Dear Readers, Philip Levine (1928 – 2015) was the son of Jewish-American immigrants who emigrated to Detroit. He began working in the car factories aged 14, and he wanted to give voice to the people that he worked with, the blue-collar workers who have been so often overlooked. Interestingly, he was fascinated by the Spanish Civil War, and after a stay in Barcelona he drew an interesting comparison between that city and Detroit:
“Both cities are built on the backs of sullen, exploited workers, and the faded revolution in one smolders like the blunting, racist fear in the other.”
Food for thought in these dangerous times. And here’s the poem. See what you think.
They Feed They Lion
By Philip Levine
Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter, Out of black bean and wet slate bread, Out of the acids of rage, the candor of tar, Out of creosote, gasoline, drive shafts, wooden dollies, They Lion grow.
Out of the gray hills Of industrial barns, out of rain, out of bus ride, West Virginia to Kiss My Ass, out of buried aunties, Mothers hardening like pounded stumps, out of stumps, Out of the bones’ need to sharpen and the muscles’ to stretch, They Lion grow.
Earth is eating trees, fence posts, Gutted cars, earth is calling in her little ones, “Come home, Come home!” From pig balls, From the ferocity of pig driven to holiness, From the furred ear and the full jowl come The repose of the hung belly, from the purpose They Lion grow.
From the sweet glues of the trotters Come the sweet kinks of the fist, from the full flower Of the hams the thorax of caves, From “Bow Down” come “Rise Up,” Come they Lion from the reeds of shovels, The grained arm that pulls the hands, They Lion grow.
From my five arms and all my hands, From all my white sins forgiven, they feed, From my car passing under the stars, They Lion, from my children inherit, From the oak turned to a wall, they Lion, From they sack and they belly opened And all that was hidden burning on the oil-stained earth They feed they Lion and he comes.
Dear Readers, did any of you manage to identify this magnificent tree from my photograph yesterday? It is the largest Ginkgo that I’ve ever seen, tucked away in the middle of Ravenna. There are lots of other smaller, younger trees, but this one has clearly been there for decades. All the street trees here have a very interesting pruning regime – they seem to be cut back when the trunk is quite short, leaving just a handful of main branches. Plane trees in particular look very different from the ones here in London – they’re much more squat, but maybe they’re easier to manage in a city setting. I didn’t take a photo myself, but you’ll get the idea from the photo below.
I feel rather sorry for the little pine tree (?) planted in the lower right-hand corner. It’s trying its best, but it is rather overshadowed by its neighbour. In general, the floral plantings are of the ‘stick-them-in-for-few-weeks-and-then-compost-them’ variety – there are lots of chrysanthemums and begonias which I doubt will do well if the temperature gets lower (I was surprised how cold it was). But there was a rather nice meadow planting around the Tomb of Theodoric, with knapweed and cornflowers and such, though you’ll have to take my word for it this time, as I was too busy photographing the tomb.
Anyhow, it seems that Ginkgos are having ‘a moment’ as street trees (but only the male ones, as you’ll see in my previous post below). In the latest edition of his book ‘London’s Street Trees’, Paul Wood describes how the male trees produce prodigious quantities of pollen, which makes it very unpleasant for hayfever sufferers. On the other hand, arboriculturalists apparently describe Ginkgo as ‘bulletproof’ (it was one of the few trees whose seeds survived the atomic bomb at Hiroshima for example), and so I suspect it will increase in numbers on our streets over the next few years.
Apparently, there is a museum in Weimar dedicated to Ginkgo – this is possibly because Goethe wrote a poem, based on an observation of the strangely-shaped leaf of the tree. The poem was dedicated to Goethe’s friend Marianne von Villemer, but as they saw one another for the last time only eight days after he gave her the poem it’s possible that she wasn’t impressed. Here it is, in translation of course. See if you would have stayed or run away.
In my garden’s care and favour From the East this tree’s leaf shows Secret sense for us to savour And uplifts the one who knows.
Is it but one being single Which as same itself divides? Are there two which choose to mingle So that each as one now hides?
As the answer to such question I have found a sense that’s true: Is it not my songs’ suggestion That I’m one and also two?
Translated by John Whaley
And so, let’s see what I wrote about the tree back in 2018. My, how the time flies!
