Every Wednesday, I hope to find a new ‘weed’ to investigate. My only criterion will be that I will not have deliberately planted the subject of our inquiry. Who knows what we will find…..

Dear Readers, during my walk along the Mutton Brook last week I encountered this extraordinary plant growing in Hampstead Garden Suburb. I had never seen anything quite like it before. The leaves resembled a conifer, the flowers looked rather leguminous, and the pink colour of the blooms was a pleasant shock to the retina on a frosty morning. In other words, what on earth was it? Fortunately two of my readers, Mr Baldwin Hamey (or rather, his botanically-minded friend) and Ms Anne Guy were able to identify it as a Grevillea, and once I found out what it was, I had to do some further investigation. It turns out that this plant is a long, long way from home, and that it has some very interesting attributes.

The Grevillea genus contains about 360 species, all of them from the Antipodes (mostly Australia, but a few in New Caledonia, Sulawesi and New Guinea). All of them are endemics, meaning that they grow wild nowhere else in the world. The shapes of the flowers are extraordinary: an alternative name for this species is ‘cats claw’, but there are also many ‘spider flowers’.  Grevillea alpina comes from Victoria and parts of New South Wales. The flowers come in many colours and five different shapes, but the ‘Olympic Flame’ variant has this delightful combination of lollypop pink and snowy white. In their native land, the plants are mainly pollinated by birds, honeycreepers to be specific.

Plants which are bird-pollinated tend to have bright red or pink flowers, and no perfume – most birds (with the exception of kiwis and some vultures) have a poorly-developed sense of smell, so there is no point in the plant using scent to attract them. In the UK, bees may also feed from the flowers, but are able to do so without pollinating the plant, which has not evolved to work with such small creatures – a case of ‘something for nothing’ for the insects. The flowers are also eaten by parrots, who don’t do much for pollination either but are completely charming.

Grevilleas are very nectar-rich, something which the aboriginal people of Australia have long recognised – the nectar can be shaken onto the hand for a quick burst of sweetness and energy, or added to a wooden vessel called a coolamon with some water to make a refreshing drink when on the move. The coolamon is made by moulding the bark of a hardwood tree over a fire to shape it as required. In the picture below, the vessel is lined with paperbark to provide a comfortable bed for a new baby, but for fluids the two halves of the coolamon would have been secured together. I am always in awe of the ability of indigeonous peoples everywhere to make the most of the plants that they find in their environment, and their understanding of the ebb and flow of the natural world that surrounds them.

Should you be tempted to try the nectar of a Grevillea, however, I would advise you to desist, as some of the commonly cultivated Grevilleas contain cyanide.

Grevilleas are named after Charles Francis Greville (1749 – 1849), who developed the harbour at Milford Haven in south Wales, but, more relevantly for this discussion, was the first person to persuade the Vanilla Orchid to flower in the UK. He was good friends with Sir Joseph Banks, who was involved with the Botany Bay colony during its inception, and who has a genus of plants of proteas, the Banksii, named after him too. The ships that brought the convicts to Botany Bay would return home laden down with the best of the flora and fauna that Australia had to offer. The first of the Grevillea plants arrived in 1825, and were hugely popular. However, the conditions for growing these plants are completely different from those present in their original home, and so only a few species can tolerate living outdoors, and even then they are notorious for succumbing to overly wet conditions.

So, dear Readers, I hope you will forgive me for including such an exotic plant in the Wednesday Weed. I have seldom been so astonished by a winter-flowering plant – it was a little like spotting an escaped wallaby, or espying a koala in the weeping willow. I must make a trip to Australia one day: the flora and fauna are unique, and illustrate so well how evolution can come up with extraordinary forms. In the meantime, I will be keeping an eye on this grevillea, and will no doubt now notice hundreds more, as is the way of things.

Photo Credits

Photo One  (Honeyeater) – T. Gerus (https://www.flickr.com/photos/tgerus/15564100412)

Photo Two (Lorikeet) – https://www.flickr.com/photos/zoom_eric/171175004

Photo Three (Coolamon) – By Taken byfir0002 | flagstaffotos.com.auCanon 20D + Tamron 28-75mm f/2.8 – Own work, GFDL 1.2, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=445560

Photo Four (Charles Francis Greville) – By George Romney – http://thepeerage.com/p41634.htm, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17078291

All other blog content copyright Vivienne Palmer. Free to use and share non-commercially, but please attribute and link back to the blog, thank you!

 

 

Every Wednesday, I hope to find a new ‘weed’ to investigate. My only criterion will be that I will not have deliberately planted the subject of our inquiry. Who knows what we will find…..

