The Soft Issue

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i: Editorial

Little bear’s bowl Kyra Pollitt It has been very difficult to edit this issue. My working diary is beginning to return to its pre-pandemic intensity, but I seem to have left some of my organisational skills behind in lockdown. Nonetheless, I welcomed every contribution that hit my inbox because this month’s focus is the soothing, calming, humble Oat (Herb of the Month: Avena sativa). It’s exactly what I needed. And I can report that Ann King’s recipes (Notes from the Brew Room) work just as well when you’re on the road and in temporary accommodation.

I’m a lousy navigator and get stressed without my satnav, so I’ve been interested to learn what might be going on in my nervous system (The Chemistry Column) and what I might do to counteract its worst effects (Anthroposophical Views). David Hughes’ review of a new CBD Handbook (Book Club) suggests further options. Meanwhile, both a new pamphlet from Duncan Ross (Book Club) and Elaine MacGillivray’s article on Sir Patrick Geddes (In Focus), remind us that much soothing therapy is to be found in the garden. A connectivity to earth and its materials is fundamental to the work of wild weaver Jeanette Gray, as Our Assistant Editor in the Field discovers. Jeanette’s beautiful, unique pieces are all products of this relationship.

Kate Tarling’s stunning embroidered aerial maps (Artist of the Month) would have lent useful clarity of perspective and texture to my own journeys. A similarly bird’s-eye view is what our new columnist, Joanne Fullerton (The Food on Your Table), invites us to adopt when she asks us to think more deeply about food chains.

Amanda Edmiston’s (Botanica Fabula) column on Bannoch Bride reflects on the cultural connections food gives us. Let your taste buds do the thinking as you read. This humble emotional inheritance is poignantly captured in James McGonigal’s poem, First Things (Red Squirrel Presents…). Ella Leith, by contrast, cooks up sarcastic interrogative proverbs and dark Oat magic (Foraging Through Folklore).

Callum Halstead’s shameless confessions of galanthophilia (love of Snowdrops) turn our heads towards the coming Spring (Sage Advice), and its inherent optimism is reflected here at Herbology News, where we hope to swell our editorial team in the coming months with the addition of Anastasia Joyce.

And I think that’s my porridge ready— just right, just now.

Honorary Executive Editorial team Illustration Finance and Distribution

Catherine Conway-Payne Kyra Pollitt, Ella Leith, Maddy Mould, Anastasia Joyce Maddy Mould Marianne Hughes

Herbology News is printed on FSC certified, carbon neutral, recycled paper, using non-polluting vegetable-based inks, made from renewable sources.

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i: Contents

i Editorial Frontispiece Contents

Kyra Pollitt Maddy Mould

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ii Artist of the Month

Kate Tarling

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iii Herb of the Month

Marianne Hughes, Hazel Brady

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iv Our Assistant Editor in the Field

Ella Leith meets Jeanette Gray

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v Anthroposophical Views Notes from the Brew Room Flower Power

Dora Wagner Ann King Rose Morley

19 23 25

vi In Focus: Geddes and gardens Sage Advice

Elaine MacGillivray Callum Halstead

27 32

vii The Food on Your Table The Chemistry Column

Joanne Fullerton Claire Gormley

37 39

viii Foraging Through Folklore Botanica Fabula Red Squirrel Presents…

Ella Leith Amanda Edmiston James McGonigal

42 46 48

ix Book Club David Hughes reviews The CBD Handbook: Using and understanding CBD and medicinal cannabis by Karin Mallion (Aeon Books, 2021) Claire Hattersley reviews The Passionate Grower’s Guide to Herb Gardening, a new pamphlet by Duncan Ross (Poyntzfield, 2022) x Contributors Looking Forward Our Patrons

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Kate Tarling Adelaide, Australia

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ii: Artist of the Month

Kate Tarling www.katetarlingtextiles.com This month our pages are graced by the work of Kate Tarling, a self-taught artist based in Bristol.

The images are beguiling— at first presenting pleasing, quite abstract compositions that one only slowly realises are aerial maps. The next surprise is to realise that these are textile pieces, and that these lines are drawn in thread.

Kate explains: It’s the texture of embroidery that really appeals to me. My favourite thing to do when I’ve finished a piece of work is to close my eyes and run my hands over the stitching. It’s such a pleasing sensation of soft ridges and sharp curves; soft and undulating and yet durable and robust at the same time.

I learned hand embroidery as a child, after finding my mother’s wallet of embroidery threads.

I was immediately seduced by the range of colours and was impatient to learn the many different stitches, teaching myself by working through a little handbook of embroidery techniques. More recently, I’ve come to love the speed and freedom that freehand machine embroidery offers. It has opened up a whole new world of textile excitement! It allows me to use the needle like a pencil, except the needle is static and it’s the canvas that I move, allowing the thread to draw the shapes and lines. Of course, I still have to frequently change the top thread and bobbin colours, so it’s still a slow process and each piece of work takes many days— sometimes weeks —to complete.

Working this way broadened my outlook on the medium and now I mix up paint, print, machine and hand-embroidery to create my pieces. I also use pieces of hand-painted silk to embellish my work, which adds texture and reflective light.

I’m a self-taught artist and although, in hindsight, I would have loved to have studied textiles, instead I studied geography and went on to train and work as a newspaper journalist. I like to think now that my textile work reflects my early career— my maps are all about a sense of place and stitching memories into a landscape. I love sewing in the connections we all make with our surroundings and creating a piece of art that has meaning. Most of the maps I make are commissioned and I now make maps of places from all around the world, which is very exciting.

I also sell some of my work from a gallery called Fig in Bristol, where I have lived for the past twenty years. The gallery is run as a co-operative and I share the space and responsibilities with four other, very talented, artists who offer support and make the life of a self-employed artist less lonely.

I make all my pieces in a shared studio at the bottom of the garden. It’s probably better to describe it as a heated shed, but at least I can store all my equipment in one place. My husband has one end of the shed, and I get the other (neater) side. I’ve got a lovely view of our courtyard garden and a huge skylight through which I can see the waving boughs of next door’s pear tree.

Sometimes I choose to work in the kitchen, as we’ve got a big table where I can spread out larger pieces of work more easily (and I have access to the coffee pot).

I’m a mum of two teenagers, which is wonderful/stressful/magical/tearful. We’ve also got a dog— a whippet called Blue, who forces me to get outside every day and lose myself for a while.

You can find Kate on Instagram: @katetarlingtextiles 7

ii: Artist of the Month

Cover image Cologne, Germany 30cm x 40cm. Embroidery and silk appliqué on canvas.

Images Adelaide, Australia 25cm x 35cm. Stitch and paint on canvas.

Sold St Germans, Cornwall 28cm x 40cm. Stitch and paint on canvas.

Sold Murren to Lauterbrunnen 28cm x 40cm. Stitch and paint on canvas.

Sold Pitsford Water 25cm x 25cm. Stitch and paint on canvas.

Sold Bristol featuring the Downs 50cm x 50cm. Stitch and paint on canvas.

Sold Tondern Island, Canada 30cm x 30cm. Stitch and paint on canvas.

Sold Close detail, Cornish Coastline Detail of embroidery for a lampshade.

Sold The artist painting her Beijing map At work using mixed silk paints to paint on colour prior to stitching.

The artist holding her Beijing map 100cm x 135cm. Paint and stitch on canvas.

Sold

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Kate Tarling St Germans, Cornwall

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iii: Herb of the Month

Oats (Avena sativa) Marianne Hughes, with illustration by Hazel Brady In Scotland we are lucky to have ready access to Oats (Avena sativa) to make porridge, oatcakes, and other tasty foods. Oats need more water and humidity than Wheat (Triticum aestivum), and dislike dry weather in early summer— so they’re a crop ideally suited to the Scottish climate, as elsewhere throughout the earth’s temperate zones. Medicinally, the whole plant (known as Oatstraw and gathered in August when the grains are ripe) is a good restorative tonic, ideal for depression and qi deficiency (Ody, 1993). This is perhaps why a bowl of Oat porridge every day during the dark winter feels so nourishing.

Hippocrates (460 BC) advised ‘Let food be your medicine and medicine be your food’, and Oats can be described as a ‘nutraceutical’— an edible botanical that can have health benefits —as well as a prophylactic, that is a substance that prevents disease. Medical herbalists, however, often refer to Oats as ‘nervine trophorestorative’. A trophorestorative is a herb that is nutritive and restorative, with a particular association or affinity for an organ, or organ system. In the case of Oats, the affinity is with the nervous system.

Before considering the positive impact of Oats on the nervous system, it’s worth noting some other health benefits. Bartram (1998) lists the active constituents of Oats as glycosol flavones, proteins, Vitamin E and oil; and the corresponding actions as nerve restorative, anti-depressant, tranquilliser, brain tonic, cardiac tonic and thymoleptic (this is an older term for a substance that raises the mood and counteracts depression). Bartram suggests a number of preparations, but notes that ‘groats and oatmeal products are all beneficial but are not of the same efficacy as the fresh green plant’. He cites Vogel’s assertion that ‘Oats have the highest content of iron, zinc and manganese of all grain species.’ Research (e.g., Tiwari et al, 2011) suggests the consumption of Oats can lower cholesterol levels because of the beta-glucan content.

This reduction in blood cholesterol can impact 10

positively on heart function. Whole Oats also contain phenolic compounds and phytoestrogens that act as antioxidants, lowering the chronic inflammation associated with cardiovascular disease (Tang et al, 2015).

Culpeper (1649) observes that Oats can also be used externally: the meal of Oats boiled with vinegar and applied, takes away freckles and spots in the face, and other parts of the body.

Indeed, Oats are often still used in poultices as an external emollient. The high silica content, the saponins, and the Vitamin E are ideal for soothing eczema, herpes, and shingles (Hoffman, 2002).

But what is it about Oats that impacts so positively on our nervous systems and earns Oats such a reputation as a nervine trophorestorative? In every 100 grams of Oats is 44% of our daily recommended intake of magnesium. Magnesium is a catalyst that helps the body utilise vitamins, minerals and

iii: Herb of the Month fats and is essential for the health of our heart muscles. It is also a natural sedative. In the same portion of Oats is 246% of our daily requirement of manganese— which nourishes nerves, brain, and muscles— and 52% of the phosphorus we need. Phosphorus works with calcium to aid nerve and brain functions (Clemens and Jan-Willem van Klinken, 2014), so perhaps keep adding that yoghurt or milk to your porridge.

In nineteenth-century America, Oatmeal was sold almost exclusively in pharmacies, and it was mostly suggested for consumption during recovery from illness. It wasn’t until the late nineteenth century that Ferdinand Schumacher, a German immigrant, helped promote Oatmeal to become the best-selling cereal in the USA. Over recent decades, however, the annual yield of Oats in the USA has fallen from seventeen million metric tonnes in 1960 to less than one million metric tonnes in 2012. The world-wide decline in the production of Oats is perhaps due to both climate change and the availability of subsidies for other crops such as soya and maize, which are often used for animal feed rather than direct human consumption.