Ginkgo (Maidenhair) tree in East Finchley cemeteryDear Readers, my visit to East Finchley cemetery last week was the gift that just keeps on giving. I felt that this venerable tree deserved more than a few lines in a longer piece, and so this week I want to look at the ginkgo, a popular street and cemetery tree here in North London, and yet one which I have often hurried past. Before anyone gets over-excited, this is quite clearly not a ‘weed’ by any normal definition, but have you ever tried finding a ‘weed’ in mid-November which, after nearly four years of weekly posts, hasn’t been covered? Flexibility will be required from hereon in, I suspect.
Gingko is immediately identifiable from its leaves. No other living tree has fan-shaped foliage, but fossilised ginkgo leaves have been found from 270 million years ago. The tree existed at the same time as mare’s tail, which was a Wednesday Weed a few weeks ago, but, unlike that plant, poor ginkgo really is the last of its kind. There is nothing else alive that is remotely like it.
Once I spotted one ginkgo, I found them everywhere: at the end of Archway Road, in St Pancras and Islington Cemetery, and on Durham Road. But they are, in some ways, problematic. Ginkgo trees have separate sexes ( the technical term is dioecious), but each sex has some disadvantages as a street tree. The female trees produce a fruit which looks a little like an apricot (the name ‘ginkgo’ is said to come from a misspelling of the Japanese name for the plant, which means ‘silver apricot’) but if this falls and starts to rot, it is said to produce a smell that combines the odour of vomit with the stench of rancid butter. The pollen of the male trees, which naturally produce no fruit, is highly allergenic, and so not good for hay fever sufferers. Nonetheless, the tree is beautiful enough for groundskeepers everywhere to keep planting it.
Incidentally, among its many peculiarities is the fact that the male ginkgo produces sperm which is covered in tiny mobile hairs that enable it to move. In this, ginkgo is similar to mosses and algae, but completely different from flowering plants. It has several adaptations to a time before these competitors came along: for example, it grows very quickly to a height of about 10 meters before extending any side shoots, which was probably because most plants at this time were ferns and horsetails, and so the need was to get as high as possible as quickly as possible, and then to shade out everybody else.
A fossilised gingko leaf from the Eocene (56-33.9 million years ago) (Photo One)
Not only is the ginkgo a very ancient species, but individual trees are both resilient and long-lived. Six ginkgos which were within 2 kms of the epicentre of the Hiroshima atomic bomb blast survived, and are given the honorable name of ‘hibakujumoku’, or ‘survivor trees’.
At the Tsurugaoka Hachimangu Shinto shrine in Japan a giant ginkgo which had stood beside the staircase since the creation of the building in 1063 finally collapsed in 2010. A botanist who examined it declared that the trunk had rotted. It was thought that that was the end, until both the original tree stump and a piece of the tree planted nearby started to produce a fine crop of new leaves.
Never write off a ginkgo! (Photo Two)
If you go into any chemist, you are likely to see herbal preparations with pictures of that distinctive fan-shaped leaf on the box. It is often marketed as a way of delaying the effects of old age, perhaps because the tree itself is so sprightly, and we hope to acquire some of its characteristics. It is said to be beneficial for macular degeneration, dementia, forgetfulness generally, ‘post-menopausal cognitive decline’ ( I guess that’s when I start a sentence and have no idea what I meant to say by the time I get to the end), post-stroke recovery, arterial disease and tinnitus. Oh that it did half of what it says on the packet, but sadly scientific trials have all currently drawn a blank. There is also some fear that if you are taking a blood-thinner such as warfarin or coumadin, overdoing it with the gingko will result in rather thinner blood than you were hoping for. On the other hand, Chinese doctors have been using ginkgo since 2800 BC, so I refuse to lose hope. The plant is certainly full of interesting chemicals such as amentoflavone (which can inhibit the uptake of certain medications) and ginkgolic acid, which is highly allergenic, so maybe these can be turned from ‘the dark side’.
You might think that there would be nothing edible to be found on a ginkgo tree, what with all that talk of the smell of the fruit, but the seeds of the ginkgo (once the smelly stuff is removed) are a traditional food in both China and Japan. In particular, they form part of a celebratory dish called ‘Buddha’s Delight’ which is served at Chinese New Year, a time when a vegetarian diet is thought to bring good luck. And very tasty it looks too.
Whilst researching this piece, I came across this painting by the Japanese artist Watanabe Shotei, and promptly fell in love with it. I like the way that the crow is framed, and the way that the autumn-yellow ginkgo leaves are scattering as she flies through them. This is very different from his other, more formal work, and I think that it sums up the mischievousness of the bird as it ploughs through the august foliage. Or maybe it’s just me.
