevisia (which will be recognised by anyone who has ever asked for ‘dos cervesas por favor’ in a Spanish bar), and that the berries were used to flavour this beverage. Richard Mabey thinks not, however, and disputes that there is any link between this plant and beer. He believes that the word Service relates to the Old English word Syfre. And, to my delight, I discover that there is an Old English- Modern English translation site on the internet, so I put in the word Syfre. And here’s what it says:

‘clean pure chaste sober not giving way to appetite or passion abstinent temperate circumspect ‘

What a perfect description of this tree as it stands quietly alone, bedecked with white flowers or golden leaves. It seems like a serious tree to me, one not given to frivolity or nonsense, for all that its fruit has probably engendered such behaviour in generations of drinkers. I love that it is growing next to the footpath here, sinking its roots into the London clay that it prefers to all other soils. There are reminders of the history that we share with plants and animals everywhere we go.

IMG_4987Photo credits:

The fruit of the Wild Service Tree – “Sorbus torminalis Weinsberg 20070929 5” by Rosenzweig – Own work (own picture). Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons – https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sorbus_torminalis_Weinsberg_20070929_5.jpg#/media/File:Sorbus_torminalis_Weinsberg_20070929_5.jpg

Bletted medlars – “Mespilus germanica 01” by Takkk – Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons – https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mespilus_germanica_01.jpg#/media/File:Mespilus_germanica_01.jpg

Wild Service Leaves – “Sorbus torminalis leaves kz” by Kenraiz – Own work. Licensed under Public Domain via Commons – https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sorbus_torminalis_leaves_kz.jpg#/media/File:Sorbus_torminalis_leaves_kz.jpg

Wild Service Flowers by Nicolas Turland at https://www.flickr.com/photos/nturland/4697884243

All other photographs copyright Vivienne Palmer

 

 

 

 

A Bit of Culture…Parsifal at the Royal Opera House

Well, Readers, you might remember that I am very much a latecomer to opera (not a lot of it in East London in the 1960s when I was growing up), but just lately I’ve been trying out various performances to see what I actually like. My heart really belongs to Mr Handel, a true Londoner and one of those people who were endlessly prolific. I defy anyone’s heart not to be lifted by one of his great arias, but I figured that if I wanted a contrast, what better than Mr Wagner? And so on Sunday I took myself off to the Royal Opera House for Parsifal, Wagner’s last opera and five and a half hours long.

Well.

I am speaking from the point of view of a complete Wagner novice, and so I arrived in the cheap seats (cheap being relative), crammed in with no armrests. It was a full house, however, and as is often the case I got talking to my neighbours, who were all much more experienced than me. All praised the orchestra, and I could see why – this is a monumental score, and, to my ears at least, very beautiful. Which rather contrasts with the story of a ‘pure’ man, the knights of the holy grail, and a woman, Kundry, who epitomises the virgin/whore dichotomy. It goes without saying that Wagner himself held hideously anti-semitic views which were weaponised by the Nazis, and that brings us into difficult territory that is shared with many artists. How can we still enjoy the works of people who behaved abominably, and who yet created work of extraordinary beauty? But that’s probably a topic for a book, not a blogpost, though I’d be very interested in your views.

 

Stanislas de Barbeyrac as Parsifal at the Royal Opera House. Photograph: Marc Brenner

This was a very modern production – no forests, no gardens. The flower maidens were fembots, and the grail ceremony involves everyone drinking blood from the wound of Amfortas, who was beguiled by Kundry and stabbed with the holy spear that was used to wound Jesus, leaving him with a wound that won’t heal.  The singing was amazing, though there is none of the vocal gymnastics that I love in Handel, and also  (of course) no counter tenors. But it gripped me from start to finish, and I suspect I will have a look at some of Wagner’s other operas. Maybe something light-hearted like Götterdämmerung.

Anyhow,  I would also like to flag up that the London Handel Festival will be open for booking soon – there’s some great stuff for any Handel fans out there. Let me know if you’re planning to go to anything!

 

Ivy Bees at Last!

Dear Readers, earlier this week I made a trip to Cookham, to see the Stanley Spencer Gallery, and the church where he was buried. Spencer has long been a favourite of mine, with his combination of the everyday and the divine,  but I was of course diverted by a magnificent ivy hedge, upon which there were dozens of ivy bees. You might remember that these insects are fairly recent arrivals to the UK from continental Europe – clearly they are breeding here in some numbers now (you can see some amazing photos of reader Philip Buckley’s garden here), and I think we’re all the better for it. They are the last bees to hatch, so they don’t compete with any of our established species, and they are handsome and docile little insects, with their sharp yellow and black stripes and gingery thorax.