Here in Scotland, then, we should perhaps celebrate our Oat crop and sing its praises as a valuable companion that supports both our physical and mental health.

References Bartram, T. (1998) Bartram’s Encyclopaedia of Herbal Medicine. Robinson: London Bown, D. (2008) Encyclopaedia of Herbs.

Royal Horticultural Society, Dorling Kindersley: London Clemens, R. and Jan-Willem van Klinken, B. (2014) ‘Oats, more than just a whole grain: an introduction,’ in British Journal of Nutrition, 112 (52) Hoffman, D. (2002) Holistic Herbal. Thorsons: London Ody, P. (1993) The Complete Medicinal Herbal: A Practical Guide to the Healing Properties of Herbs. Skyhorse Publishing: New York Potterton, D. ed., (1985/1649) Culpeper’s Complete Herbal. Foulsham and Co: Slough Tang, G. et al (2015) ‘Meta-analysis of the association between whole grain intake and coronary heart disease risk’, in American Journal of Cardiology, 115(5):625-9 Tiwari, U. and Cummins, E. (2011) ‘Metaanalysis of the effect of beta-glucan intake on blood cholesterol and glucose levels,’ in Nutrition, 27(10):1008-16

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Kate Tarling Murren to Lauterbrunnen

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iv: Our Assistant Editor in the Field

Ella Leith meets Jeanette Gray Ella Leith Jeanette Gray is, by her own admission, obsessed with basketry. Her business name, Weaving Wild, sums up her work: she weaves her baskets in the wild, from the wild, and is wild about her weaving. Since completing her two-year training in basketry at City Lit College, London, she has foraged materials from her home in Machynlleth, Wales, and used these to fashion her creations.

Her specialism is wearable basketry: “Things that you can take out foraging or take on a walk with you,” she says. “Things that are useful— beautiful and useful. I’m not into sculptural baskets that just sit there to look nice. I want it to be used.” Little bags, backpacks and side-pouches are her stock in trade, as well as larger wearable baskets; a recent addition to her repertoire is tincture bottle holders worn as necklaces. Her work is sometimes dainty and astonishingly detailed; it is always robust and practical. As well as selling her wares, she teaches courses and workshops for individuals, private groups, and charities, taking her clients out into the landscape to forage and weave. Jeanette is all about the healing potential of being outside.

I catch up with Jeanette on Zoom; inside for once, back in her childhood home in Scotland. To start the conversation, I quote a line from her website— ‘it was love at first basket’ —and her face lights up: It was! I was saying this to my dad last night— until I made a basket, I didn’t understand people who had hobbies. I wanted to understand; I tried different things and really wanted to be interested in them, but I just wasn’t. My experience was: “I guess I can do it, but I’m not excited by it.” And then I made a basket for the first time and suddenly I got it. It’s not a chore; it’s not something I feel that I should do because it’s going to make me a better person or more skilled or healthier. It’s just that I actively want to do this— I’m excited to do this.

That first basket was made— and fallen in love with —while participating in a Week in the Woods, an outdoors education programme organised by the Bill Hogarth Memorial Association in Cumbria, back in 2012. Jeanette had just returned from a stint in New Zealand after finishing university; while away, she’d learnt that a friend— who was doing an apprenticeship in ancient coppice crafts and woodland management —had been diagnosed with a brain tumour, and she was eager to spend time with him: As part of his apprenticeship, they would run courses in the woods once a year for people to come and have a go at coppice crafts. My friend had become so ill that he’d lost movement and coordination on the left side of his body, so the only craft he could do at that stage was basketry. I remember being a bit disappointed, because I really wanted to make a chair or something else big and solid— “Oh, I have to make a basket...? Oh well.” But I wanted to spend time with him, so I went with it. And I loved it.

Soon afterwards, I realised that I just wanted to make baskets. And it was a bit weird for me, because up until then I’d been trying to be a builder— I’d been working for a stonemasonry company, and I wanted to do big practical things. I didn’t think just making baskets was enough; I didn’t want to do the soft feminine thing. It was a battle against13 myself, to accept that it’s OK to like traditionally feminine things. You can do soft things and still be a good feminist!

iv: Our Assistant Editor in the Field

baskets was enough; I didn’t want to do the soft feminine thing. It was a battle against myself, to accept that it’s OK to like traditionally feminine things. You can do soft things and still be a good feminist!

Speaking of soft things, I noticed on her website that she lists Moss as one of the materials she uses. What does she use that for? I ask. Because obviously you can’t make a basket out of Moss— “Aha, can you not?” Jeanette interrupts me, grinning, and I realise I’m being naive. Go on then, how do you make a basket out of Moss?

Well, I don’t use so much of it anymore. A lot of the learning is about how to sensitively forage and not take too much of the plant. We’ve had a lot of very hot summers where I am so I’m sensitive about taking a lot of it— it’s Polytrichum commune that I use, one of its common names is Hair-moss. You need quite a lot to make a basket, so I try to take a little bit from each patch. I didn’t take any last year, to let it all have a rest year after the drought. But it’s amazing stuff, Hair-moss. It can grow to maybe two-foot-long strands— long filaments that are bright red and beautiful. And what I do is plait it and then I sew it.

When I was at college I made a baby carrier out of Hair-moss. It took me months: it was one continuous plait of Moss that would probably have been long enough to wrap around my house twice. The plait was sewn to itself, and then I taught myself to make felt and lined the inside. It looked like a giant slipper.

As with most of her creations, the design was her own— “I kind of make it up as I go along,” she says. The designs are responsive to the materials she uses, which she often mixes within one piece: Partly that’s just for the visual— different colours, different textures — but also, different materials do different things. I use a lot of Spruce roots (Picea sitchensis), which are good for sewing because they’re strong and they’re tight. So, I’d sew on the rim of a bark basket with Spruce roots. And handles— if I need a handle, I’ll use Nettle string (Urtica dioica).

Most basket making is in grown cultivars of Willow (Salix spp.) and I started off using that, but it wasn’t a material that came naturally to me. I had a lot of struggle with it when I was at college. Most of the other students were living in Central London; I was travelling in from rural Wales, and I realised that I could do something different— I could actually make use of what I have around me. So, I branched away from Willow. What excites me is using materials from the landscape.

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iv: Our Assistant Editor in the Field

Foraging works around the seasons. In winter, there are the materials that you need to gather when the sap is low. That’s woody things and vines: Brambles (Rubus spp.) and Ivy (Hedera helix). In spring, it’s the materials you collect when the sap is rising, so Willow bark— I peel a lot of wild Goat Willow (Salix caprea). Then in the summer, it’s all the leafy things that you want to cut at peak growth, so a lot of Grasses (Poaceae spp.) and stuff from the garden like Crocosmia (C. spp.), Iris leaves (I. spp.), and Cat-tails (Thyphus latifolia). Cat-tails are what we call Bullrush in this country; I use the American name, because people get it confused with the basketry Rush (Scirpis lacustris).

Early summer is also when you extract fibres— Bramble fibre and Nettle fibre for making string. Then it’s autumn. In food foraging, there’s the ‘hungry gap’ in early spring when there isn’t really anything to forage; autumn is the hungry gap of basketry. There’s not really a lot to harvest and you’re waiting until you can get the vines again.

I am lucky that there’s a real abundance of materials where I live. I am quite into focussing on what is available where you are: I don’t travel a lot, I don’t fly, and I like the idea of really getting into where you live. But I do travel to the coast to get various Grasses, and I buy in a little bit of Willow. I also buy Rush from my friend Linda Lemieux of Wood and Rush— she’s an amazing basket maker. She has a little field in Somerset that no one else wanted because it was boggy and full of Rush; she leapt at the chance. Rush doesn’t grow where I live, but it’s such a versatile, beautiful material. When I can, I go on her annual Rush cut, going out in a coracle to cut it. It’s a really lovely thing to do.

Jeanette speaks of each material with reverence. Which, I ask, is her favourite?

I really love Brambles. There are loads of different species of Brambles and they have such different qualities— I don’t really know what the different species are, but I know when I see a really good Bramble patch! The ideal ones are really thin with hardly any thorns on them. They’re just magic. I love them because they’re available everywhere, and they’re hated as a weed. No one’s going to mind if you harvest them— they’re more likely to thank you for taking them away! You can extract fibres in the summer; you can use the vines in the winter; they provide fruit in the autumn; they smell amazing; they’re incredibly versatile. Yeah, I love them.

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iv: Our Assistant Editor in the Field

Once she’s collected her materials, what’s the next stage? Can you just come in from the field and start weaving?

There’s almost nothing in basketry that you use straight away. It’s all about how you dry the materials out— you’re trying to get rid of as much moisture as you can so that it doesn’t deteriorate, but also so that when you go to make your basket it doesn’t shrink.

As it’s losing moisture, it’s shrinking; if you make a basket with something you’ve just harvested, all that shrinkage is going to happen within the weave and the weave will become loose.

Different materials have got different drying times and techniques. With Grasses, I put them in a sheet, not too much in one bundle, and hang it, and then I just shake it and turn the Grass so that it’s getting air to it. Ideally you want to dry something without direct sunlight hitting it, because that’s going to bleach it. You want to keep as much colour as possible.

To get the thorns off Brambles, I use big fire gauntlets and run the vines through one way and then the other to strip off most of the thorns. Then I get jam jar lids and stab holes in them of different sizes, then run the vines through the holes to remove any that are left.

Drying, prepping, resoaking— that’s the majority of the learning of the craft. The actual skill of making is a tiny part. I’m still learning; I destroy so many materials in my attempts!

And it’s quite hard to find this knowledge, so a lot of it is just trial and error. You learn one thing and you think, right, maybe that applies to the next thing, maybe not...

The process of trial by error, of learning by doing, excites her; so too does the sense of continuity with the past. Basketry has a very long history, and it might be tempting to assume that its techniques are antiquated and fixed. Is there a tension between the idea of tradition and innovation in her craft?

I think what is traditional is innovation. When I did anthropology at university, one of the recurring questions was about how similar ideas pop up in different places— whether knowledge had travelled between communities as a slow movement of ideas, or whether human populations spontaneously have the same ideas at different times and in different places. Through teaching, I’ve learnt that it’s a bit of both. I love that you can teach an idea and explain traditional techniques, but then people make such radically different things with the exact same materials and the exact same instructions. And conversely, when I teach braided basketry, every time I teach it someone will come up with the same idea without any prompting— “Ooh, I could make a handle like this...”. They’ll come up with something very similar every time, just by responding to the materials.

I think it’s something that we miss out on as modern humans— problem-solving in that very tactile and immediate way. When you’re working with the materials and you’ve got a project, your brain is sparking and interacting with it, and also with your environment.

You’re starting to see the possibility of the materials, the possibility of what’s around you.