Flower and bird by Watanabe Shotei (Public Domain)
And finally, there is a belief that even in the shedding of its leaves, the ginkgo is not like other trees. Whilst the oak leaves and the maple leaves drop off one at a time, all the leaves from a ginkgo are said to fall in one night. I can’t say I’ve seen much evidence of that happening with the trees that I know, but maybe this is the case in harsher climates. The poet Howard Nemerov had this to say on the subject:
Late in November, on a single night
Not even near to freezing, the ginkgo trees
That stand along the walk drop all their leaves
In one consent, and neither to rain nor to wind
But as though to time alone: the golden and green
Leaves litter the lawn today, that yesterday
Had spread aloft their fluttering fans of light.
What strange communication occurs between these ancient trees, I wonder, and what complex combination of chemical signals would give rise to such a thing? The more I learn about trees, the less I know.
Bishop Maximian and Justinian 1. But what’s happening with the feet?
Dear Readers, well here we are, home again, and I’m still reeling a little from all the wonders of Ravenna. So, in no particular order, here are a few of the things that struck me about the extraordinary art, and about the town of Ravenna itself (which is absolutely worth a visit if you’re ever considering a trip to Italy).
First up, there’s something very odd going on with footwear in Ravennese art. We’ve already heard about Galla Placidia and the sandal of St John that she managed to acquire for the city, but have a look at the feet in the photo above.
Very fetching, but why is everybody standing on one another’s feet? And why does the chap between Justinian (in brown) and the Bishop (with the brown cloak) have no legs at all? The outlines of the images were drawn out first, but this didn’t give much leeway if you needed to alter a mosaic for political reasons (as happened very frequently).
Incidentally, have a look at Emperor Justinian’s shoes. They were known as buskins, and very fancy they were too.
Then, there’s the question of images of Jesus at this period (4th through early 6th centuries). This is one of my favourites – it’s from the Chapel now dedicated to St Andrew in the Bishop’s Palace, and shows Christ as a strapping young warrior, dressed in Roman military uniform. Seeing a clean-shaven Jesus took a bit of getting used to, but it points up the fact that Christian iconography wasn’t settled at this point, and there were lots of variations on a theme. Christ is treading on a lion and a serpent, and looks as if he’s going to take somebody’s head off with that long-staffed cross. The chapel would have been used by high-ranking church officials, and as there was a lot of heresy going about, while everyone argued about what the Bible actually meant, this is a much more martial image of Christ than, say, the one in the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia that we looked at previously, where Jesus was gently feeding a sheep.
Jesus from the Chapel of St Andrew at the Bishop’s Palace (6th Century)
It’s interesting to also note how Jesus is depicted in two baptisteries that we visited – one was for those of the Orthodox faith, and the other was for Arians, which was increasingly seen as heretical. During this period, baptism was performed on adults, on just one evening per year at Easter. In the first baptistery, the baptismal pool was enormous, and it was likely that those being baptised would have been dunked three times, in the name of the Trinity.
In the Orthodox baptistery, Christ is bearded, and in the lower right-hand side there’s a personification of the River Jordan. St John the Baptist is pouring water on to Christ’s head from a vessel.
Image of Christ being baptised from the Orthodox (Neonian) baptistery
You can imagine how the mosaic would have sparkled in the candlelight.
Now have a look at the image from the Arian baptistery. Christ looks very young, almost prepubescent. St John the Baptist is touching, maybe anointing Christ’s head, and you could easily mistake the River Jordan personification for Poseidon.
There are lots of theories about the differences – the Arians believed in Christ’s essential humanity, while the Orthodox church celebrated his divinity (and was much keener on the idea of the Trinity). But at heart, it seems to me there are two things going on here.
The ruler at the time of the creation of both baptisteries, Theodoric, was a Gothic king who was very impressed by Rome – he wore a Roman purple gown, and had a bronze equestrian statue (the only one in Ravenna) set up outside his palace. He was also a very tolerant man, who built both the Orthodox and the Arian baptisteries. I suspect that if the imagery in the Arian baptistery had been unacceptable, it wouldn’t have survived, so maybe this just gives a nod to the differences in belief. But mostly, it makes me think of how the Christian faith was evolving, and how it borrowed images from classical times when it suited.
And finally, a few more general observations on Ravenna.