Newly emerged Ivy Bees (Photo by Philip Buckley)

Such a shame, then, that so many people think this is a good time to trim back their ivy, or to remove it altogether. It provides late pollen for other insects too (including bumblebees and queen wasps), and the berries are loved by many birds. So let’s leave it alone, eh.

I didn’t realise that Charles Dickens had written a poem about ivy, and he seems to have a (somewhat  grudging) respect for the plant. See what you think.

The Ivy Green

Charles Dickens
1812 – 1870

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o’er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men’s graves.
Creeping where grim death hath been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy’s food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Biological Bank Notes – Decision Made!

Hedgehog (Photo By Gibe, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=29948)

Well, Readers, the results are in – you might remember that back in July, the Bank of England announced that it would feature native British animals on its next bank notes, and asked us all to vote on what we fancied. Well, the hedgehog (259k votes) came out on top in the mammals, narrowly beating the red fox(245k votes) – I’m not displeased as goodness knows hedgehogs could do with a bit of help.

In birds, the barn owl won (270k votes), beating the kingfisher (211k votes) into second place.

Barn owl in flight (Photo By Dannymoore1973, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=104101425)

In the amphibians, insects and fish section, the buff-tailed bumblebee absolutely ran away with the vote, with 360k votes compared to their closest rival, the emperor dragonfly with only 144k votes. And very well deserved too. As you all know, I have a soft spot for our native bees, and bumblebees are amongst my favourites.

Buff-tailed bumblebee on winter honeysuckle

But wait! A fourth animal has been chosen for the bank notes – the Atlantic puffin, chosen as the most popular marine animal (with 183k votes). I suspect some designer out there just wants a shot at that colourful puffin beak.

Atlantic Puffin (Photo By Charles J. Sharp – Own work, from Sharp Photography, sharpphotography.co.uk, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=106949397)

You can read the full results here.

Work will now begin on designing the notes, which will need to incorporate new security features as well to keep ahead of the forgers. It would be nice if the notes also incorporated some of our native flora, as suggested by Plantlife. I’ll keep you posted!

 

And the Winner of Tree of the Year 2026 is…

The Bendy Tree, County Down (Photo Michael Cooper Photography)

Yes, it’s the Bendy Tree from County Down. You might remember that the theme for this year was resilience – all the shortlisted trees had suffered some kind of trial or tribulation, and all were noble survivors. You can read my original article here, and see the shortlist here.

The Bendy Tree is a wych elm, and is the last in a row of elms probably planted in the mid 19th century to protect the seafront shops from the wind. No questions about the direction of the prevailing wind looking at this tree! And of course it’s also survived Dutch Elm disease, unlike many of the neighbouring trees. Finally, many of the other trees were cut down for redevelopment in the 1980s. But the Bendy Tree survived, and it’s remained a local landmark, with people agreeing to meet ‘under the Bendy Tree’ (or, for those of a nervous disposition, next to it).

The Bendy Tree was a clear winner, gaining 31 percent of the vote. Long may it lean!

New Scientist – Can Sounds Make Plants Grow Better?

Capsicum annuum

Well, Readers, I don’t know about you but I often converse with my plants – praising them when they’re doing well, cooing over my baby spider plants, gently encouraging anyone who looks a bit sickly. But apparently I’ve been doing it all wrong, because an agricultural start-up in California has been producing extraordinary results by playing sounds at 80 decibels (the equivalent of a police car siren).

We know that plants react to sounds, even though they obviously don’t have ears – it’s been shown that if you play the sound of a caterpillar munching to plants, some species will produce toxic chemicals designed to deter predators. It’s presumed that they’re reacting to the vibration.

Now, Haivya, the start-up, have a patent pending on their ‘Bioacoustic Cultivation and Communication Protocol’ (BCCP). This is not just one sound, but a suite of sounds and frequencies, that have different effects at different growth stages. It’s been tested so far on bell peppers, soy beans and cannabis, and has resulted in an increase in yield from 42 percent to a whacking 90 percent in cannabis, plus some plants have shown a faster growth rate and less water consumption.