And then that triggers another thing: you start to care more about your environment. We protect what we use; we protect what we have a relationship with and understand. That’s why making and doing and building relationships with plants is so important to me.

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iv: Our Assistant Editor in the Field

So, there’s a conservation element to her work? Yes, she says, and a therapeutic one. She is currently working with Coed Lleol, the Welsh branch of the Small Woods Association, on their Trywydd Lach (Outdoor Health) project, a programme of activities to improve mental health; she also works with an anti-racist organisation that offers therapeutic residential retreats to those experiencing the UK Government’s hostile environment. Creating opportunities for outdoor experiences is, she believes, a social justice issue: I’m really interested in access to land— who has access to land, who has access to building a relationship with land. These can be complex, sensitive questions, especially in Wales where there’s a complicated history and, in some ways, tension between local people and incomers. What I like about my work through Coed Lleol is that it’s bringing people who maybe don’t have access to land into wild spaces to build relationships, when they might otherwise not be able to do that. That’s really important to me, whatever way we do it.

Being in the wild, getting to grips with the materials on hand— this is Jeanette’s ethos. To be a basket maker, you have to get your hands dirty; you have to be tactile and fully present: You can’t wear gloves for basketry. You need to really feel the materials. I don’t have very ladylike hands— they get quite roughed up! But I quite like that. I don’t mind it at all.

For more information about Jeanette’s work, visit www.weavingwild.co.uk Follow her on Instagram: @weaving_wild Images: Jeanette Gray

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Kate Tarling Pitsford Water

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v: Anthroposophical Views v: Anthroposophical Views

Cool, calm and collected Dora Wagner Nerves are the higher roots of our senses Novalis

In October, after a bicycle accident, I was diagnosed with a torn tendon in my right shoulder. All of a sudden there was a plethora of considerations to process, issues to sort out and decide. Fear, stress, deadlines, doctor’s visits, and hospitals overcrowded with Covid patients all left their mark. My nerves were on edge, resulting in restlessness, sometimes even panic. Beyond a certain point, I could no longer find restful sleep— not only because of the physical complaints, but because of my circling thoughts. After surgery at the end of November, my right arm was immobilised.

Now suffering from aching nerves and tense muscles, I still couldn’t find a good night's sleep. Yet, although I can only write this article with some effort, I feel like a million dollars. I have two remedies to thank. Before surgery, Calmedoron— the anthroposophical ‘gift for our nervous system’ —became a very loyal friend. In this remedy, mother tinctures of Hops (Humulus lupulus), Valerian (Valeriana officinalis), Passionflower (Passiflora sp.), and Oats (Avena sativa) are combined with Coffee (Coffea arabica) in a highly diluted, homoeopathically potentised form. In convalescence I have fallen in love with Monkshood (Wolfsbane, Aconite, Aconitum napellus). These plants have spared no effort in relieving my overly stressed nervous system and easing my pain.

Hundreds of billions of nerve cells— neurons —provide the functional and structural units of our brain and entire nervous system. They enable the transmission of signals from our sensory organs to our brain— such as visual and auditory sensations, muscle movements, perceptions of temperature, pressure, and pain. Neurons also transmit signals from our brain to the organs and to our body’s periphery. To make this transmission of information possible, the nerve cells mainly receive electrical stimuli— so called ‘action potentials’ —and transmit them to one another. An infinite number of action potentials are sent back and forth to allow our nervous systems to function, enabling us to move our muscles, feel pain, dream.

There are many different types of neurons, each specialised in form and function, that are as complex as they are fascinating. However, they all share certain common features. Each and every neuron has a relatively large cell body, the soma. The most obvious difference between neurons and other cells, however, are the long extensions that rise from the cell body— the dendrites and the axons.

Dendrites are like small branches that function as neural terminals, receiving signals from nearby neurons and transmitting them to the soma, where metabolic activity takes place. In

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v: v: Anthroposophical Anthroposophical Views Views the soma, new molecules are generated, and all kinds of essential functions are carried out that make possible the vital maintenance and the function of the cell. Axons, the largest extensions, conduct impulses from the soma to their terminals and transmit the action potential from the cell body to other neurons.

One of the main features of an axon is a layer called the myelin sheath, which can increase or facilitate the speed of transmission of electrical stimuli. At the biological junctions between neurons, chemical neurotransmitters such as acetylcholine, dopamine, adrenaline, serotonin and histamine help to transmit the signals from one nerve cell to the other. These synapses— the associated neurons and their receptors —are each named after the transmitter they work with; cholinergic (acethylcholine), dopaminergic (dopamine), adrenergic (working on adrenaline or noradrenalin), serotonergic (serotonin) and so on (Schmidt, 2000). Anthroposophically, the nerve-sense system is seen as the mediating part of the tripartite human organism, providing the physical tool that enables sensory perception, imagination and thinking.

It gives a person the basis for their daytime consciousness, enabling them to grasp the sensory world, whilst summing up the activity of their entire organism.

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In the anthroposophical approach, a plant is considered to be medicinal if it shows any disturbance, distortion, or abnormality in the threefold structure of roots, flowers and fruits, leaves and shoots. The second consideration is that the root processes of plants correspond to the head and the nervous functions, the flower processes to metabolic activities, and leaf processes to rhythmic patterns in the human body. The part of the plant that is particularly favoured in terms of growth, expression or features is considered for its healing effect. If it is the root— as with Aconitum napellus —the herbal part is transformed into a medicine for corresponding ailments. By this system, it becomes obvious that Aconite root be used as a remedy for painful, inflammatory processes of the Nerve-Sense-System and so for neuralgic pain associated with restlessness and anxiety. To this day, Aconitum plays an important role in the anthroposophical pharmacopoeia, both as a single remedy or in composition. In accordance with the homeopathic tradition, sometimes the whole fresh plant is used at the beginning of flowering, while in some other preparations only the fresh tuber is taken.

Monkshood (Aconitum napellus) is the most impressive of the buttercups— very gorgeous, but incredibly poisonous. In fact, it is the most poisonous plant in Europe. This is why it was banned from our medicinal herb garden in Herdecke and I mourn it endlessly. As majestic as the plant appears, with upright growth to 1.80m, Monkshood also seems to me a little bit rigid, aloof and introverted, as if it were frozen. The stalked, deep blue, helmetshaped flowers of this ‘Queen of Poisons’ sit in a long spike-like inflorescence at the top of the stems and shine from June to September.

The bizarre shape of the large, almost closed flower heads only unfolds to its impressive size when the corolla leaves transform. Hidden beneath them are the actual, quite small, and inconspicuous petals. It is as if the fey folk have built a place to escape into the air, and are sitting on top, masked, with blue helmets, not permitting other creatures any free access.

v: Anthroposophical Views Only bumblebees (Bombus terrestris) are allowed to feast on the sweet nectar of the blossoms. No less graceful, yet restrained, the large, stiff, dark green, filigree-slit, deeply lobed, five- to seven-pinnate leaves form directly on an erect, glabrous, sometimes also hairy stem. While the upper growth is unfolding, the bulbous, fleshy root begins to pass on some of its stubbornly held vital energy to a side shoot. Over the course of the year, this will swell into a beet-like root, while the previous year's root dies in wintertime.

This process is something really special; only part of the plant's power is allowed to unfold upwards, the rest always remains in the root area. Thus, Monkshood emphasises its root life.

Its scientific name, Aconitum, was used by poets such as Ovid as a collective name for strong poisons. The term napellus is derived from the Latin word nápus (root) and refers to the thick beet-like root where the toxic content is at its highest, particularly in winter.

According to Greek mythology, when Hercules defeated the fearsome threeheaded Cerberus, the wolf spewed venom and bile in rage, with the plant growing where the wolf's drool touched the ground (Grant and Hazel, 2004). The sorceress Medea later used the ‘wolf's bane’ to take revenge on her unfaithful husband, Jason, by trying to kill his son, Theseus. Indeed, Wolfsbane has a long history of use as a poison. It was used on spears and arrows for hunting and to eliminate criminals and enemies.

Various poisonous alkaloids are found in Aconitum napellus. The poisonous effect is mainly due to aconitine, which can prove fatal to an adult in doses as small as 1.5 - 5mg. The greatest concentration of this toxin is found in the root and the seeds, where as little as 2mg can prove a lethal dose. Aconitine can be absorbed through the mucous membranes, the gastrointestinal tract and, very quickly, through skin— so just touching the plant can be dangerous. Aconitine is primarily effective as a neurotoxin; it can easily cross the bloodbrain barrier and damage the central and peripheral nervous system. Aconitine slows

down the inactivation of the voltagedependent sodium channel, so more sodium can flow in. This slows down depolarisation and prolongs the action potential. As a result, the neurons are initially excited and then paralysed. When aconitine acts on the sodium channels in the heart, it leads to cardiac arrhythmia, and even cardiac arrest (Teuscher and Lindequist, 2010). When the poison is absorbed through the mouth, the mucous membranes in the mouth and throat tingle then quickly become numb— the sensation is like having an anaesthestic at the dentist — then breathing becomes shallow and slow, followed by symptoms of paralysis, and even loss of consciousness.

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v: Anthroposophical Views Despite its toxicity, Monkshood was prescribed in Greek and Roman medicine by Theophrastus, Dioscorides and Pliny the Elder. It was used as poison bait; as an antidote after scorpion stings or as an adjunct to painkillers.

Galen recommended preparations of the plant for cleansing wounds. Roman doctors used aconite for earaches.

Samuel Hahnemann (1790) reported that he had successfully treated nerve pain and gout with a homeopathic remedy made from Aconitum and preparations from the root were subsequently used in Germany until the end of the 19th century. In Holland, Paracelsist van Helmont (1793) reported how, during a self-experiment sucking on a Wolfsbane root, he located the ‘camp of the soul’ when he felt himself thinking in his stomach. Use of aconite is strongly anchored in Ayurveda and also in traditional Chinese medicine, with various preparation methods to detoxify the roots.

For example, it is used for external applications for pain, especially back pain, fever, neuralgia, and inflammation. In some Chinese regions, the roots or root tubers of the Aconitum species are boiled for several hours, or days, then eaten as vegetables or used in herbal soups (Chan, 2014).

Preparation is only considered complete when the tongue or gums no longer feel numb when consuming the decoction.

Needless to say, self-made remedies or selfmedication must be avoided at all times.

Today, Aconite is mainly used in homeopathy in Germany. Homeopathic preparations (drops, globules, pain oil) are still available over the counter, while concentrated preparations require a prescription.

Over the last few weeks, it has been very beneficial to meet my pain with aconite oil and to experience the power of this plant with my own body. Monkshood has become a loyal friend to me during my convalescence and I intend to stay in deep connection with it in future. I believe there is something beyond mere quantities of ingredients and theoretical knowledge of effects. Rather, if we engage in sincere and responsible relationships with them, herbs can caress us like good friends.

