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…..

Yarrow (Achillea millefolium)

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.

I 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.

Yarrow 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.

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.

The 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.

In 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.

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.

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…..

Cherry Laurel ( Prunus laurocerasus)

Just lately, I have been noticing a rather handsome evergreen shrub in the midst of the oaks and hornbeams of Coldfall Wood, and also in the cemetary next door. A quick look through my plant guides tells me that this is Cherry Laurel, described by Oliver Rackham as one of the seven ‘villains’ – alien plants that appear in woodland. For those of you interested in who the other six might be, the list includes Rhododendron, Sycamore, Ground-elder, Himalayan Balsam, Giant Hogweed and Japanese Knotweed. However, Rackham considers that only Rhododendron is a real ‘villain’ – all the rest become part of the forest flora rather than overwhelming it. This is a relief, as Cherry Laurel provides a welcome burst of fresh green when most other plants are leafless.

The leaves of Cherry Laurel are gently serrated, and the veins are very well-defined, making it easy to identify. When crushed, the leaves smell of almonds, because they contain prussic acid (cyanide). They were once used in insect-killing bottles to dispatch invertebrates that were destined for a collector’s display case. However, the smell led to it being used as a substitute for almond essence during the eighteenth century with mixed results, as reported on the wonderful Poison Garden website. Most people are unaware that this plant can be poisonous.

Cherry Laurel is a popular garden plant and spreads by suckering, so it is no surprise that, tired of the confines of a suburban plot, it advances into the wild. However, it can also be spread by birds, who love the berries, and I suspect that this is how my woodland specimens have arrived.

Cherry Laurel berries, growing on a shrub at Stanford University

In spring, the upright flower spikes attract a lot of pollinators, and have a sweet, heady scent that some people love, and others can’t abide.

An ornamental Cherry Laurel with flower spikes (By Karduelis (Rize-Çayeli) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)

In spite of its toxicity, several types of caterpillar are said to feed on the leaves, including the Poplar Hawkmoth, and all the specimens that I’ve seen show signs of insect depredation. So, through its plentiful nectar and pollen, berries and foliage, Cherry Laurel provides a feast for the creatures of the woodlands that it colonises. This plant may be alien and invasive but, in East Finchley at least, it gives back as much as it takes.

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…..

Snowberry (Symphoricarpos albus)

I have spotted this shrub in several places in East Finchley – in Cherry Tree Wood, in the cemetery and here, in a lane that I discovered a few months ago.  At this time of year, its berries glow with such an intense white that they almost seem to be phosphorescent.

This North American shrub was introduced into the UK in 1817, and it has an interesting history. It was often planted on grand estates to provide cover and food for grouse, pheasant and partridge and is described by Oliver Rackham as a ‘gamekeeper’s plant’. Other birds, such as blackbirds, will eat the berries if nothing else is available. In its native North America, however, the fruit is eaten by bears, bighorn sheep and white-tailed deer, and pocket gophers dig their burrows underneath it.

A pocket gopher (Yellowstone National Park; Gillian Bowser; 1990)

Snowberries are toxic, but their extreme whiteness (which has led to the alternative name ‘corpseberry’) seems to put people off from tasting them. Indeed, in some Native American traditions, the berries are the preferred food of the dead. However, it has also been widely used by many peoples of North America, as a medicine for humans and horses. The wood of the Snowberry was believed by the Nez Perce tribe to protect infants from ghosts if woven into their cradles. Thompson Indian babies were washed with a soap made from Snowberry, and people of the Makah tribe believed that it would deflect witchcraft if the leaves were chewed and swallowed. There is a rich folklore attached to this plant in its native land, demonstrating yet again that even plants which we disdain as poisonous may be used if (and only if) the people working with them have a deep understanding of their chemical properties.

The plant reproduces via its berries (the seeds being spread by birds and other animals), and also via suckering, so it spreads easily, and I’m sure that the plant in these photos had crept under the fence from the neighbouring gardens.

The berries have a very hard coating, which means they can lay dormant for up to ten years, just waiting for the time to be right to germinate. Apparently, they make a satisfyingly loud crack when stamped upon, and the seeds inside look like snow. I might experiment with this if I can find a quiet corner and an unloved single snowberry to test.