It’s a city of cyclists – and in the middle of what appear to be pedestrian areas there are often central areas of white stones, where you can ride a bike. Everyone rides, from the smallest children to the most august seniors, and generally they are extraordinarily tolerant of groups of daft tourists standing in the middle of the road.
Ravenna has a special soft cheese called Squaquerone di Romagna, from the Emilia-Romagna region, and it crops up everywhere, particularly in the tasty local flatbreads, called piadina. It’s a bit like a particularly runny burrata.
3. This is a very compact city, easy to walk around, but if you’re at all interested in the history and culture of Ravenna I would definitely get a guide. Ours was fantastic, and she really helped to untie some of the complexities of this extraordinary place.
4. It was sunny for most of the time that we were in Ravenna, but it was colder than the BBC weather app had led me to believe so pack an extra layer if you’re travelling in autumn/winter.
5. And as you might expect, I was keeping my eyes open for weeds and street trees. So, can anybody tell me what this beauty is? All will be revealed on Wednesday….
Well, Readers, if the little Mausoleum of Galla Placidia was almost domestic in its scale, the Basilica of St Vitale really dialled things up to eleven. It was consecrated in 547, during the reign of Justinian. Everything about it is, I think, intended to induce a sense of awe. There is an upper gallery, and it’s thought that this is where those awaiting baptism would have viewed the Eucharist – at a certain point they would all have had to have left. The columns are of a kind of marble found in Constantinople, and each one would have been shipped intact (though some of the columns have been fixed with metal straps – unlike Ikea, you couldn’t just take a column back for.a refund).
The flooring is of a wide variety of different marbles and other materials, including porphyry (the purple stone).
And then there are the mosaics, of course. Here is Jesus, clean-shaven, between two angels. To the right is Bishop Ecclesius, holding a model of the Basilica (so we know who’s responsible) and to the left is St Vitale, for whom the church was named. St. Vitale is the patron saint of Ravenna, and was said to have been martyred by being buried alive.
There are also images of Emperor Justinian and Empress Theodora, with her extraordinary head dress.
This is a truly extraordinary building, and you could sit in a pew and spot things for hours. I shall probably upload a few more photographs when I have a bit more bandwidth (wi fi at the hotel is pants (technical term). But all is well, and I am so lucky to be here, and to be seeing such wonderful things
Dear Readers, yesterday my friend A asked if I’d thought of personifying my broken leg (which is doing most excellently by the way). I hadn’t thought of doing that, but it struck me as an excellent idea, and I had no hesitation in saying that I would name my leg after Galla Placidia(392-450), a most robust and resilient Roman woman who, in the course of her lifetime, was kidnapped by the Visigoths (and married off to one of them), managed to place her son on the throne of the Western Roman Empire, and survived a whole variety of court machinations. She was a fervent Christian and patron of the arts, and amongst her many achievements was the finding of the sandal of John the Baptist. Relics could raise huge amounts of money for a church which owned one, and in the relief above Galla can be seen prostrate before St John the Baptist, who appears to be dropping the sandal on her head. Such was life in the fourth century.
Coin showing Galla Placidia
So, it was with some excitement that we headed off to the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, built between 425 and 450. As you might have guessed from the fact that it was built before Galla Placidia’s death, she isn’t actually buried here (she’s probably buried in Rome alongside her brother Honorius). The building was probably originally dedicated to St Lawrence, and the mosaics inside give a good idea of why this might be the case.
St Lawrence was said to have been martyred by being roasted on a gridiron. In fact, he’s said to have quipped ‘turn me over, I’m done on this side’ part way through his martyrdom, which might explain why he’s the patron saint of cooks, chefs and comedians. In this mosaic he is positively skipping towards the gridiron, his clothing flapping around him.
In the corner of the mosaic is a book ‘case’ containing the gospels – the books are stored flat, not on their ends.
Other mosaics show scenes of paradise, with deer coming to drink, but they were clearly not by the same mosaicist. Have a look at the pond in the mosaic below…
…and then the detail of the pond in the mosaic that faces it.
Our guide explained that mosaic-making was a seasonal art – the plaster that the tesserae (the ‘stones’ that make up a mosaic) was embedded into wouldn’t set if it was too cold and wet. So it was possible that the mosaicist who had made the first image wasn’t available the next year, and so the subsequent artist came up with his own interpretation. It was a fascinating insight into how the best laid plans of emperors and bishops still have to contend with project-management issues, differing views of how something should be done, and staff shortages.