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So, we should also regard them as such and treat them with great respect. I am very grateful that my plant friends helped me become aware of my needs. By supporting me in giving rest and recreation a place in my life, they helped me find my way back to wellbeing and balance.

Images Paula Moderson-Becker (1898) Eisenhut. Oil on canvas 65.8 cm x 18cm, public domain.

Drawings and collages made by Dora Wagner using Wikipedia commons References Chan, T. Y. K. (2014) ‘Aconitum alkaloid poisoning related to the culinary uses of aconite roots’ in Toxins, 6(9): 2605-2611 Grant, M. and Hazel, J. (2004) Lexikon der antiken Mythen und Gestalten. dtv Hahnemann, S. (1790) cited in Cullen, W. Abhandlung über die Materia medica. Schwickert: Leipzig; Band II, S. 320 Teuscher E. and Lindequist U. (2010) Biogene Gifte. Wissenschaftliche Verlagsgesellschaft: Stuttgart Schmidt, R. et al. (2000) Physiologie des Menschen 28. Auflage. Springer, Berlin S. 199–206.

Van Helmont, J. B. (1693/1971) Aufgang der Arztney-Kunst. 2 Bde. Tr. Christian Knorr von Rosenroth. München

v: Notes from the Brewroom

Softly, softly, catchy monkey Ann King Late winter is the time to really nurture body and soul, optimising our resilience in preparation the launch of springtime. In the spirit of our soft emergence into 2022— nourished with good intentions, renewed energy and the desire for balance —we have been dabbling with the beautifully graceful Wild Oats (Avena sativa). The benefits of all parts of the plant as a warming, moisturising and sweet herb are restorative, nutritive, and therapeutic in a truly holistic sense. Avena sativa is one of the most recommended herbal tonics, both when taken internally for nervous exhaustion and convalescence and when applied topically for irritated skin conditions and symptoms of neuralgia.

Nothing provides nourishment for jangling nerves better than Oats, which are bursting with B vitamins and supporting minerals.

Enjoying nourishing foods regularly helps to prevent fluctuations in blood sugar, which in turn helps with emotional stability and tranquillity.

‘Milky Oats’ were often referred to in the recipes we explored. They are the immature seed pods that produce a milky white liquid when pressed and ripen into the groats that eventually turn into the oatmeal that grace many breakfast tables. The harvesting window is short, and they need to be gathered and tinctured on the day to preserve their bioactive strength. Partly for this reason, but mainly because they look so glorious, we recommend growing your own. Wild Oats make a beautiful addition to any garden or pot. The seeds can be sown in the spring and harvested in the early summer.

For a full day of swaddling the nervous system, Avena sativa provides a variety of options to suit most lifestyles, all aimed at restoring, recharging and calming the nervous system— breakfast, hot infusions, evening bath/foot soaks and a luxurious milky drink are all on the menu.

Anytime superbowl (Ingredients for two) 1 grated Apple (Malus domestica) 50g jumbo porridge Oats 25g each of lightly toasted Sunflower and Pumpkin seeds (Helianthus annuus, Cucurbita maxima) and roughly chopped mixed Nuts ½ tsp ground Cinnamon (Cinnamomum verum) ½ tsp ground Cardamom (Elettaria cardamomum) Topping ideas 1 chopped Banana (Musa acuminata) Handful of Blueberries (Vaccinium corymbosum) or Raspberries (Rubus spp.)

Method Lightly toast the nuts and seeds.

Mix all ingredients, except toppings, together in a bowl. Add approximately 100ml water and leave to soak overnight in the fridge.

Simply take out in the morning, add your topping of choice and some local honey.

Soft and sweetly sleep (Big batch ingredients) 25g dried Oat straw 5g Lavender (Lavandula angustifolia) to calm the noise from the fluctuations of the mind Method Mix the above together and keep in a sealed jar.

To use, add one tsp. to your favourite milk.

Heat gently for 5-10 mins. Add a spoonful of honey and/or grated Nutmeg (Myristica fragrans) to taste.

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v: Notes from the Brewroom

Silk soak and sip The hydrating dried milky Oat tops are considered to be restorative for topical application to stress or nerve related skin conditions. Add them to old (clean) tights to make a poultice and tie it around the warm tap as you run your bath, or add it to a foot soak.

The bag can then be rubbed gently over the skin as you soak, to release more soothing emollients. This blend can also be used for a calming hot infusion taken throughout the day.

(Ingredients for a big batch) 25g dried Oat tops 25g Lemon Balm (Melissa officinalis) for flavour and calm 5g vervain (Verbena officinalis) for nerve cell protection Keep in a sealed jar.

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If using in foot soak water, add 2tsp to the teapot with 200ml boiled water and leave to infuse for 5-10 minutes. Add to the warm soak.

If using for an infusion, add 1tsp to a warmed tea pot with 100ml of just boiled water and leave to infuse for 5 minutes.

Disclaimer No recipes are intended to replace medical advice and the reader should seek the guidance of their doctor for all health matters.

The profiles and recipes are intended for information purposes only and have not been tested or evaluated. Ann King is not making any claims regarding their efficacy and the reader is responsible for ensuring that any replications or adaptations of the recipes that they produce are safe to use and comply with cosmetic regulations where applicable.

v: Flower Power

Gently does it Rose Morley Our nervous system is quite complex. It is capable of holding on to lots of little emotions that, over time, can build up and manifest as, for example, stress, anxiety, or even PTSD. Flower essences can help to target the nervous system and release all those stored emotions that have been collecting— over a short or long period of time —helping you feel like you’re back on the right track and heading to where you're aiming to be.

Throughout our adult lives, we strive to reach a state of balance, but with all the stresses and strains of everyday life that's not always possible, and this dissonance can put undue pressure on our nervous system.

On the bright side, once we’ve started the release process, the nervous system can begin to correct and realign itself. For some people this may be a matter of just one or two consultations and remedies, for others the process may take six months or longer. This can depend on the length of time in which nervous system has been compromised.

Crowea (Crowea saligna), a remedy from Australian Bush Flowers, aims to restore feelings of peace and calm, helping to rebalance, re-centre and restore clarity. Daisy (Bellis perennis) from the Findhorn flower range, promises to work on those ‘out of body’ experiences brought on by trauma and shock. Wild Oat (Avena sativa) from the Bach Flower range is recommended as a nervine— a substance that calms the nerves. When used as a medicinal tincture, this remedy can help relieve physical nerve pain and chronic fatigue. It can also help to alleviate anxiety, depression, insomnia, and feelings of sadness.

Using Wild Oat remedy to ease any of the emotions that are hindering the nervous system, may also target related skin conditions, such as eczema, and perhaps support us when we are unsure of which way to go in life.

Look after yourself and be kind to your body.

Image Reproduced by kind www.fesflowers.com

permission

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Kate Tarling Bristol featuring the Downs

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vi: In Focus

In gratitude for Geddes and gardens Elaine MacGillivray In 2016, the National Gardens Scheme commissioned the King’s Fund to write an independent report on the benefits of gardening and health. This led to the publication of David Buck’s Gardens and health: implications for policy and practice, in which he argues that: Increasing people’s exposure to, and use of, green spaces has been linked to long-term reductions in overall reported health problems (including heart disease, cancer and musculoskeletal conditions)…

Gardens can provide other important environmental functions, such as reducing flood risk and moderating climate and pollution, which have knock-on benefits for health (Buck, 2016).

While there is a growing body of scientific data to support the individual, public and environmental health benefits of gardens and gardening, particularly in relation to an increasingly urbanised society, these ideas are not new. Over a century ago, gardens and gardening were central to the philosophies of Scottish biologist, sociologist, urban planner, environmental movement pioneer, and one of the most innovative social thinkers of his

to which my mother was devoted (Defries, 1928).

His formal education began at Perth Academy; he went on to study biology and evolutionary theory at the Royal College of Mines under the biologist Thomas Henry Huxley (1825-1895), and to the Sorbonne, Paris, where he studied with French biologist, anatomist and zoologist, Félix Joseph Henri de Lacaze-Duthiers (1821-1901) at his marine station at Roscoff in Brittany. In France, he was exposed to the work of French social theorists Frédéric Le Play (1806-1882) and Auguste Comte (1798-1857), who championed the interconnectedness of the city and its region; Le Play’s concept of ‘Lieu, Travail, Famille’ (‘Place, Work, Family’) was to be a profound inspiration. In 1879, Geddes spent a year in Mexico collecting specimens, returning in 1880 to teach biology at the University of Edinburgh. Thereafter, he held the Chair of Botany at the University of Dundee, and in 1919 was appointed the inaugural Chair of Sociology and Civics at the University of Bombay, India. During his lifetime he contributed civic surveys and town planning reports to Edinburgh, Dublin, Tel Aviv, and over thirty cities in India. He remained in India until 1924, before removing to Montpellier,

time— Professor Sir Patrick Geddes (18541932).

Patrick Geddes was born in Ballater, Aberdeenshire, on 2 October 1854. He spent his formative years at Mount Tabor, a cottage on the side of Kinnoull Hill overlooking Perth.

There, in its hillside cottage garden, Geddes received practical instruction from his father on the art and value of gardening. He later wrote: I can see my main good fortune lay before school days in a home modest enough in ordinary ways, but with a large garden; —ample fruit-buses, apples and great old wild cherry trees; with vegetables mainly cared for by my father, and a fair variety of flowers,

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vi: In Focus France. There he died, aged seventy-seven, having received a knighthood just months earlier. Over the course of his life, Geddes gained a reputation as a true polymath and inter-disciplinarian, with interests encompassing sociology, geography, ecology, education theory, cultural activism and urban planning. The expanse of his interests, however, remained rooted in biology. Geddes was convinced that the development of human communities was fundamentally biological in nature, consisting of interactions among people, their environment and their activities. Throughout his career, gardens remained a constant thread.

It was in Edinburgh in the 1880s and 1890s that Geddes began to develop, refine and put into practice his ideas of urban conservation and renewal, using his own concept of ‘place, work, folk’ as the organising principle. In 1884, he established the Environment Society (later the Edinburgh Social Union) to encourage local residents to survey, plan and improve their environment, and— in an effort to better understand the problems of the community— he moved two years later into Edinburgh’s dilapidated and socially deprived Old Town 28

with his new and pregnant wife, Anna Morton (1857-1917).

He and Anna began implementing his approach by cleaning up and improving their own building, and encouraging their neighbours to do the same.

By 1892, he had purchased and refurbished the Outlook Tower at the head of Edinburgh’s Royal Mile, a six-storey social laboratory and museum of civics in which he forged and disseminated many of his ideas. The fundamental purpose of Geddes’ Outlook Tower was to undertake the Survey of Edinburgh and its region, a comprehensive record of its geology, geography, climate, economic life and social institutions; it also served a deeply educational function, teaching its visitors to adopt a holistic approach to learning about their environment and visualising the many strands of interconnectedness between the city and its region. Unlike the typical approach to urban regeneration of the time— which was to demolish derelict buildings and build broad sweeping streets which ultimately displaced the existing community — Geddes believed that civic regeneration ought to be informed by a comprehensive sociological understanding of the city, its region and their inter-relationship; his approach engaged with local residents, advocating for the renovation of historic buildings, the demolition of only those parts that would facilitate improvements in the living conditions and well-being of the community, and the injection of green spaces into the densely crowded city.

