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, the ‘wildflower meadow’ area in the cemetery continues to provide a healthy harvest of vigorous and unusual ‘weeds’. This plant is a member of the daisy family, and at first glance it looks like just another thistle. However, if you take a close look at the base of the flower head you will see a fine mass of little hooks.

These hooks are used by the plant when the seedhead is ripe: they cling to the fur of any passing animal, and stay there until the animal (or their owner) grooms them out, which will probably be a fair distance away from the original plant. If you’ve ever walked through a patch of the dried ‘burs’ wearing a woollen skirt (or accompanied by a golden retriever) you will know all about their sticking power. In fact a Swiss engineer, George de Mestral, got the idea for Velcro from just such a walk. So many of our ideas for new materials and gadgets come from the natural world,

The burs are also notorious for trapping small creatures, especially birds – on the Plant Lives website, Sue Eland reports how a stormy petrel was rescued from the embrace of this plant, but only after the poor creature had become trapped by his wings, body and feet. You can see how a mouse or finch might end up completely entangled.

Lesser burdock is a native plant (there is a bigger species, called predictably greater burdock (Arctium lappa) which is an ancient introduction). Although many native plants feature in ancient rituals and folklore, lesser burdock is interesting in having such a ceremony still extant. On the second Friday in August, there is a ‘Burry Man’ parade in Queensferry which has been happening since at least 1687. The ‘Burry man’ is completely covered in burs (except for the flowery hat on his head and his feet) and he goes from house to house, receiving gifts and a number of ‘drams’ as he goes. In Flora Britannica, Richard Mabey describes how the costume is made from patches of cloth, each stuck with up to 500 burs which have been gathered by local people and left to dry out. The costume more or less holds itself together, such is the sticking power of the seedheads, and it takes about two hours to cover the unfortunate Burry man. Once in the costume, it isn’t possible to get out of it, so one of the requirements is definitely a strong bladder, plus an ability to withstand the inevitable irritation of the bur ‘hooks’ piercing through the cloth and causing some measure of discomfort. The total perambulation around South Queensferry takes nine hours and, what with the heat, the whisky and the aggravation of the costume it takes a man who is determined to uphold this ancient costume to complete the course.

The origins of the Burry man probably have their roots in much  more ancient practices, and one interesting idea, again from Flora Britannica, is that the figure of the Burry man was a kind of scapegoat – in Buckie on the Moray Firth, a Burry man paraded through the streets when the fishing season was bad, to bring better luck to the fishing. It may be that the hooks of the burs reminded people of fishing hooks, so there was maybe a kind of sympathetic magic going on.

In Anatolia, the burdock is said to be protective against the evil eye, and a motif that symbolises the plant is sometimes woven into kilims (rugs). With its many flowers, it also symbolises abundance.

Like all members of the thistle family, the flowers of lesser burdock are very popular with bees (like the common carder bumblebee above). The roots and shoots are also eaten by humans: although the burdock in dandelion and burdock cordial is nowadays imported from eastern Europe as a flavour essence, it was originally taken from the roots of this plant. It was also used to make a kind of beer.If you fancy having a go at lesser burdock stirfry, there is a recipe here, but note that burdock is a biennial, and only the first year roots are considered suitable. In other words, if your plant already has flowers and burrs, you are too late.

Lesser burdock has a variety of uses in traditional medicine. It is considered to be a diuretic, a disphoretic ( a substance that causes sweating) and an excellent blood purifier. Burdock root oil is also said to be a fine scalp treatment.

All in all, I am very impressed with lesser burdock. It has been used medicinally and for food, it is a key part of one of the few ancient folk rituals that are still being performed in the UK, and it provides nectar at a time of the year when many other plants are waning. Furthermore, it was the inspiration for velcro, which does everything from fasten my parents’ shoes now that laces are too difficult, and keeps the front of my waterproof secure when there is a downpour. The burs might be a bit too ‘sticky’ for comfort sometimes, but it seems to me that this is a small price to pay for the pleasure of its company. And I am aware that the area where it grows in the cemetery is likely to be completely ‘exfoliated’ shortly, and all the perennials and biennials will be destroyed, so I am making the most of this most eccentric of ‘weeds’, because it will soon be gone. Though I do wonder how many dog walkers will be transporting its children to the most distant parts of the cemetery and beyond. I shall look with interest to see where else this plant might ‘crop up’.