Dear Readers, on a wet and windy Sunday afternoon in January it was hard to find any wild plants to write about for the Wednesday Weed. I was half-tempted to feature the Amaryllis which is doing splendidly in a pot in my writing room, but I can hardly say that I didn’t plant it deliberately. And so I wandered out to the recycle bin and spotted this sad little specimen of male fern, doing its best against the slugs and the darkness and the damp. It has popped up beside a doormat that I keep meaning to throw out, and it provided a welcome hint of fresh green.

Ferns have an otherworldly, alien quality to them. They propagate by spores, rather than by flowers and seeds. At one point in earth’s evolution they were the dominant plants, first appearing during the Carboniferous about 360 million years ago. Dragonflies with 30 inch wingspans flitted among their fronds, and two-foot long scorpions hid in their shade. In short, walking through a fern-forest during this period would have been a rather alarming experience.

The names of the parts of the fern leaf are enigmatic. The stalk is the stipe. The mid-rib is the rachis, as it is in a bird’s feather. Most elegantly of all, an emerging fern, curled up like a caterpillar, is named ‘crozier’ after the bishop’s staff.

You may be wondering why this plant is called ‘male fern’. It appears that when it was named, it was felt to be the partner of a different species, the ‘lady fern’ (pictured above). The male fern was ‘robust in appearance and vigorous in growth’, while the lady fern was altogether more demure. You might argue that it’s this kind of gender stereotyping that’s gone a long way to making a mess of the world, but then I suspect the plants were named a very long time ago.

An alternative name for male fern is ‘worm fern’, which may be a reference to those curly croziers. However, the root of the plant was also used as a remedy for worms (an antihelmintic, another great new word for my collection). Was this because it was actually efficacious (it contains a substance called flavaspidic acid) or was it because the appearance of the worm-like fronds was considered to be an indication from God of what the plant was meant to be used for? Quite probably a bit of both, I suspect. These days, in the West at least, parasitic worms are on the decrease, and there are other remedies if you do contract them.

Incidentally, there are currently some fascinating studies on the effects of infestation with parasites and positive effects on the immune system. There are some indications that asthma, IBS, arthritis and MS symptoms can all be alleviated where the patients have been deliberately infected with different kinds of worms. The Wikipedia page here is a good overview, but New Scientist has a number of interesting articles on the subject. It seems that our fondness for hygiene, while generally a good thing, might have a number of deleterious side effects.

Onwards!

If you are not infected with worms, you might still want to seek out a male fern. According to folklore, it can make you invisible, a most useful attribute when trying to avoid your boss or indulge in some shady activity. Apparently anyone carrying it will be rendered imperceptible to the naked eye. I tried it with a few fronds plucked during the deluge but was still clearly visible (and wet). And then I read some more. Apparently, it’s the fern seeds that make you invisible. Ferns, as mentioned above, don’t have seeds. Therefore, if you find some they must be invisible and will ergo make you invisible too. Just like me not to read the small print. Plus, the seed was meant to be gathered on Midsummer’s Eve, along, it appears, with the rest of the plant (see below).

The root of the plant is known as ‘St John’s Hand’, and, if harvested and dried by a bonfire on Midsummer’s Eve is said to provide a powerful protection against any kind of misfortune, from ghosts and the evil eye to illness and bad luck. It’s said that Genghis Khan carried this charm on his person at all times, and it certainly worked for him. The trick is to tie five pieces of the root together in a hand shape, with the stem of the fern as the ‘wrist’. There’s a fine picture of one here.

If this were not enough, male fern can also be used in a potion to make a man fall in love.

During Victorian times there was a positive craze for ferns, as described by author  Dr Sarah Whittingham FSA in her book ‘Fern Fever: The Story of Pteridomania’. It may well have been triggered by Wordsworth et al, who waxed lyrical about ferns in The Lyrical Ballads. Here, Wordsworth is discussing the royal fern, Osmunda regalis, which grew in the Lake District.

‘Many such there are,
Fair Ferns and Flowers, and chiefly that tall Fern
So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named;
Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode,
On Grasmere’s beach, than Naiad by the side
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.’

I studied the Lyrical Ballads for my A-Levels back in 1978 and even that degree of immersion didn’t win me over to their charms – I still find them vaguely irritating (though I’m very happy to hear from you if you love them. I am not beyond convincing). But regardless of the cause, pteridomania led to a trend for fern patterns on wallpaper and porcelain, china and plaster. Native species were driven to the edge of extinction by Victorian collectors who were keen to imprison plants in their indoor glasshouses, called ‘Wardian Cases’. These were essential as the air pollution from coal fires would otherwise lead to the death of the plants.