To this end, Geddes commissioned the The Outlook Tower Open Spaces Committee to survey every open space in the slums of Edinburgh’s Old Town. They measured no less than seventy-six areas, totalling ten acres.

Understanding that Edinburgh’s private gardens, city parks and surrounding countryside were often not within the reach of the Old Town working class and poor, Geddes recommended that garden quadrangles replace the wasted courts and drying greens, so that family members, young and old, could engage together in happy garden activities.

This configuration of small proximal green spaces would be far more accessible to Old

vi: In Focus Town residents, and useful in the daily passage of childhood and family life (Geddes, 1915). By 1911, over ten of the plots had been reclaimed and transformed into gardens and made accessible to local residents, particularly women and children (Geddes, 1915).

Transforming these gap sites into gardens fed into one of the key components of Geddes’ approach, which he called ‘conservative surgery’— carefully and gently transforming an overpopulated slum area into a nourishing space for its residents.

The establishment of pockets of garden was intended to support public health and the well-being of the Old Town residents; but this was not Geddes’ sole aim. He believed that gardens were multi-purpose. His aim was to entirely shift the received wisdom from thinking of the city as being separate from countryside, to seeing the two as intricately interwoven— with green corridors leading from urban squares, marketplaces and allotments to tree-lined boulevards and out to the forests beyond. He perceived gardens as linking to networks of other gardens, from small to semi-public ones and thence to parks and boulevards (MacDonald, 2020). He also

saw gardens as tools for social change and engendering active citizenship, enabling community cohesion, local food production, and as a stimulus to environmental stewardship: The culture of our cities is founded on our dependence on plants. Thus parks and gardens are not a kind of decorative element in an urban plan, they are links within the city to the wider ecology of the planet, our route of return to nature…to understand our human condition – itself a part of nature. (Geddes, 1904) In 1903, Geddes was commissioned by the Carnegie Dunfermline Trust to report on a plan for Pittencrieff Park. The resulting 238page report, City Development: A study of Parks, Gardens and Culture Institutes, was published in 1904 and, although never implemented, it is considered to be one of Geddes’ most influential early urban planning works. In it, Geddes includes detailed plans for no fewer than seven different gardens: a rock garden; a wild garden; an old mansion garden; a botanic garden; a school garden; a

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bee garden; and the Queen’s garden, which would give way to a bog garden and bog shrubbery. He talks of crop rotation, of raising and lowering of various walls to optimise growing conditions; he discusses the aspect and soil conditions, the position of grass walks and flower borders. His plan includes measures for the gardener to become a teaching horticulturalist and, through this role, a natural leader in the regional horticultural societies and increasingly connected with local schools. Gardens were intrinsically linked to Geddes’ educational philosophy, which was, like his approach to urban planning, entirely holistic and interdisciplinary in nature.

In what has been described as a ‘whole-body’ approach to learning, Geddes’ ‘heart, hand, head’ educational philosophy was a move away from the three R’s of ‘reading, ‘riting and ‘rithmetic’ that dominated the schooling of the day (McFadyen, 2015). Geddes believed that learning should engage the emotions and include physical activity, and that intellectual learning would naturally follow (Defries, 1928); drawing on his own early experiences of Mount Tabor’s cottage garden, he advocated 30

for the school garden movement, arguing that they should be central to education and not a small peripheral aspect (Geddes, 1904).

Geddes championed access to nature and natural conditions as essential to mental and physical health, and brought public beauty to areas of former squalor. Just fifty metres from Edinburgh Castle’s Esplanade, we can, in 2022, still find evidence of the legacy of Patrick Geddes’ efforts to renew and green Edinburgh’s Old Town. Just to the south of Johnston Terrace, wedged between the terrace and the Patrick Geddes steps in the East Garden, we can find 0.07 hectares of wildlife reserve. Johnston Terrace Gardens was one of the gap sites reclaimed by Geddes and the local community, and it is today the smallest of one hundred and twenty-three wildlife reserves managed by the Scottish Wildlife Trust. Nearby, on a steep terraced slope between the West Port and Edinburgh College of Art, is the green oasis of the West Port Garden; it was opened in 1910 as an initiative of Patrick Geddes, and is now maintained by the Grassmarket Residents’

vi: In Focus Association in partnership with the City of Edinburgh Council. In an era of increasing urbanisation and climate catastrophe, we need these local pockets of greenery more than ever. Lest we forget: This is a green world, with animals comparatively few and small, and all dependent on the leaves. By leaves we live. Some people have strange ideas that they live by money. They think energy is generated by the circulation of coins. Whereas the world is mainly a vast leaf colony, growing on and forming a leafy soil, not a mere mineral mass: and we live not by the jingling of our coins, but by the fullness of our harvests (Geddes, 1919; in Defries, 1928).

Geddes’ ideas took root a century ago; now is the time for them to bear fruit.

Images Patrick Geddes, courtesy of the University of Edinburgh and the Geddes Family (Ref: Coll1869/1/14) Geddes with a group of children in front of the Outlook Tower, courtesy of the University of Edinburgh (Ref: Coll-1167/B/23/12) Survey of Open Spaces in the Old Town, courtesy of the University of Edinburgh (Ref: Coll-1167/B/24/1) King’s Wall Garden, Johnstone Terrace, courtesy of the University of Edinburgh (Ref: Coll-1167/B/27/10/9) Outlook Tower Garden from above, courtesy of the University of Edinburgh (Ref: Coll1167/B/27/1/12) All images from the Patrick Geddes Collection at the University of Edinburgh, reproduced with permission

References Buck, D. (2016) Gardens and health: implications for policy and practice. King’s Fund: London Defries, A. (1928) The Interpreter Geddes: The Man and his Gospel. Boni & Liverlight: New York City Geddes, P. (1904) City Development: A study of Parks, Gardens and Culture Institutes: A Report to the Carnegie Dunfermline Trust.

Geddes and Company: Edinburgh Geddes, P. (1915) Cities in Evolution. Williams & Norgate: London MacDonald, M. (2020) Patrick Geddes’s Intellectual Origins. Edinburgh University Press: Edinburgh McFadyen, M. (2015) ‘The Cultural-Ecological Imagination of Patrick Geddes (1854-1932)’ Lecture given talk given at the second Celtic Summer School, The Scottish Storytelling Centre, Edinburgh.

Available at mairimcfadyen.scot/blog/2015 [Accessed 14/01/2022]

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vi: Sage Advice

Confessions of a galanthophile Callum Halstead Galanthophilia is a condition for which there is no known cure. While it is not clinically recognised, I am of the firm opinion that it not only exists, but can strike any horticulturallyminded person without warning. From personal experience, it can even affect those who had previously been of the opinion that they weren’t at all interested in Snowdrops (Galanthus spp.).

Aside from the obvious tell-tale sign of a rapid expansion in one’s Snowdrop collection, other symptoms of galanthophilia include, but are not limited to, the following. Bookmarking the web address of every single Snowdrop specialist in the country (and in severe cases, international suppliers too). Spending a disproportionate amount of time browsing said websites. A gradual increase in the amount of money that you are willing to part with for a single Snowdrop bulb. The sudden urge to buy rare and expensive books about Snowdrops. Feeling the need to create a dedicated database in order to catalogue your rapidly expanding collection. Funny looks and probing questions from your friends and relatives who don’t understand your newfound obsession.

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For years, I didn’t really get it. I had studied the differences between the various common species as a horticultural student and yes, they were all very nice. Still, if you’d asked me if I would ever consider starting a collection, my answer would have probably been something along the lines of “Why? They’re all near enough the same, aren’t they?” Broadly speaking, Snowdrops are indeed all quite similar. A single bulb will give rise to a pair of strappy green or blue-green leaves. Between these, one or, very occasionally, two flower stems called ‘scapes’ will emerge between late winter and mid-spring, giving rise to a single pendulous flower with three pure white outer petals and three smaller inner petals, each tipped with green. I appreciate that this level of detail is enough for some, and I quite understand those who are perfectly content to simply enjoy a breath-taking view of a woodland awash with a sea of Snowdrops for the beautiful sight that it is. So what is it that galanthophiles find so beguiling? What is there to become so obsessed by?

The source of fascination lies in the small variations that reveal themselves as you look a little closer. In nature, Snowdrops of the same species do vary slightly from one another, just like any other living thing. Most of the time

vi: Sage Advice these variations are negligible, but very occasionally the difference between parent plants and their offspring will be a bit more pronounced. If found, then these distinctive plants can be dug up and grown on as new cultivars. These days, modern cultivars are bred and selected to have specific attributes; however, a lot of the older cultivars (many of which are still in cultivation) occurred naturally, without the influence of humankind. These were only saved and nurtured after being discovered by chance in woodlands or overgrown gardens by keen-eyed gardeners.

It was this search for rare anomalies and an appreciation of their subtle (or sometimes not so subtle) differences, often combined with a tendency to collect, that gave rise to the galanthophile.

What finally got me hooked on these little white flowers was an invitation to visit nurserywoman Beryl McNaughton’s home garden, where I was treated to a tour of her Snowdrop collection. Beryl had spent many years growing a range of different varieties, assessing their varying characteristics and suitability for growing in eastern Scotland, then offering the best performing varieties for sale in her nursery, Macplants. The majority of the varieties that took pride of place were classic older cultivars, many of which were introduced in and around the first half of the twentieth century. Highlights included the large flowered and beautifully scented Galanthus ‘Bill Bishop’, the tall and impressive G. ‘Sentinel’, as well as many of the Greatorex Doubles: a group of fine double-flowered Snowdrops bred by Heyrick Greatorex in the 1940s and named after Shakespearean characters. (G. ‘Desdemona’, G. ‘Hippolyta’ and G. ‘Ophelia’, etc.). These are all plants that have stood the test of time and remain some of the best in terms of reliability, vigour and elegance.

Well-established clumps graced every bed and border surrounding Beryl’s house. At the bottom of the garden, the lawn— itself peppered with drifts of native Snowdrops (Galanthus nivalis) —merged with the wooded banks of the river below, where a carpet of

gently nodding white flowers stretched off in each direction as far as the eye could see. It was quite wonderful to see all of the different cultivars growing so happily across the garden; however, what really captivated me was a display of potted Snowdrops in the greenhouse. Having dozens of varieties laid out on a table, growing in close proximity to one another, made it easy to appreciate their diversity of form. Virescent Snowdrops, with unusual green markings on their outer petals, grew adjacent to frilly doubles, which in turn sat next to beautiful lantern-like poculiform varieties with flowers containing six large outer petals and no inner segments. What was striking was just how perfectly formed each of the varieties were, each resembling a tiny masterpiece of art nouveau sculpture. I could have spent hours in that greenhouse.