As you leave the mausoleum there’s this lovely, gentle image.
Jesus was often shown clean-shaven at this time, and he often looks very young. The long-staffed cross is also very typical of this period. But I love the gesture of him feeding the sheep.
I can imagine how the mausoleum would have looked in the candlelight, and how comforting this final image would have been. As I found out in other churches, things were often a lot more martial.
Dear Readers, after a 4 a.m. start we caught our plane to Bologna, and were treated to some stunning views as we flew over the Italian Alps. There have been times this year when I wondered when I’d be fit enough to travel again, so I must confess to having a tear in my eye as I looked out of the window to see the view below. What a stunningly beautiful world we live in! And maybe next year my leg will be healed enough for me to walk in those mountains (or at least the Austrian equivalent).
This is a group tour with Sally Dormer, who runs courses for the V&A and is an expert in the field of Late Antiquity. As is often the case on these historical/cultural tours, our fellow travellers are a really interesting bunch, and I anticipate a lot more conversations along the lines of ‘so, who is your favourite 19th century author?’
But we’re really here to see what the Romans/Goths/Byzantines got up to here in Ravenna, which used to be an important port until everything silted up. First stop is Sant’Apollinare in Classe, consecrated in 549 AD. Like most churches in Ravenna, it’s brick built (lots of clay soil to remind me of home). And some pigeons and magpies. And just look how the brick glows in the setting sun.
But the name of this tour is ‘Mosaics and Marbles’, and so the first thing that we see inside the church is this…
What a sensational mosaic this is. It shows Saint Apollinaire with twelve sheep, representing the faithful or the twelve apostles. This is a depiction of paradise, with trees and flowers and little grassy mounds. I’d like to think of them as anthills – surely there’s space for hard-working ants in paradise?
What’s interesting to me is that this is a very early stage in Christianity, and the Ostrogoths, who ruled Ravenna at the time, were still defining the symbolism of their faith. There is a looseness and creativity to the mosaics here which I find very appealing – for all their sophistication there’s something rather cartoon-like and appealing about them. For example, the cross in the centre of the apse has Christ’s face right in the middle of it (here, the bearded Christ that we usually imagine as being typical, rather than the young, beardless Christ of other depictions), and a wonderful ‘right hand of God’ gesturing down to it.
It’s hard to imagine how magical the mosaic must have looked by candlelight, with the gold twinkling.
There are mysteries here too. When mosaics are created, they are first ‘drawn’ onto plaster to create something called a sinopia. In this mosaic, where the sheep are now was originally a motif of birds and fountains.
Sinopia (under drawing) of the mosaic at Sant Apollinaire in Classe
One theory for why the pretty birds and flowers were replaced with sheep is because, just at the time that the mosaic was being finalised, Ravenna got its first Archbishop Maximian, who maybe wanted to emphasis his role as head of the church, surrounded by his ‘flock’. It’s only a guess, but these churches were often as much about politics and power as they were about religion.
And I would be remiss if i didn’t mention these ladies outside the church,
Female Mediterranean Water Buffalos by David Rivalta
These statues were so realistic that when we approached the church I honestly thought they were real, and got very excited. Rivalta specialises in life-sized animal sculptures, and seems to have a gift for placing them in unexpected places – apparently in Ravenna there are gorillas in the courthouse and a rhino at the Port Authority. I shall have to keep my eyes peeled. There is another example of his work below. One to watch, I think.
And just a quick leg update – it seems to be holding up well so far – I am taking paracetamol and ibuprofen when I need it, but I think the antics of the Ostrogoths and the Byzantines are distracting me quite well. Fingers crossed for the rest of the holiday!
Dear Readers, we will shortly be heading off for my first overseas trip since I broke my leg – we’re going to Ravenna in Italy for a few days. It was the capital of the Western Roman Empire, and has been ruled by Goths, Byzantines and Venetians, but for me the mosaics are the main pull – I doubt that they’ve ever been bettered, and I suspect I’ll come home with an urge to mosaic the bathroom/kitchen/my husband if he stands still long enough. We’re on a tour, so my main concern is being able to keep up with the pace. However, if I have to sit in a café somewhere to have a rest and watch the world go by it won’t be a disaster. It’s one of those situations where if I don’t go, I won’t know, so I am putting on my Big Girl Pants and heading off.
I hope to be able to do a bit of blogging while I’m away, but if you don’t hear from me, don’t worry! I’ll be up to my ears in pasta and tiramisu.