These days, we have moved away from using ferns as indoor or garden plants, in spite of their great suitability for dark rooms, or those with humid atmospheres. But I am starting a one-woman drive to bring back the fern. In a north-facing garden, with two narrow, dark alleys, the ferns not only survive, but thrive. Their leaves offer a splendid green counterpoint on dark winter days. And if one day a two-foot long scorpion appears from under a frond, or a giant dragonfly flits past, I shall be delighted. I’m not called Bugwoman for nothing, y’know.

Photo Credits

Photo One (Croziers) – By Rror – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4072985

Photo Two (Male Fern) – By No machine-readable author provided. Valérie75 assumed (based on copyright claims). [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html), CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/) or CC BY-SA 2.5-2.0-1.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5-2.0-1.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

All other blog content copyright Vivienne Palmer. Free to use and share non-commercially, but please attribute and link back to the blog, thank you!

 

 

 

 

 

Every Wednesday, I hope to find a new ‘weed’ to investigate. My only criterion will be that I will not have deliberately planted the subject of our inquiry. Who knows what we will find…..

Dear Readers, in early January it is a delight to find any plant in flower, let alone one with a sweet smell and abundant waxy-white flowers. So, I was very pleased to find some Mexican Orange Blossom (Choisya ternata) in full bloom on Durham Road. The plant should not be confused with Mock Orange (Philadelphus species): Choisya is a member of the Rue family, which includes all the citrus trees, Skimmia (a stalwart of any garden centre) and of course Rue itself, much used as a medicinal. What all of these plants have in common is an abundance of essential oils which can be used in everything from perfume to cookery to the aforementioned medicines. The homeware company Diptyque sells a candle scented with Choisya if you happen to have £42 going idle just after Christmas. It is described as ‘sparkling, bitter-sweet and appealing’. I do wonder if they sell any unappealing candles: maybe ‘Cabbage’ or ‘Trainers’ or ‘Slurry’ in case you want to give a present to someone that you don’t very much like. Although the flowers are sweetly fragrant, the essential oils in the leaves are described on the Horticulture Week website as having a ‘pungent, rather unpleasant smell’, so perhaps an ‘unappealing’ candle could be made from Choisya after all.

As the name suggests, Mexican Orange Blossom comes originally from the southern states of  North America through to most of Mexico.  The plant was ‘discovered’ by Alexander von Humboldt during his South American voyages, though I imagine it was already well-known to  the indigenous peoples of the area. Humboldt named the plant Choisya after the Swiss botanist Jacques Choisy (1799 – 1859). He was a Swiss clergyman who contributed to the 17 volume ‘Prodromus Systematis Naturalis Regni Vegetabilis‘ , an attempt to record all the known seed plants in the world.The plant arrived in the UK in 1825 and was initially a plant of hothouses and orangeries. These days it seems perfectly happy outside, even in mid-winter.

One puzzle about Mexican Orange Blossom is that it very seldom sets seed. The plants encountered by Humboldt are now thought to have been cultivated examples – apparently truly wild Mexican Orange Blossom is very rarely encountered, and it might be that the plant is a hybrid. Certainly, the plants for sale in garden centres in the UK are grown from woody cuttings. What a puzzle! Apart from straightforward Choisya ternata, shown in my photographs, you can also find several varieties, though none of them apparently flower as enthusiastically as the original plant, and are less likely to give a second flush.

Experiments have been made into the medicinal uses of the plant, which has been included in the Mexican Pharmocopeia for its anti-spasmodic and stimulant properties. In Mexican folk medicine, the plant is used to treat a condition called ‘nervios’, which seems close to the Western conditions of anxiety and depression.  It has been investigated by scientists for possible anti-depressant and anti-inflammatory effects, and as a painkiller, and it seems that these studies have been promising. ‘Studies in Texan Folklore’ by Thomas Meade Harwell mentions that orange-blossom tea was thought to be good for heart ailments if taken before retiring in the evening. It seems that Choisya might, like so many plants, be a mini-medicine cabinet all on its own.

I rather like Mexican Orange Blossom. Once established (as a youngster it is prone to slug and snail attacks) it provides a valuable and long-running source of nectar-rich flowers for pollinators, and a delightful scent when you brush past. The yellow-leaved varieties can give a pop of colour in the darkest of winter days. I do wonder sometimes if plants miss the warmer summers of their native countries at some cellular level, but the ones around here are doing very well. Seeing a plant with such an abundance of flowers at this time of year certainly put a spring into my step.

Photo Credits

Photo One (Choisya Aztec Pearl) – By Wouter Hagens (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Photo Two (Choisya Sundance) – Sten [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons

All other blog content copyright Vivienne Palmer. Free to use and share non-commercially, but please attribute and link back to the blog, thank you!