That very day, I ordered my first Snowdrop bulbs online. After this, the transition of my interest in Snowdrops from curiosity to obsession was relatively swift. My garden at the time wasn’t very big and so Snowdrops, being very small, made perfect sense— although, once I had exceeded fifty varieties, I had to admit that I was running out of convenient spaces between other plants. As I knew that I would probably move house in the not too distant future, I grew each variety in a separate aquatic pot, which I then sunk into the flower beds around the garden; it was very straightforward to gather the collection back together, ready-potted to take away with me.

Even if you’re not planning on moving, this is a good method of keeping tabs on your Snowdrops, making it very easy to find and lift dormant bulbs, as and when you want to divide the clump or swap some bulbs with a friend.

There are literally thousands of cultivars to choose from, which can be bamboozling for anyone new to Snowdrops. A few minutes spent browsing a specialist nursery’s website can also be quite eye-opening if you’re unfamiliar with Snowdrop pricing. While the more expensive bulbs are no doubt lovely, I think it’s best to start cheaply, selecting a few classic varieties to get you used to growing 33

vi: Sage Advice Snowdrops before you start splashing the cash. Just because a variety is inexpensive, does not mean it is unworthy of a place in a collection. Galanthus ‘S. Arnott’ for example, a highly-regarded old cultivar that frequently features in garden designers’ lists of favourite Snowdrops, will set you back no more than a few pounds. Once you have tested the water with a few lower priced varieties and reassured yourself that they’re happy growing in your garden, you can progress to some more choice varieties.

One of the latest trends in the world of Snowdrops is plants that have yellow markings on their flowers, rather than the usual green.

These markings are often accompanied by a yellow ovary held above the flower and sometimes a yellow flower stem too. To some purists, the idea of a yellow Snowdrop seems sacrilegious and I have to say that some new ‘yellows’ look rather more sickly and anaemic than beautiful and elegant. There are, however, some stunning examples.

Particularly sought after are the exquisite ‘Dryad Gold’ series of Snowdrops, bred by Anne Wright at Dryad Nursery, as well as Joe Sharman’s famous Galanthus ‘Golden Fleece’— which sold for an eye-watering £1,390 a few years ago. These days it still commands a high price, selling for around £200 per bulb. For anyone keen to add a yellow Snowdrop to their fledgling collection, but not quite as keen on parting with so much money, I would recommend either Galanthus ‘Spindlestone Surprise’ or G. ‘Wendy’s Gold’; the latter is actually one of the parents of G. ‘Golden Fleece’. Both should be available at the much more reasonable price of £15-£20 per bulb, so no need to re-mortgage the house.

When one thinks of Snowdrops, one thinks of early spring; however, it’s quite possible to have flowering Snowdrops in the garden from mid-autumn to late spring if you select the right plants. Below I’ve listed five varieties to extend the Snowdrop season, providing an almost continuous display through the colder months. These suggestions are arranged in their likely order of appearance, and I’ve 34

selected varieties that are clearly distinct from one another, offering variety and interest while also helping you to tell them apart until you get your eye in.  Galanthus elwesii ‘Barnes’— a large and handsome variety, usually appearing from late November into the lead up to Christmas.  Galanthus ‘Faringdon Double’— usually the first double Snowdrop to flower, appearing around Christmas time.  Galanthus ‘Merlin’— a vigorous cultivar that appears in early spring.

The inner segments of its flowers are almost completely green, contrasting wonderfully with its pure white outer petals.  Galanthus ‘Trumps’— one of the finest examples of an ‘inverse poculiform’ Snowdrop, so please don’t let the name put you off. The petals of this tall cultivar are each marked with green and flare outwards, rather than curving inwards.  Galanthus ‘Hill Poë’— possibly the most ‘double’ Snowdrop there is, with five outer petals and its centre brimming with extra segments.

vi: Sage Advice Snowdrops are best grown in a moisture retentive, but free draining soil. This sounds like a contradiction in terms, but it’s important to understand for growing all sorts of plants.

The moisture retentive part means that the soil does not dry out too quickly and that its structure allows it to hold onto sufficient moisture for plants to access over a long period. The free draining element simply means that the soil does not allow water to pool and sit for days on end. Imagine a sponge dipped into water and then left on a draining board. The excess moisture will drain out of the sponge, but if you then squeeze it, you will see that it has retained some water in its structure. This is what we are looking for in a good garden topsoil. Adding in organic matter such as well-rotted garden compost can help with moisture retention, while digging in grit can help to improve drainage.

Different cultivars will vary slightly in their needs and growing requirements; however, most are robust and tolerant enough of a range of conditions, leaving a wide margin for error. If you’re unsure, any good supplier will be able to offer specific advice on the plants that they have for sale. The main thing to ensure, regardless of the variety that you are growing, is that they are placed somewhere where they won’t dry out completely. In the wild they thrive in broadleaf woodland, so in the garden they are usually best placed under and around deciduous trees, where they are likely to receive a good amount of light in the early season before the tree canopy fills in.

They will likely not perform so well beneath conifers or in any area where they receive little light.

weeds from taking hold. I usually use a centimetre thick layer of potting grit, but Sphagnum Moss (Sphagnum sp.) also works well and looks particularly beautiful with Snowdrops in old terracotta pots.

As you may have guessed, there is very little hope for me now. Having found myself (not entirely by accident) working at Cambo Gardens, home to one of the UK’s national collections of Snowdrops, I am surely set to descend further into my own personal galanthomania, beyond all hope of recovery.

If growing in pots, the key once again is to strike a balance between moisture retention and good drainage. A simple 50:50 mix of John Innes No.2 and potting grit is a good place to start. If you can get hold of it, you can swap some of the John Innes out for an equal amount of well-rotted leaf mould; to save on weight, you can also use perlite inv place of grit. Pots often look better when they’ve been top-dressed to hide the bare soil; as well as looking more attractive, this helps to conserve moisture in the pot while also preventing 35

Kate Tarling Tondern Island, Canada

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vii: vii:The TheFood Foodon onYour YourTable Table

Feeling the food system Joanne Fullerton For several reasons, increasing attention around food security, food justice, food sovereignty and food democracy has placed our food system under a very bright spotlight.

More and more people are now thinking about the social and ecological impact of the modern-day food system. Across the world, individuals, families, communities, and organisations are using food to bring about positive change, with the aim of building a food system that promotes health, compassion, and ecological harmony.

Humanity’s food system is the complex web of relations that take place in order for humans to acquire and consume edible material. So, whether it be a CEO of an international seed company making investment choices, a dog owner choosing between brands of dog food, or a charity setting up food banks in a food desert, the effects of these decisions are felt far beyond the places in which they are made.

Our food system is actually a system of systems. It encompasses ecosystems, social systems and financing systems. This food system is embedded in Earth, which in turn is embedded in the Solar system.

Understanding it in this way— using a systems thinking approach — helps us stay mindful of the interdependent nature of our world, instead of seeing the world as if it is made up of independent parts. We can begin to see ourselves as nature; recognising our body, community and social systems in the wider context of existence. We are the natural world.

As Senge (2014) puts it, "most native communities have no word for nature. You do not need a word for something that is you”.

Appreciation for the interconnectedness of everything can help us to ask interesting questions. For instance, what are the relationships that occur at the interface of the food system and the human nervous system?

The human nervous system is also a system of systems that exists within our body and therefore in our food system. We experience food through smell, touch, vision, and of

course, taste, but our nervous systems also play a central role in our emotional relationships with food— whether it be the feeling of comfort from cultural or familial foods, utter disgust at an unfamiliar food, or food that we have associated with an unpleasant experience (just recall those school dinners).

Of course, without food, the growth and maintenance of nervous systems would not be possible. Food helps build the nervous system that allow us to experience food. It’s a virtuous circle. However, the food we eat doesn't simply build our neurons; the food we eat is a big determinant of the structure of our microbiome, which consists of an array of microbes, including bacteria, fungi, and viruses. This microbiome interacts with our nervous system, which is why many researchers are now investigating the microbiota–gut–brain axis. According to Montiel-Castro et al (2013:1): microbiota, specifically within the gut, can greatly influence many physiological parameters, including cognitive functions, such as learning, memory and decision-making processes.

According to Zheng et al. (2020) depression may be caused by the negative effect that ultra-processed food has on the gut microbiome. So, whilst our food systems would ideally support health, what we are witnessing at the interface of our food system and our nervous system is mental illness that is potentially caused by the poor quality of food that is supplied to the majority of people.

Crawford (2013), getting to the heart of this issue, writes: The rise in mental ill-health and for that matter the [non-communicable diseases], cannot be explained by a change in genes in less than a century.

The likely cause is the failure of the food production system to accommodate any remote context of the requirements for brain growth and 37

vii: The Food on Your Table development. It is politically correct to blame it all on lifestyle and behaviour, and that has to have a measure of blame; however, you cannot maintain healthy arteries, immune systems and brains without supplying your biology with the material required for growth and maintenance. It is as simple as that.

However, one does not have to eat to feel the food system. Consider the farmers whose own neural signalling has been inhibited by organophosphorus pesticides. With just moderate exposure, they can suffer muscle tremors and severe vomiting (Kaushal, J. et al.

2021). There are also communities suffering from poor emotional health and poor neurological development as a consequence simply of living near factory farm pollution (The Factory Farming Awareness Coalition, 2021).

The food system determines the quality of our lives. These system effects can be harnessed for good, to bring security, justice, democracy, and sovereignty, yet our place on Earth has become dominated by technologies that undermine the complexity of the ecosystems on which we rely. To successfully move beyond this extractive, industrial food system, we need to see and accept how we are embedded in it, and how it is embedded in Earth. While this human food system is felt by human bodies, it is also felt by plants, animals, fungi, water, and land. When we take action to build a food system that respects the interconnectedness of life, we are building a better world.

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References Crawford, M.A. (2013) ‘Non-communicable diseases, mental ill-health: Is it a failure of the food system?’, in Nutrition and Health, 22(34):171-179 Kaushal, J., Khatri, M. and Arya, S.K., 2021. A treatise on Organophosphate pesticide pollution: Current strategies and advancements in their environmental degradation and elimination. Ecotoxicology and Environmental Safety, 207, p.11148 Montiel-Castro, A.J.; González-Cervantes, R.M.; Bravo-Ruiseco, G. and Pacheco-López, G. (2013) ‘The microbiota-gut-brain axis: neurobehavioral correlates, health and sociality’, in Frontiers in Integrative Neuroscience, (7):70 Senge, P. (2014): Peter Senge: "Systems Thinking for a Better World" - Aalto Systems Forum 2014 Zheng, L.; Sun, J.; Yu, X. and Zhang, D. (2020) ‘Ultra-processed food is positively associated with depressive symptoms among United States adults’, in Frontiers in Nutrition (7):302 The Factory Farming Awareness Coalition (2021): https://ffacoalition.org/mental-healthimpacts-of-living-near-a-factory-farm/

vii: The Chemistry Column

Sensing sunlight Claire Gormley I am dreaming of warmer, sunnier days; reading in the park, the sun and a soft breeze on my shoulders, the sounds of children playing, the texture of grass on my toes, the smell of barbeques. Our incredible nervous system allows us to experience the world in so many different ways, and to recall these detailed sensations years or even decades later.