Before we get too excited, it should be noted that the paper that records these results has not yet been peer-reviewed and we are not sure what is going on here. One scientist speculates that the sounds could be affecting not the plants themselves, but the soil that they’re growing in. And the results will need to be validated by further research. But still. Even if the results are not as spectacular as shown here, an increase in yield with no need for pesticides or fertiliser or herbicides should surely be a good thing, though the noise pollution from greenhouses might be a whole new problem.

The New Scientist article is here.

The research paper is here.

Thursday Poem – ‘What I Didn’t Know Before’ by Ada Limón

WHAT I DIDN’T KNOW BEFORE by Ada Limón
was how horses simply give birth to other
horses. Not a baby by any means, not
a creature of liminal spaces, but already
a four-legged beast hellbent on walking,
scrambling after the mother. A horse gives way
to another horse and then suddenly there are
two horses, just like that. That’s how I loved you.
You, off the long train from Red Bank carrying
a coffee as big as your arm, a bag with two
computers swinging in it unwieldily at your
side. I remember we broke into laughter
when we saw each other. What was between
us wasn’t a fragile thing to be coddled, cooed
over. It came out fully formed, ready to run.

Wednesday Weed on Friday – Yarrow Revisited Yet Again

Dear Readers, I was visiting a friend in Walthamstow today when I noticed that the only plant that seemed to be flourishing in the parched front lawn of a local housing estate was some yarrow. The ground is literally dust, but in this tiny spot (which is close to three Thames Water manhole covers) the yarrow is positively verdant.

It’s been a tough, tough year for many wild plants, but as the saying goes ‘when the going gets tough, the tough get going’, in this case spreading and taking advantage of a tiny patch which might possibly be a little damper than the soil round about. I note that in my first Wednesday Weed post about yarrow, I mention its deep taproots, which make it very drought-resistant. Once upon a time it was a vital member of any meadow community, and it has a millennia-long relationship with human beings. What a splendid little plant!

Let’s see what I’ve said previously about Yarrow.

Yarrow (Achillea millefolium)

Dear Readers, Yarrow is such a common plant (it’s in flower pretty much every month of the year), and in its natural state it is a shy and retiring white flower. However, it has spawned a whole raft of brightly coloured cultivars, usually called ‘Achillea’ in garden centres. Even the wild plant can often be found in various shades of pink, and I’m noticing cultivars in rusty orange and bright yellow. Hoverflies in particular seem to love those easy, open flowers – they don’t have the specialised equipment needed for dealing with a foxglove or a phlomis, but they will very happily while away the hours on a yarrow flower, regardless of colour.

Achillea millefolium ‘New Vintage Violet’

But I am most delighted because Yarrow has been in flower in my ‘meadow’ next to the pond (aka the smallest meadow in East Finchley). It makes me feel as if I have a few metres of genuine sward, and I’ve noticed that the froglets are enjoying having an easy exit from the pond too. There’s something so deliciously lush and green about this tiny patch of turf, and it’s stayed that way even though it’s been such a dry year. North-facing gardens have their problems, but also their advantages, like most things.

Yarrow was one of my very first ‘Wednesday Weeds’, so let’s journey back to 2014 and see what was going on then.

As I squelched womanfully around the edge of the playing fields at Coldfall Wood on Monday, I was forcefully reminded that most of the soil of London is clay. The whole area was a slippery, claggy mass. I could have picked up a handful and thrown myself a pot. A Golden Retriever hurled himself into a large puddle, and a crow hopped down to check out the new water features that had appeared after the previous night’s heavy rainfall.

IMG_0718I was looking for something interesting to share with you all. Something with berries, or interesting foliage. Something that hadn’t either disappeared or turned into a twig. And then I spotted these, flowering amongst the brambles on the sunlit side of the fields.

IMG_0731Yarrow is a plant of the northern hemisphere, which grows in Europe, Asia and North America. It gets its Latin name, Achillea,  from the Iliad – Achilles was said to have been taught the use of yarrow by his centaur teacher, Chiron, and to have always carried some with him into battle to staunch bleeding. Everywhere that it grows it has a long history of use as a medicinal herb. Some of its other names, such as Woundwort and Sanguinary, reflect its traditional use as a bloodclotting agent, but the flowers and leaves have also been used for everything from phlegmatic conditions to menstrual cramps. Humble the plant may be, but it seems to be a veritable medicine chest, and is even said to increase the efficacy of other herbs when it is used in combination with them.