Photo Credits

Photo One : By Oliver Benton – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=37795655

Photo Two : By Chiswick Chap – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=46631044

All other photos 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, you may often see this sweet pea lookalike scrambling amongst the buddleia between railway lines, or erupting from wasteland beside electricity substations. Here in East Finchley, it is often seen  in more weed-friendly front gardens, and if it cropped up in mine I would certainly leave it, pretty plant that it is. Unlike the ‘domestic’ sweet pea, this plant has no scent and is a perennial with a preference for clay soil, largely because although it likes full sun, it requires moisture, which heavier substrates provide. Although in its wild form it is sometimes considered to be a weed, there are also cultivated varieties which are marketed as ‘everlasting sweet pea’. It seems that the dividing line between ‘pest’ and ‘garden plant’ is even more blurred with this plant than with other species.

The ‘peas’ of other members of the Lathyrus genus cause a kind of poisoning called Lathyrism, which causes paralysis of the larynx, excitability, paralysis of the lower limbs and eventual death. Lathyrus sativus, or the grass pea, has been a famine food in several countries, and during the Spanish War of Independence against Napoleon resulted in the deaths of many poor people, as documented by Goya in the woodcut below. The cultivated sweet pea causes a slightly different kind of poisoning, which attacks the connective tissue. Although there is no evidence to suggest that broad-leaved everlasting pea has been implicated in any such nastiness, I’d certainly be very reluctant to ingest any parts of this plant, although I have seen the flowers described as edible.

Broad-leaved everlasting pea first appeared in cultivation in the UK by the fifteenth century, and had ‘escaped’ by 1670. I am curious as to why it was originally ‘imported’ – many early plants were brought here because of their medicinal properties, or their value as food plants or flavourings, but this plant has none of these benefits, at least as far as I’m able to ascertain. I wonder if its combination of tolerance of clay soils and nitrogen fixing abilities made it a good choice as a ‘green manure’ for improving soils? On the other hand, maybe it was brought here solely by virtue of its hardiness and attractiveness. It certainly attracted the attention of such artists as P.J.Redouté, who is  perhaps better known for his nineteenth century paintings of old-fashioned roses.

So, next time you are sitting on a crowded train heading out of London Bridge or Waterloo stations, have a look at the mass of ‘weeds’ growing at the junctions between the lines. I can more or less guarantee that somewhere there will be a neon-pink tangle of broad-leaved everlasting pea brightening up the place. It’s amazing what you can spot during a commute. It’s almost worth bringing your binoculars.

Photo Credits

Photo One – Swallowtail Garden Seeds (https://www.flickr.com/photos/swallowtailgardenseeds/14913883105)

All other photos 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, while I was doing my walk around the County Roads last week, I spotted this strange plant growing at the base of the wall outside Kentucky Fried Chicken. I was immediately very puzzled. What on earth was it? I looked through my flower books, and decided that I needed some help to identify it. Within ten minutes of posting the photos on the Wild Flowers of Britain and Ireland Facebook page, someone had pointed out that it wasn’t a wild flower at all, but a liverwort. So, welcome to my first ever Wednesday Liverwort!

Liverworts have been around for much longer than flowering plants: fossil evidence dates back some 470 million years, and they were probably the first plants to colonise dry land. Unlike ‘normal’ plants, their tissues are not divided into roots, stems and leaves: instead there is a mass called a thallus. In star-headed liverwort, the top layer of the thallus, which is exposed to the sun,  is where the photosynthesis happens, and the lower level is used for storing the sugars that the plant needs to grow.

In the photo below, the thallus is the green leafy stuff, and this is what does the day-to-day work of the liverwort. However, I want to talk first about the strange sucker-like ‘cups’ that stud the thallus.

These ‘cup-shaped receptacles’ are called gemmae cups. These are used in asexual reproduction: each cup holds a mass of cells which, when detached from the parent plant, can form a whole new, genetically identical plant to the parent. These ‘gemmae’ are detached by rainfall (or, given their position at the foot of the wall, by dog or human urine I suspect).

But what about the ‘stars’?

Each of the ‘stars’ (called an archegonium) contains an egg cell, and is the female sexual organ of the plant. In star-headed liverwort, the individual plants are either male or female, so ‘she’ will be waiting for sperm from a male plant. In the photo below, you can see the male plants amongst the female plants – the sexual structures (or antheridia) are the flatter, more flower-like objects. The plants in this photo should be able to reproduce sexually, but, with no sign of male structures for my local plant, I fear it will be down to asexual reproduction if it wants to go forth and multiply. How handy, though, to have a back-up solution to the age-old problem of passing on your genes!

If you find yourself fascinated by the sex-life of star-headed liverwort, there is a fascinating blog by a biologist who is working with this species, and trying to discover what it is that made this species such an early coloniser of dry land. There are lots of photos, and even a film. Well worth a look.