Our nervous system is made up of two parts: the central nervous system and the peripheral nervous system. The central nervous system consists of our brain and spinal cord— the two most important structures for controlling our bodily functions, and retaining our memories and consciousness. The peripheral nervous system consists of receptors— sensory neurons, intermediate neurons and motor neurons —which together enable us to detect and respond to stimuli; a hot plate, a bright light, or a bird’s song. This is the part of our nervous system that actually allows us to experience and engage with our surroundings.

While many other organisms have a nervous system, none are believed to be quite like ours (although it is currently being debated if some molluscs have consciousness as we know it). But what is clear from studying the nervous systems of other organisms is that

sensing the world around us is critical for survival. So how do organisms that don’t have a nervous system— like plants —experience and engage with their surroundings? One sure answer is heliotropism.

Heliotropism is the movement of a plant with the sun during the day (Vanderbrink et al, 2014). It is also referred to as ‘solar tracking’ and is performed by numerous plants— most notably Sunflowers (Helianthus annuus) —in order to maximise photosynthesis, and thereby plant growth (Sherry and Galen, 2002; Vanderbrink et al., 2014). In contrast, phototropism— the better-understood phenomenon —is when a plant grows towards a fixed light, resulting in the sustained curvature of a plant. Think of the oddly shaped branches of young trees searching for light under a crowded canopy of mature trees.

Technically, heliotropism and phototropism are the processes of plants responding to their surroundings, but I think the dynamic and continual movement of heliotropic plants draws a stronger parallel to how our peripheral nervous system engages with its surroundings. Feel free to make up your own mind…

The mechanism that causes a plant to track the sun can be either turgor-mediated or growth-mediated (Vanderbrink et al, 2014).

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vii: The Chemistry Column Turgor can be defined as the resulting pressure found in plant cells due to the absorption of water. It is key to maintaining plant rigidity. To create leaf movement, specialised organs in leaves— called pulvini —change their turgor pressure (Koller, 2001; Taya, 2003). Pulvini are located at the base of the leaf stalk and act a little like our shoulder joints would, if our bodies were stems and our arms were leaves. They consist of two types of motor cells; flexor cells which are located on the bottom, and extensor cells which are found at the top. These cells undergo visible swelling and shrinking, which corresponds to the lifting and drooping of the leaf (Taya, 2003). Most importantly, pulvini have photoreceptors which allow them to sense changes in light. Potassium ion (K+) channels in the extensor cells are opened when the cell senses light*. These ions flow into the cell, causing the increase in turgor pressure which lifts the leaf (Taya, 2003). In darkness, the K+ channels in the extensor cells close, but open in the flexor cells— causing turgor pressure to drop, cells to shrink, and the leaf to droop (Taya, 2003).

However, many solar tracking plant structures, such as stems and flowers, do not have pulvini— so how do they do it and why is it different? Growth-mediated heliotropism has not been studied as extensively as turgormediated heliotropism. I couldn’t find all the answers, and there are a few different ideas about what may be happening, but what is clear is that growth-mediated heliotropism results in irreversible cell expansion (Vanderbrink et al., 2014). Auxins— which are a large class of hormones associated with plant growth —are thought to be involved.

The Cholodny-Went hypothesis proposed that auxins were responsible for the bending of plants towards light by moving laterally from illuminated areas to shaded areas of the plant (Vanderbrink et al., 2014). These results, however, could not be replicated in repeated studies. More recent studies have shown an increase in auxin inhibitors in the cells on the illuminated side of the plant, disproportionately inhibiting cell growth and causing the stem to bend towards the light 40

(Bruinsma and Hasegawa, 1990). As the sun moves from east to west, subtle changes in illumination create changes in growth patterns and thereby the overall heliotropic effect.

What this idea doesn’t necessarily explain, though, is how a Sunflower (and some other heliotropic plants) re-orients itself after dark to be facing east again for the morning sun. An intrinsic circadian clock has been suggested, but heliotropism may be governed by numerous mechanisms working together (Vanderbrink et al., 2014).

And tracking the sun is not the only way plants engage with their surroundings. Dionaea muscipula (Venus Flytrap) fold their leaves in response to touch in order to catch prey.

Mimosa pudica (Sensitive Plant) behaves similarly. So, plants may not have a nervous system as we know it, yet we know that they thrive, react, and respond in so many different ways. Perhaps they do have their own kind of consciousness?

References Bruinsma, J. and Hasegawa, K. (1990) ‘A new theory of phototropism – its regulation by a light-induced gradient of auxin-inhibiting substances’, in Physiologia Plantarum: 79(4); 700-704 Koller, D. (2001) ‘Solar navigation by plants’, in: D.-P. Häder, M. Lebert (eds.), Photomovement. Elsevier: Amsterdam; pp. 833-896 Sherry, R. A. and Galen, C. (2002) ‘The mechanism of floral heliotropism in the snow buttercup, Ranunculus adoneus’, in Plant, Cell & Environment: 21(10); 983-993.

Taya, M. (2003) 'Bio-inspired design of intelligent materials’. Proc. SPIE 5051, Smart Structures and Materials 2003: Electroactive Polymer Actuators and Devices (EAPAD).

Vanderbrink, J. P.; Brown, E. A.; Harmer, S. L. and Blackman, B. K. (2014) ‘Turning heads: The biology of solar tracking in sunflower’, in Plant Science: 224; 20-26 *See my article in the December 2021 issue for more on how ion channels work

Kate Tarley Close detail, Cornish coastline

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viii: Foraging through Folklore

Proverbs, prosperity and porridge Ella Leith Is thy pot empty, Colin? Do goats eat ivy?

Mares eat oats? Is thy cock like ours? (in Doyle, 2008)

Appearing in a fifteenth-century manuscript, this couplet may be the oldest recorded example of what Doyle (1977) terms ‘sarcastic interrogative proverbs’— that is, rhetorical state-the-obvious questions, the medieval equivalent of ‘is the Pope Catholic?’ As Doyle (2008:5) explains, ‘ask a stupid question, and you'll get...a stupid question’; one that reiterates ‘the obvious and the changeless...in a deceptive and mutable world’ (Doyle 1977:80). That mares eat Oats was obvious and changeless, and Oats themselves have been a reassuringly mundane crop for centuries. Hardy enough to grow in areas inhospitable to other cereals, Oats were used as fodder and bedding for livestock, as thatch, and in dishes like stews, haggis, oatcakes and porridge. Their everydayness is their defining feature; in folklore, they tend to evoke a humble but secure domesticity— and one that should not be taken for granted. In The Three Bears, the bears’ comfortable home is illustrated with steaming bowls of porridge— and then disrupted by Goldilocks. In The Magic Porridge Pot, hunger and poverty are alleviated by warm, sweet porridge on command, but greed and carelessness cause the town to be flooded with it, proving that it is possible to have too much of a good thing.

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If Oats illustrate domestic life, then no surprise that they appear in folklore designed to maintain its equilibrium. Shetlander Brucie Henderson (1891-1977) recounted in a 1955 interview that a cure for children who had fallen into the fire (a common household accident) was for a local healer to make a cross using a piece of straw from the three main crops— Barley (Hordeum vulgare), Oats (Avena sativa) and Shetland Oats (Avena strigosa) —and touch it three times under the cradle where the child lay and three times at the head of the cradle. Going to the fire, he would recite: From the fire he leap't Inta da cradle he crept Ta heal da bairn brunt I’ Guid's name.

He would then touch the child’s sores with the straw, which ‘was supposed to cause greet cure’. Oats were also incorporated into luckbringing rituals: on the twelfth day of Christmas, many Irish households would ‘set up a sieve of oats as high as they can and in it a dozen candles. In the centre is a larger one, all lighted, so as to have luck all the year’ (Daniels and Stevans, 1903:1524).

Additionally, it is with Oats— specifically, porridge —that one should pay the

viii: Foraging through Folklore supernatural beings that help with house- and farm-work (Daniels and Stevans, 1903:1400).

These include the Scandinavian nis or tomte, a ‘small but powerful subterranean creature’ who helps with manual labour (Hughes, 2018), and, in Scotland, the hairy household Brownie. Even fairies made house visits in return for porridge. Unlike other human-fairy interactions, these visits were benign and lucky, so it was important to make the porridge to the fairy’s taste by avoiding salt, which repels magic. In a 1982 interview, Scottish Traveller Maggie Stewart (1903-1983) tells of a woman on a dairy farm who had a regular visitor: Now, a wee fairy come to the woman’s hoose, comin for the milk, aye? An the woman aye gave it parritch an milk. But nae salt in it.

Then wan day she was in a hurry and she’d parritch for the menfolk, an the woman gave it a platie o parritch but it wor the parritch she’d made for the men. An there was salt in it. She never seed it efter that. It gaed awa.

Carelessness is bad enough; disrespect is worse. In a Norwegian tale, a girl is tasked with giving the farm’s nis a bowl of rich cream porridge, but: She thought that it would be a shame to waste such good food on the nis, so she ate it up herself, and drank the fat, too; and went out to the barn with porridge oats and soured milk in a pig trough. ‘There’s your trough, ugly!’ she said. (Asbjørnsen, 1843:11-12) The insulted nis forces her to dance a halling with him— a fast-paced and acrobatic Norwegian folkdance —while singing: Oh, you have eaten the porridge for the tomte, have you?

Oh, then you shall dance with the tomte, you shall.

The dance lasted all night, and in the morning ‘she was more dead than alive’ (ibid).

As Oats were a staple crop, there are many rituals and superstitions connected with cultivating them. Oats should be sown early in the season, and in some places on prescribed days. In Ceredigion, Wales, the cut-off date

was Caron Fair on 15th March (WilliamsDavies, 1983:229); in the colder uplands, Oats could be sown later, on ‘the three days of the blackbird, and the two eyes of April’— that is, the last three days of March and the first two of April Old Style, or 10–15th April in the Gregorian calendar (ibid). Across the British Isles, tradition held that Oats sown after the first call of the cuckoo had been sown too late and would be no good; these were called Cuckoo or Gowk Oats. The proverb— Cuckoo Oats and Woodcock Hay Make a farmer run away —refers to the belief that, if laziness or bad weather caused Oats to be sown late in the season and harvested late in the autumn, ‘the farmer is sure to suffer great loss’ (Hardy, 1879:57-8). Other customs defend against the catastrophe of a bad harvest: in a 1960 interview, Ertie Irvine (1905-1995) described an old man from Yell, Shetland, who ‘used to put a hen’s egg in his kishie [basket] out of which he was sowing his Oats’.