In Asia, the dried stalks of Yarrow are used as part of the I Ching divination process, and in North America the Navajo use it for toothache and earache.

IMG_0730 I associate Yarrow with areas of old grassland, where its delicate leaves form an important part of the sward, but quickly learned that it had an important role in the health of our agricultural land. Before we contracted our current mania for monoculture, Yarrow always formed part of the meadow’s plant community – it has extremely deep roots, which make it resistant to drought and helpful in cases of soil erosion, plus the leaves (which can also be eaten by humans) are rich in minerals and good for grazing animals. These days, it seems to be something of an outlier, growing at the edges of fields where the turf is allowed to grow a little longer.

IMG_0726The list of beneficial qualities goes on. Yarrow is excellent for companion planting because it attracts pollinators such as hoverflies who will eat many plant pests. Starlings use it to line their nests, and it has been shown to reduce the parasite load that the nestlings have to bear.

IMG_0728In the wild, Yarrow grows in three colour variations – white (as below), pale pink and dark pink. Many cultivated varieties exist, and are indeed ‘bee-friendly’, though not, I suspect, as ‘friendly’ as the original plant.

IMG_0724

Pale Pink Yarrow ( © Copyright Evelyn Simak and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence)

Pale Pink Wild Yarrow ( © Copyright Evelyn Simak and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence)

The name ‘Yarrow’ is said to come from the Anglo-Saxon word gearwe, which means ‘to prepare’ or ‘to be ready’. Many practices concerned its ability to ward off evil – it was burned on St John’s Eve (23rd June). This coincides with the Summer Solstice, so may be another case of a Christian holiday overlaying a much older tradition. Also at the Solstice, a bundle of Yarrow would be tied over a child’s cradle, or over the entrance to the house, to ensure good luck in the coming year.

As usual, I am gobsmacked. This unobtrusive little plant has had a millenium-long relationship with human beings all over the world. These days, most of us (including me) scarcely give it a second glance. Pushed to the edge of the field like so many plant species, it flowers on , even on an iron-hard December day. It makes me sad that so much of the plant lore that our grandparents would have known is being lost. It is so important that we recognise our place in a community that is made up of land, plants and animals, not just humans. In the meantime, the Yarrow waits on.

 © Copyright Ian Cunliffe and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

© Copyright Ian Cunliffe and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

 

 

‘Weeping Ash’ by Ann Pilling

Weeping Ash (Fraxinus excelsior) Photo By Jean-Pol GRANDMONT – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=12225193

Dear Readers, I’m still feeling a bit raw after the death of my friend, but when I found this poem I knew I needed to share it. Reader Sandra Gibson originally made me aware of it back in 2021, when I put out a call for people’s favourite autumn poems, and I loved it then. My friend loved Ash trees, and was very concerned about ash dieback, and all the other threats to our trees. I love the last two lines. See what you think.

Weeping Ash by Ann Pilling 2020

It died quietly in the night. If there were death throes
the gale swallowed them; and it fell with care
sideways on to a holly tree which soon bounced back,
we can see the hills now and we have more light.

I will miss all of it, its witchy branches, its long hair,
its stubborn refusal to leaf until spring
had all but passed into summer. Only then
did its long black fingernails unfurl to green.

The logs, stacked up in chequered rows against a wall,
will last several winters. Ash burns well.
In the dark months we can pull up close,
warm our hands at its flame

as those we have loved warm
us when we remember them.

http://www.annpilling.co.uk/commended-poems/22-weeping-ash

An Autumn Walk in East Finchley

Dear Readers, earlier this week a very dear friend of mine died – I will no doubt write more about her in the days to come, but for now I’m feeling heavy and sad. She was a very special person, and her death, though not unexpected, has been a blow for all of those who knew and loved her. And yet, outside the world continues to wear its autumn colours against an azure sky, and there is some cheer in that, as there always was for her.

There is a really wonderful ivy hedge at the top of Summerlee Avenue, and if anybody doubted how valuable this plant is to late summer pollinators, just look at the pollen baskets on these honey bees, they’re absolutely full to busting. No ivy bees yet, let me know if you’ve seen any where you are!

In Cherry Tree Wood, this squirrel was very conflicted – his waving, shaking tail said that he was nervous at us being so close, but clearly he  thought we might have food.

And on the corner of Durham Road and Fortis Green, this house is trying to do its bit for our wild creatures. My friend would have approved, for sure.