Dear Readers, it’s certainly the time of year for Japanese Acers – there are several around the County Roads in East Finchley which are truly spectacular.
Japanese Maple on Huntingdon Road
Japanese Maple on Twyford Avenue
Japanese Maple with ‘Keys’ in July 2021
However, all these spectacular trees make me think about how temperamental Japanese Maples can be. They seem to like sun (most of the ones in the photos are in south-facing gardens) but not too much, they like to be damp but not too damp, they seem to like to be sheltered (but see previous re dampness). Clearly some people have found the idea spot, and the trees are delighted. I’ve tried once or twice, but it’s always ended in disaster – the leaves dry up and drop off, leaving a sorry collection of twigs. Sigh. I think I’ll leave this plant to people who know what they’re doing, but any advice would be greatly appreciated. I’ve always dreamed of having an Acer next to the pond.
Anyhow, have a look below for my previous posts on Acers. They are clearly something of an obsession.
The Summerlee Avenue Acer. What a plant….
Dear Readers, I wrote a long post about Japanese Maples last year, and such is my enthusiasm for them that I almost did it all over again this afternoon, having forgotten that I had featured it previously. However, I couldn’t miss the chance to share one of my favourite local trees with you. This Japanese Maple has burst into such extraordinary colour this year that it draws the eye as soon as you enter the street. It is the only substantial plant in the front garden, as there isn’t room for anything else, but at the moment it glows like a beacon. My husband got this (admittedly blurred) photo of the tree when it was absolutely at its height last week, and while the colour might look a bit over-saturated, I’m sure you get the idea.
Although today the plant is very slightly past its best (it was very windy over the weekend) it is still touched with fire.
There is something to be said for allowing a single extraordinary plant to take the room it needs to be truly magnificent, even if it means that for the rest of the year there is a more subtle display. There is an elegance about this Acer that I’m sure will make it noteworthy at any time of year. I admire the confidence of this home-owner, and their willingness to let this beautiful tree slowly develop over time, and take up so much space. Nearly every Japanese Maple that I see is wind-damaged, with the delicate leaves pinched and dried out, but I suspect that the hedge is protecting this one from the worst ravages of the weather.
Having not noticed this tree until this year, I am again thankful for the way that the lockdown has encouraged me to get out and about every single day. I have lived in East Finchley for ten years and yet have never seen this tree in all its peak autumn glory before. For all the miseries of this terrible year, there are still moments of joy to be had.
And now, back to my previous post. If you haven’t read it before, I hope you enjoy it, and I really do recommend the Clive James poem at the end.
Dear Readers, I have always been entranced by the delicate beauty of the Japanese maple (Acer palmatum) but have never had much success with growing them. My first attempt was on my balcony in Islington, which is a most unhappy location for a woodland plant – the poor thing was alternatively blasted by the wind, baked by the sun and then nearly knocked flat with rain. The leaves shrivelled and fell off, and I soon realised that I’d need to grow something that liked being exposed to the elements. A second attempt, in the heavy clay soil of my current garden, also produced a sad specimen rather than the glorious autumn-hued plant that I saw on the label. Oh well. Recently, I have spent a lot of time admiring other people’s plants instead. Sometimes, one knows when one is beat.
Our local garden centre certainly has a wide range of very tempting cultivars, nearly all of which have the ‘hand-shaped’ leaves which give the plant its species name ‘palmatum’. Japanese maple comes originally not just from Japan but from the areas roundabout too: Korea, China, eastern Mongolia and southeastern Russia. In Japan, the plant has been cultivated for centuries, and has the alternative names of kaede (‘frog-hand’) and momiji (‘baby-hand’). In ‘the wild’, Japanese maple grows as an understorey shrub or small tree in woodland, rarely getting to taller than 10 metres. When mature, the tree has a characteristic dome shape, which is sometimes also emulated in Bonsai.
Japanese maple showing its characteristic dome-shaped canopy (Photo One)
A +112 year-old bonsai in Brooklyn Botanic Gardens (Photo Two)
Even in the wild, Japanese maple is a very variable tree, with different leaf-forms, habits and colours. It also hybridises with other species. It is therefore no surprise that there are hundreds of different cultivars of the tree available today, with hundreds of others lost during the years. The photo below gives just some idea of the variety of leaf-forms alone.
Japanese maple leaf-forms (Photo Three)
For most people in the UK, the delight of a Japanese maple comes from its autumn leaf-colour. The saplings in the garden centre were largely dropping their leaves, but enough were holding on to get some idea of what the plant would look like in its prime.