Every Wednesday, I hope to find a new ‘weed’ to investigate. My only criterion will be that I will not have deliberately planted the subject of our inquiry. Who knows what we will find…..

Dear Readers, back in the 1980’s, when I was living in Chadwell Heath on the eastern fringes of Greater London, everyone had pampas grass in their gardens, including me. It makes such a statement, with its great fluffy seed heads and its towering height – the one in my back garden was over ten feet tall. But after a few years, I decided that the plant was rather too reminiscent of Abigail’s Party and Black Forest Gateau ( I know, gentle readers, but I was young) and so I decided to replace it with something more trendy. Well. Let me tell you that the roots of a clump of pampas grass would daunt the Incredible Hulk, let alone a young woman without power tools. The blades of the grass are sharp enough to draw blood ( in fact the name Cortaderia means ‘to cut’ ). No amount of spadework or getting down to business with the secateurs would make the slightest bit of difference. And, in the end, I gave up with the job half done. Next year I swear the plant had grown to 150% of its original size. I refused to take it personally, but my battle was over. If only I had known that, according to the DEFRA website, cattle will graze on pampas grass – I could have rescued a Jersey cow, an animal that I have always admired. At any rate, I grew to love my particular plant because, during the following spring, I noticed the goldfinches tearing great clumps from the grass and flying off with it to line their nests.

There are 25 different species of pampas grass (all from southern South America, as the name suggests) and hundreds of cultivated varieties. This one, spotted in one of the front gardens on the way to Cherry Tree Wood, is rather beautiful, especially in the low sun and with a breeze shaking through those delicate brush-like seedheads. Each plant can produce over a million seeds during its lifetime, and so it is considered to be an invasive pest in some more hospitable parts of the world, such as California and Hawai’i. In New Zealand and South Africa the plant is actually banned, for fear that it would out compete some of the endemic species.Although I knew that there was a touch of anti-suburban snobbery about having pampas grass in your garden, I had no idea that, according to urban legend, if you have the plant in your front garden it means that you are a swinger. Apparently the journalist Mariella Frostrup was ‘inundated with unwanted inquiries’ after she planted some outside her Notting HIll home. According to a 2012 article in the Telegraph she is ‘desperately trying to get rid of the plants’. Well, good luck with that, Mariella.  Judging by the streets around here, either the good folk of East Finchley have never heard of such a signification, or half of the town must be having a rather more varied sex life than I ever imagined.

Pampas grass is gynodioecious: this magnificent word means that there are separate female and bisexual plants. Most of those grown are female plants, because these are the ones with the magnificent plumes, and as there are not many hermaphrodite plants about, the seeds are not fertilised. Just recently, however, according to the Non-Native Species Secretariat, seedlings have begun to appear, because imported seed contains both female and bisexual plants, and so fertilisation is possible. When one takes into account the size and vigour of a full-grown pampas grass plant, it’s no wonder that people in the UK are getting nervous. In my ‘Field Guide to Invasive Plants and Animals in Britain’ by Olaf Boor, Max Wade and Helen Roy, it mentions that  pampas grass is ‘a suitable habitat for vermin, has sharp leaves and is highly flammable’. Just as well that I didn’t take a blow torch to mine.

On the Non-Native Species Secretariat website, it also mentions that pampas grass can be used to prevent soil erosion and to act as a windbreak. I imagine that in South America there is a giant anteater lurking behind every stand of pampas grass, and a jolly good thing too.

Apparently, carrying a bag made out of the stems of pampas grass is said to bring luck in Brazil, and this presumably means that the plant was used for making many household objects. It can also be used to make a yellow paper if the leaves are soaked in water for 24 hours and then cooked with lye and beaten in a blender.

Sometimes with a plant, one meets one’s match. Your nemesis might be in a particularly vigorous climber (like bindweed), it might be in a determined scrambler (like bramble) or it might be in a non-native goliath like pampas grass. But when I come to think of it, each of these plants has features that are delightful. The white, satiny flowers of the bindweed remind me of the skirts of a ballerina as they unfurl. The flowers of the bramble are manna for bees, and the berries are manna for everyone later in the year. And when I saw the plumes of the pampas grass dancing and bowing in the wind at Christmas, the low sun illuminating every tufted seed, it made me very glad to have been on that spot at that time. It stopped me in my tracks, and filled me with wonder. And that’s a very fine thing for any plant to do.

Photo Credits

Photo One (giant anteater) by Fernando Flores https://www.flickr.com/photos/ferjflores/9864451663

All blog content copyright Vivienne Palmer. Free to use and share but please attribute and link back to the blog, thank you.