So, liverworts have found a variety of solutions to the problem of reproduction, which may explain why they are so successful. There are few habitats that don’t have an array of these plants. Star-headed liverwort has three different subspecies, with the one that I found, sp. ruderalis, being predominantly found in man-made or disturbed habitats. It is said to be a serious ‘weed’ of pot plants, especially in nurseries,  but can also be found in the usual urban sites: cracks in the pavement, brickwork, footpaths etc.

It is a significant earlier coloniser of sites which have been burned, and in the US has been known to completely cover land after a forest fire, helping to minimise the effects of soil erosion. Furthermore, it only subsists for two to three years after the initial event, and has no effect on the subsequent growth of other plants. It seems to act as a kind of safety blanket, allowing the soil to recover and holding it together.

What a tough plant it is, and almost always unnoticed.

Why, though, are liverworts called liverworts? The thallus was thought to have the texture and shape of liver, and the Doctrine of Signatures (whereby the shape, smell or colour of a plant was thought to be a sign from God about what it could be used for) indicated that it would therefore be useful in the treatment of jaundice and other such conditions. The whole liverwort group are sometimes known as ‘hepatics’ for this reason. There is also a flowering plant called Hepatica (and rather pretty it is too) that was also used in the treatment of the liver because of its three-lobed leaves.

So, I am a new convert to the liverwort appreciation society. The average ‘weed’ goes unnoticed amongst us, but these plants are even more discreet. And yet, they were one of the first green things that ever grew on the rocks of our barren land, and they have been doing this for longer than any other plant. If I had a hat, I would definitely doff it to the star-headed liverwort. It is indeed a star.

Photo Credits

Photo One – By J.F Gaffard Jeffdelonge at fr.wikipedia (photo by Jeffdelonge) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)], via Wikimedia Commons

Photo Two – By Roymartinlindman – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31815328

Photo Three – By Manfred Morgner (ka-em-zwei-ein) – selbst, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=205516

All other photos 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, a few weeks ago I discovered this plant growing on the edge of the playing fields next to Coldfall Wood, and I was so intrigued that I thought it deserved a Wednesday Weed all to itself. When I saw it for the first time, it reminded me of of the tip-tilted tail of a curious cat, albeit a yellow one, so how could I resist? Plus, it is the first member of the mignonette family to grace the blog. The plant often grows in places where the soil has been disturbed, as here – the ground was turned over when some additional drainage measures were implemented last year. Who knows how long these seeds have been waiting for the correct conditions for germination?

Weld is an ancient introduction to the UK from Eurasia, and was probably planted because it produces a bright yellow dye (its other common names include Dyer’s Weld and and Dyer’s Rocket). In its native Iran, it is the commonest plant dye for use in carpets. It is one of our earliest dye plants, in use from the first millenium BC. Mixed with the blue dye from woad (Isatis tinctoria) it made Lincoln Green, much beloved by Robin Hood and his Merry Men.

The whole plant was used, and the yellower the flowers, and the thinner the stems, the better the dye. I can’t help thinking that the little crop that I saw would have been perfect, although plants that grow on sandy soils are preferred to those that grow on moist clay soils, such as here in London.

The plant was the dye of choice for the clothes of ordinary people, but could also be used to dye silk (this is how it was used by the Vikings). To produce sufficient quantities, it was grown commercially in the south-east and in Yorkshire, and was sometimes planted alongside corn and barley. Such was the demand for weld that the plant had to be imported from France during the Eighteenth and Nineteenth centuries.

In the UK, the use of weld as a dye came to an end at the beginning of the Twentieth Century, when artificial means of colouration were created. However, in Egypt the plant, known as Reseda, is still harvested in large quantities as a dye for tapestries.

The dye from weld was also used as an ink, and as a paint – to make it permanent, it was precipitated with chalk. Many medieval manuscript artists used it as a substitute for gold when they were illuminating their texts. It was also used to provide the yellow colour in tapestries and carpets, much as it is today.

Medicinally, it is said to have been a ‘last-resort’ for the plague, and was also used as a poultice for snake bite and insect stings, although it is apparently a ‘hot’ herb, like radish and horseradish, though it is unrelated to either. It appears to largely go uneaten, or at least I can’t find any recipes. It seems to be one of those plants that has one main human use, and that is to dye things.

However, weld is also a popular plant with pollinators: bees seem to love it, but it is also a favourite of flower beetles, like the little chap above.

I am intrigued by how many craftspeople are using wild plant dyes in their work these days. In her wonderful blog Wool – Tribulations of Hand Spinning and Herbal Dyeing, Fran Rushworth experiments with weld, and finds that it produces a remarkably strong and attractive yellow dye. We are rediscovering so many fascinating things about our local plants – it’s as if we are meeting up with old friends. For so much of our history we have been in direct relationship with the environment, and now so many of us are lost, wandering in a world we don’t understand. Foraging for food or for other purposes often means that we not only get a greater knowledge of what’s going on around us, but also that we have a vested interest in preserving it.