I wasn’t aware that you could also grow Japanese maple for its bark colour, in much the same way as you would plant dogwood, but here is a cultivar that I’d never come across before. Apparently ‘coral-bark’ or ‘golden-bark’ Acers are ‘a thing’. I live and learn.
The flowers of the Japanese maple seem to be the least interesting thing about a plant that certainly punches above its weight in all other aspects. The fruit produces a winged seed, or samara, that needs to be stratified(frozen for a time) in order to germinate.
Japanese maple flowers (Photo Four)
Reading the Royal Horticultural Society website on Japanese maples, I start to see what I’ve done wrong in the past. The trees need shade, which is obvious once you know what their natural habitat is. They also need consistent water conditions, and loathe being water-logged. All this makes me think that maybe I’ll try again, in a container this time. I have a shady garden, after all.
In Japan, the planting of a maple tree indicates that autumn is seen as a friend, as part of the cycle of life. People in North America often make special trips to view the ‘fall colour’, and a similar expedition may be made by Japanese people, although the viewing of the maples has more of a spiritual component: it is seen as a way of communing with nature, and with the spirits of nature. There is a fascinating discussion of this, and of the relationship between the Japanese maple and art, on the prints of Japan website, and I would like to quote just a smidgen here;
‘Bruce Feiler in his 1991 volume Learning to Bow describes making friends with a Japanese fellow who explained the background and significance of maple viewing to the Japanese: “Certain natural phenomena because of their splendor and singular beauty, developed almost a religious significance in ancient Japanese culture, where Shinto beliefs held that nature was the home of spirits who lived in the water, the land, and the trees. The mysterious transformation of green leaves into fiery reds and frosty yellows around the time of the harvest every year inspired awe among superstitious farmers. Just as a protocol around making tea… or painting calligraphy… so a proper form of viewing nature eventually evolved.” Feiler continued: “According to the Shinto code, the viewer on a proper leaf-viewing excursion should try to achieve a personal communion with the leaves, in a bond akin to the private communication between man and god at he heart of many Western religions. As Prince Genji once wrote to a lover, ‘A sheaf of autumn leaves admired in solitude is like damasks worn in the darkness of the night.’ By entering nature, one hopes to internalize the beauty of the leaves in one’s heart. Man enters nature, and nature, in turn, enters man.”’
The idea of the interconnection between nature and humanity, the notion that we don’t just go to admire the leaves but to internalise their beauty, seems part of what is missing in our lives these days.
The gardens in Kyoto are especially famous for their beautiful maples, and there is a rather fine little film here, which I guarantee will reduce your resting pulse-rate.
I was surprised to find that Japanese maple leaves are deep-fried and eaten as a snack in Osaka, and have been for at least a thousand years. The ones from the city of Minoh are especially prized – they are preserved in barrels of salt for a year, then dipped into tempura batter. Apparently the tree can also be ‘tapped’ for maple syrup, like its North American relatives, though the sap is not as sugary.
The leaves were thought to have preservative properties, and apples and root vegetables were sometimes buried in them in the belief that they would last longer.
Fried Japanese maple leaves (Photo Five)
And finally, friends, I cannot end this piece without including the poem ‘Japanese Maple’ by Clive James. When I was growing up, he was a constant feature on TV shows such as ‘Clive James on Television’, which introduced the UK to such shows as ‘Endurance’, a kind of Japanese precursor to ‘I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here’ and possibly even more sadistic. But later, I discovered him as a poet, and a philosopher, and grew to see beyond the ‘larrikin’ exterior to a man of great nuance and sensitivity. He was diagnosed with cancer in 2011 and wrote this poem as a farewell in 2013. He then survived a further six years following an experimental drug treatment, and in an interview described himself as ‘feeling embarrassed’ to still be alive. He died earlier this week, and I hope that he was able to see his tree aflame against the amber brick.
Japanese Maple by Clive James
Your death, near now, is of an easy sort. So slow a fading out brings no real pain. Breath growing short Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain Of energy, but thought and sight remain:
Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls On that small tree And saturates your brick back garden walls, So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?
Ever more lavish as the dusk descends This glistening illuminates the air. It never ends. Whenever the rain comes it will be there, Beyond my time, but now I take my share.