In Shropshire,  the plant is known by the delightful name ‘Lardy Balls’. Lard was sold in the market incased in pigs bladders, which looked like big white balls. This is rather less romantic than ‘ghostberry’ or ‘waxberry’, which are other alternative names for the plant.

In spring, the bush has attractive but unobtrusive pink flowers, which are popular with bees – this plant is, after all, a member of that pollinator-magnet, the honeysuckle family.

By H. Zell (Own work) [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

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…..

White Dead-nettle (Lamium album)

Just when everything else is looking a little exhausted, White Dead-nettle is coming into flower. Was there ever a ‘weed’ with such pure white blossoms, or such tender green foliage? I am not surprised that all manner of Dead-nettles are being bred as garden flowers – here, for example, is Lamium maculatum ‘Roseum’…

By Ghislain118 (AD) http://www.fleurs-des-montagnes.net (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

By Ghislain118 (AD) http://www.fleurs-des-montagnes.net (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

By Hedwig Storch (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

White Dead-nettle is so attractive to bees that an alternative name is ‘Bee Nettle’. As it blooms right into the heart of the winter, it is invaluable for those mild days when hibernating queen bees pop out to top up their nectar stores. Only a heavy bee is able to open the flower in order to get to the food, so this seems to be a case of convergent evolution, where the shape of the plant has evolved to fit one particular group of pollinators.

By Frank Vincentz (Own work) [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

The name ‘Dead-nettle’ refers to the fact that this plant, although its leaves superficially resemble those of the Stinging Nettle, does not sting. However, as it often grows amongst Stinging Nettles, White Dead-nettle may benefit from the wide berth that its more assertive relative is given by some grazing animals and insect pests.

An alternative name for White Dead-nettle is ‘Archangel’. This is said to be because it was said to first come into flower on 8th May, St Michael’s day. However, I can’t help but think that it is because of the glowing white of its flowers, and their ethereal shape. Of all the ‘weeds’ that I’ve reported on so far, this one feels to me like the most angelic.

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…..

Cleavers (Goosegrass) – Gallium aparine

It is always a pleasure to welcome a representative of  a new plant family to The Wednesday Weed. This week’s star is Cleavers, also known to me as Goosegrass and, when I lived in Dundee, as Sticky Willie. I found it growing in a neglected but fruitful flower bed at the top of Park Hall Road, and was delighted to find that it was in flower in the middle of November.

The four-petalled flowers of Cleavers seem to blossom at any time of year (By Fornax (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)

As a child, I remember that I delighted in attaching this plant to my long-suffering brother when he wasn’t looking. The sticking-power of this plant is very satisfying, especially if the victim is wearing a woolly jumper or a duffle coat. Indeed, I would sometimes manage to cover my sibling in so much Cleavers that from the back it looked as if Birnam Wood was once again on its way to Dunsinane. Forty-five years later, I am still waiting for the retribution that will surely come my way for such silliness.

Cleavers is a plant of many, many uses.  When I was in Scotland, we would gather armfuls of Goosegrass to feed to the ducks, geese and chicken that we raised on a city farm. And in Plants Britannica, Richard Mabey describes how a combination of nettles and Herriff (yet another name for Cleavers) was used to make a beverage that resembled ginger beer.

Mabey also relates how the fruits of Cleavers were used by the lacemakers of Bedfordshire to cover the pinheads on their lacemaking cushions.

The fruits of Cleavers

In spite of its hairiness, Cleavers is said to be edible if cooked before the flowers appear. But even more astonishing is the fact that Cleavers is in the same family (Rubiaceae) as the coffee plant, and the fruits can be used as a coffee substitute, though I suspect that one would need an awful lot to knock up an espresso.

Cleavers has been used for a host of medicinal uses: it has been a lymphatic tonic, a poultice for leg ulcers and a mild sedative. Its hairy stems have been used as a sieve for milk into recent times in Sweden. And its roots can be used to produce a red dye – according to the Plant Lives website, when birds eat the root of Cleavers, their bones are turned red.

I have been amazed by the sheer variety of ways that this modest little ‘weed’ has been used. Today, I wonder if city children even know that they can use it to torment their brothers and sisters. We are becoming more and more detached from the world around us, but it doesn’t have to be that way. The plants are still here, just waiting to be noticed.