Photo Credits

Photo One – By Glennweiss – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=47596752

Photo Two is in the public domain – the tapestry in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in New York.

All other photos 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, what a handsome plant common mallow is! There are several specimens growing in an area of the playing fields next to Coldfall Wood that was turned over to improve drainage last year. With their twisted buds and prominent stamen it is easy to see their relationship to their more enthusiastic cousins, the hollyhocks.

The plant has several English vernacular names that refer to cheese – ‘Cheesecake’ is one, and ‘Pick Cheese’ is another. But why? Apparently because the fruit is a ‘doughnut-shaped ring of nutlets’ according to my Harrap’s ‘Wild Flowers’, and because these seeds resemble a whole cheese. Children have been known to eat the seeds, which apparently have a bland, mealy taste.

Common mallow is an ancient introduction to the UK, having a native range that includes the whole of Europe, North Africa and the Middle East, and spreads as far east as Mongolia. The pollen from the plant has been found in a Roman excavation in Bearsden, close to Glasgow, and it is known that the leaves, flowers and seeds were eaten by the Romans, both as food as a kind of preventative medicine – Pliny said that a daily dose would make you immune to all diseases (many thanks, yet again, to Richard Mabey’s Flora Britannica for this information). Mabey speculates that, as the pollen is only found at the Roman levels of the excavation, the plant may well have been cultivated by the legion.

Both the leaves and roots of common mallow contain a lot of gelatinous mucilage, which has been used in ointments for burns and wounds, and as a generally soothing tonic for inflammation and irritation. The leaves also contain a lot of iron and vitamins.

You might wonder if there was an association between the Mallow family and Marshmallows, and indeed there is: the now nationally scarce Marsh Mallow (Althea officinalis) was probably the source of the original sweet, which was made from its roots. Nowadays, marshmallows are typically made with gelatin, sugar and water, coated in corn starch.

On the Permaculture website , there are many references to uses of common mallow as food. In both Hebrew and Arabic, the local name of the plant translates as ‘bread’, and when Jerusalem was under siege in 1948 it was an important famine crop. Some Israelis still prepare Ktzitziot Khubeza, a patty made of mallow leaves, breadcrumbs, eggs and spices on Independence Day (6th May), or may incorporate the plant into a soup. There is an interesting article about the history of the mallow in Israeli cuisine here.

You can also use the seeds from common mallow as a partial replacement for egg white in meringues. Again, from the Permaculture website:

‘The seed pods can be substituted for most of the egg white if wanting to make mallow meringues. Simply boil up the peeled seed pods using 3 parts water 1 part seed pods, and reduce the liquid by half. For every half cup of liquid add one egg white, ¼ tsp of cream of tartar, some vanilla and castor sugar, then whip it up until foamy and stiff, just like meringues.’

Incidentally, for those of us who would like to reduce our reliance on animal products, I was recently reading that meringue can be made from the water that chickpeas are canned in (called aquafaba). Who would have dreamed of such a thing? I haven’t tried any recipes yet, but I am intrigued. After all, what could be cheaper than something that would normally be thrown away? For anyone else who is interested, here is a link to all kinds of pavlovas, pies and macarons that can apparently be knocked up for almost nothing. Wonders will never cease, indeed.

Anyhow, back to common mallow.

Common mallow was also said to be one of the plants traditionally incorporated into May Day garlands. This puzzles me a little, as these days the plant’s flowering season doesn’t now really kick off until June. Did it bloom earlier in previous centuries, or was it a rare component that was appreciated all the more for its scarcity? Who knows. It certainly has a rather exotic look, with its purple striped flowers.

And finally, in ‘Flora Domestica, Or, The Portable Flower Garden’, by Elizabeth Kent and Leigh Hunt (written in 1831), there is this on the subject of the common mallow:

‘The common Mallow of this country must be familiar even to London readers; it is ‘an amiable plant, generally to be found in spots neglected by mankind’.

By which, gentle reader, we can deduce both that the average Londoner was considered to be a bit of a klutz with regard to noticing the natural world even then, and also that the plant was found in urban areas, and may have been considered something of a ‘weed’. Some things change, and some things stay very much the same.

Photo Credits

Photo One – By Ferran Turmo Gort https://www.flickr.com/photos/fturmog/1402925498

All other photos free to use and share for non-commercial purposes, but please credit Vivienne Palmer and link to the blog. Thank you!