My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new. Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame. What I must do Is live to see that. That will end the game For me, though life continues all the same:
Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes, A final flood of colors will live on As my mind dies, Burned by my vision of a world that shone So brightly at the last, and then was gone.
Photo Credits
Photo One by By Rüdiger WölkThis photo was taken by Rüdiger Wölk. Please credit this photo Rüdiger Wölk, Münster.View all photos (large page) of Rüdiger WölkI would also appreciate an email to rudiger.wolk@gmail.com with details of use.
Dear Readers, when I was growing up we often went to Wanstead Park as a family – we were all crammed together in our little house in Stratford, East London, and it’s the first place where I remember feeling that I was really in ‘the wild’. There was a rabbit warren, and you could hear cuckoos in the spring. There were a series of ornamental lakes that used to belong to the Wanstead Estate, and there was a heronry tucked away between two of them. But most of all, I remember the water voles – as you walked along the bank you could hear the ‘plop’ as they dived, and if you were quiet and lucky you could watch them grooming or nibbling away on a plant.
Alas, last time I went there was not a single water vole. The M11 (built since I was a child) was an incessant roar in the background. Where the water voles had gone I had no idea, but they have very specific requirements: they need marginal water plants, which provide cover from predators and food, and they need banks into which they can dig tunnels for breeding and sleeping. Furthermore, they are predated by American Mink, some of which escaped from fur farms and some of which were ‘liberated’ by well-meaning animal rights activists. And finally, in some areas the animals are constantly disturbed by dogs, even where these are meant to be kept on leads. What chance is there for beloved ‘Ratty’?
Here’s a description of ideal habitat from the Water Vole.org page. Actually it sounds lovely. If I’m ever reincarnated as a water vole, I’d like to live here…
“It is easy to provide a home for water voles, so that populations can thrive or expand and move into your waterway, pond or lake. They prefer soft, undisturbed earth banks which they can burrow into with wide margins which have tall grasses, stands of rosebay willowherb, purple loosestrife, meadowsweet, or nettles, often fringed with emergent rushes, sedges or reeds, to give them food and cover. They will gnaw on the roots and bark of sallow and willow, as well as the rhizomes, bulbs and roots of herbaceous plants during winter. Water voles also inhabit extensive reed-beds where they weave rugby ball-sized nests made of reeds. They will avoid sites that are heavily grazed, trampled or over-shaded by dense scrub or trees, but will happily live underneath the light shade of brambles and like to eat the leaves and the berries. Thorny brambles also give them protection from their many predators which they can hide beneath, although these need some management over winter to make sure they do not completely block passage through the stream for any kingfisher fishing there. It is worth bearing in mind that some solitary bees overwinter in the hollow stems of bramble, so when any management is undertaken it is best to leave the cuttings in a pile in an area which will not flood (if possible).”
Sadly, my pond isn’t big enough for water voles (and being a pond it doesn’t move), which is a shame, but on the other hand I suspect that the cats would make quick work of the poor little things.
And, judging by a survey conducted along the River Lee in 2022, they are actually making something of a comeback. This is particularly true in the northern part of the range, which goes from Ware to Waltham Cross, but to my amazement there are also signs of water voles in the Coppermill Stream, which flows through my beloved and much-visited Walthamstow Wetlands.
The water vole survey was previously conducted in 2012, and, when compared to the current survey the results are hopeful. Although water voles have disappeared from some stretches of the Lee, they seem to have popped up in sites where they weren’t present in 2012, especially where habitat has been improved for them. But the most surprising thing is that at the Coppermill Stream, not only were there signs of water voles, but also of at least one otter.
Who would have thought, back when otters were critically-endangered in the UK, that they’d make such a comeback that they’d be living in the middle of London? Very exciting and, as otters mostly eat fish, not a big threat to the water voles. I can’t help thinking that the fact that the London Wildlife Trust are actively managing Walthamstow Wetlands (which is still a working reservoir) for biodiversity, and that only assistance dogs are allowed on to the site, has made this place a sanctuary for both water voles and otters. Long may it continue, and here’s hoping that public pressure to reverse falling water quality all over the UK will succeed in ensuring that rivers can support water voles, otters and all the other creatures, big and small, that depend on them.
![Photo One (Fossil gingko) by By User:SNP(upload to en:wikipedia) ; User:tangopaso (transfer to Commons) (English Wikipedia) [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](https://i0.wp.com/bugwomanlondon.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/ginkgo_biloba_macabee_bc.jpg?resize=550%2C412&ssl=1)
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