At night he would very carefully hang the kishie up and preserve the egg, the idea being, if he broke the egg, he would get a poor crop. As long as the egg was kept safe and whole, then he would be sure of a good crop of Oats.

A Hebridean ritual associated with this time of year is recorded by Martin (1716). On the second of February— Imbolc or St Bride’s Day, the first day of Spring in the Celtic calendar —women in Islay would take a sheaf of Oats from the store and: dress it up in women's apparel, put it in a large basket, and lay a wooden club by it, and this they call Briid'sbed; and then the mistress and servants cry three times, Briid is come, Briid is welcome. ... When they rise in the morning they look among the ashes, expecting to see the impression of Briid's club there; which, if they do, they reckon it a true presage of a good crop and prosperous year, and the contrary they take as an ill omen. (p. 119) Indeed, come harvest time, Oat sheafs could be lucky or magical objects— specifically, the 43

viii: Foraging through Folklore last (and sometimes the first) sheaf reaped.

This would be fashioned into what is often called a Corn Dolly, Corn being the generic name for any cereal grain; local populations would make use of their dominant crop. These bundles, which appear across Europe and have numerous names (Peate, 1971), might be shaped into an intricate braid, an animal (a ‘Corn Mare’ or an ‘Oat Goat’, for example) or, most typically, a woman— whether young (‘Corn Maiden’ or, in Gaelic, ‘An Maighdean’) or old (‘the Hag’, ‘An Cailleach’). Maclagan (1895) describes the Cailleach in Bernera, Lewis: The last sheaf is dressed up and made to look as like an old woman as possible. It has on a white cap (curachd), a dress, a little shawl over the shoulders fastened with a sprig of heather, an apron turned up to form a pocket, which pocket is stuffed with bread and cheese, and a hook (sickle) is stuck in the string of the apron at the back, the idea being that in this attitude and costume she is ready to join in the harvest toil. At the feast which follows, the Cailleach ... is placed at the head of the table, and as the whiskey goes round each of the company drinks to her, saying, “Here's to the one that has helped us with the harvest.” When the table is cleared and dancing commenced, she is taken out by one of the lads present, who dances with her, and should the night favour it the party may go outside and march in a body a considerable distance, singing harvest songs, the old wife ... carried on the back of one of the men. (p150) Afterwards, it would be hung up on a wall until plough-time, at which point it would be divided up between all the ploughmen and taken to either feed to the plough-horses or be ploughed back into the soil to ‘secure luck for the following harvest’ (Ibid:151); elsewhere, it would be kept until the final sheaf of the next harvest was cut (Peate, 1971:178). In other— and, arguably, more individualistic —communities, each farm produced its own Corn dolly, which would be 44

thrown into the field of a neighbour who had not yet finished reaping as ‘an indication of the...farmer's criticism of their tardiness’ (Ibid:179); it was a source of shame to be the last.

Harvesting in plenty of time and with care makes good farming sense; trying to rush it or treating the labour lightly can bring about ill consequences, as described in the 1678 tract ‘The Mowing-Devil, or strange news out of Hertfordshire’ (in Newman, 1945:288). A farmer, getting nowhere in beating down a mower’s asking price for reaping his Oats, ‘swore that the Devil should mow it rather than he’. The Devil took him up on the offer: That very Night the Crop of Oats showed as if it had been all of a Flame, but next Morning appeared so neatly mow'd by the Devil, or some Infernal Spirit, that no Mortal Man was able to do the like.

The Oat sheafs were laid out in a strange, diabolical pattern, ‘as if the Devil had a mind to show his dexterity in the art of Husbandry’: He cut them in round circles and placed every straw with that exactness that it would have taken above an Age for any Man to perform what he did that one night.

The farmer was too afraid to carry away his harvest, and lost the crop entirely (ibid). As in The Magic Porridge Pot, being flippant with the familiar carries a risk. After all, we reap what we sow.

References Asbjørnsen, P.C. (1843) An Old-Fashioned Christmas Eve. Trans. Simon Hughes, 2015.

Available at: norwegianfolktales.blogspot.com/2015/12 [accessed 10/01/21] Daniels, C.L. and Stevans, C.M. (1903 [2003]) Encyclopedia of Superstitions, Vol. 3, The Minerva Group: London Doyle, C.C. (1977) ‘Laboring the obvious: sarcastic interrogative affirmatives and negatives’ in Maledicta 1, 77-82 Doyle, C.C. (2008) ‘Archer Taylor Memorial Lecture 2006: Is the Pope still Catholic?

viii: Foraging through Folklore Historical observations on sarcastic interrogatives’ in Western Folklore 67:1, 5-33 Hardy, J. (1879) ‘Popular history of the cuckoo’ in The Folk-Lore Record, Vol. 2, 47-91 Hughes, S. (2018) ‘Trolls, Hulders and Nisses: the preternatural creatures of Norwegian folklore’ on Folklore Thursday (24 May), folklorethursday.com/folktales/6576/ [accessed 10/01/21] Maclagan, R.C. (1895) ‘Notes on Folklore Objects Collected in Argyleshire’ in Folklore, 6:2, 144-161 Martin, M. (1716) A Description of the Western Islands. A. Bell: London Newman, L.F. (1945) ‘Some notes on the folklore of Cambridgeshire and the Eastern Counties’ in Folklore, 56:3, 287-293 Peate, I.C. (1971) ‘Corn Ornaments’ in Folklore, 82:3, 177-184 Williams-Davies, J. (1983) ‘‘A time to sow and a time to reap’: The Welsh Farmer's Calendar’ in Folklore, 94:2, 229-234 Interviews available from the Tobar an Dualchais / Kist o Riches website, www.tobarandualchais.co.uk: Brucie Henderson: Track 31973 Ertie Irvine: 35396 Maggie Stewart: 57597

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viii: Botanica Fabula

Beltane, bannocks and baking Amanda Edmiston It all started with me sitting on the yellow linoleum floor underneath my gran’s kitchen table, over forty years ago. The Aberdeen granite chill of the patterned floor contrasted with the hot draught of confection-scented heat as she opened the oven door, revealing an autumn-hewed gingerbread, ruby-crusted with glacé Cherries (at my behest) and scenting everything with its soft Cinnamontinged aroma. The brown-and-cream mason bowl beside me was licked clean, every last trace of creamy batter devoured. With the cake still too hot to be cut, I vividly remember picking the crusted remains of ancient, splattered, buttery sugar from the heavy and yellowed lignin pages of Florence Marian McNeill’s Scots Kitchen, too young to understand the words but wholly appreciative of the cake-infused rituals that it cast into my young life.

I remember being a year or so older, standing up on a kitchen stool, learning how to rub butter into flour— sensing the way it warmed and then melted ever so slightly between my fingers, coming together as a fine crumb. I learnt to make a well into which would be poured deep, brown, molten treacle and sugar, and when to beat in the eggs with a wooden spoon or to fold in Oats with a metal one. I remember watching my gran write notes in the book’s margins about the quantities, calculating weights and measures for events and tea parties I knew nothing of.

When my gran died, her cookery books were what I reached for. My mother is a weaver of 46

stories and, as together we cooked up a steaming pan of Carrot soup and smelled its gingery tones mingle with the scent of freshly baked cheese scones, I learnt from her how my gran had been given the book by her mother-in-law when she had married. I felt that I held a tangible link to my forebears: my great-gran’s book, then my gran’s, and now mine.

It’s fair to say that Florence Marion McNeill has been my near-constant companion, entwining folklore and food deep beneath within me since I first started poring over my grandmother’s self-annotated copy of The Scots Kitchen all those decades ago. As I got older, something of the domestic world glimpsed between its yellowing leaves gave me the sense of a mycelian connection between us, a tactile bond shared on Almondand-Vanilla-scented lignin and baked into a dreaming-bread. She too was a recorder of Scots lore— domestic lore associated with kitchen food. I wanted to know more about this writer, about her personal life. I wanted to understand how an Orkney minister’s daughter achieved so much that is now at risk, fading from our collective memory. So I read what I could gather of her work. She was— albeit quietly —one of twentieth-century Scotland’s greatest female voices: a graduate of the Edinburgh College of Art and the Universities of Glasgow and Paris; an organiser of the Scottish Women’s Suffrage movement at a time that we now recognise as

viii: Botanica Fabula pivotal; a woman who travelled alone to Germany in 1914, Greece in 1918, and who went on to write, in 1929, what is probably the best known collection of Scottish cooking heritage. This she created ‘to capture a moment’, fearing that the unrecorded, personal and local nuances of cooking were at risk of becoming homogenised— a flicker of insight into the future world of mass-produced foodstuffs that she would struggle to recognise.

It's been over three years since I wrote those words examining my relationship with my gran's treasured copy of The Scots Kitchen. I wrote it for 'Feasting, Folklore and Florence', an interactive performance piece for The Scottish International Storytelling Festival, and creating the piece sent me on a fascinating journey beyond my memories of McNeill’s recipes, beyond my discoveries about her life and work, and into the magical world of Oats (Avena sativa) and the iconic place they hold in Scotland's culture. Their calm, restorative, nutritious profile hides an enchanted quality, one with a soothing air of domesticity. The Scots Kitchen contains recipes aplenty for sowens, porridge and whisky-augmented brose, but it's the Oatcakes and bannocks that fascinate me most. There are so many subtle variations, and an Oatcake for every occasion.

One variant, it was claimed, would give the person who ate it prophetic dreams: the heavily salted Bonnach Salainn should be eaten on Halloween with no food or drink taken after ingesting it, nor a single word spoken, in order to let the charm take effect.

McNeill mentions Oatcakes for celebrating St Columba's Day, Teethin’ Bannocks and Cryin’ Bannocks to soothe children, and Mill Bannocks a foot in diameter with a hole in the centre.

But the Oatcake I'd like to share with you today is a Quarter Cake— a Bonnach Bride or St Bride’s Bannock to celebrate the arrival of spring. The Cross-Quarter Days of Imbolc (St Bride’s Day), Beltane, Lammas and Samhain marked the start of each season, and each had a Quarter Cake and ritual associated with it.

MacNeill had found reference to these and detailed information about the ritual

associated with the Bonnach Bealltain or Beltane Bannock, but could not find anyone still baking them in the early twentieth century. The Beltane Bannock was an Oatcake dressed with a caudle of eggs, butter and cream, according to one source; alternatively, it could be divided into nine sections, each with a square protruding knob which was then dedicated to a vital domestic animal or a disruptive wild one, and thrown into the fire to protect or deter accordingly. Alas, we don’t have a ritual or story to go with the Bonnach Bride, but maybe that gives us the opportunity to find our own, to associate it with hopes and wishes for the forthcoming brighter days. A homemade soft Oatcake is the ideal comfort food to eat whilst browsing through gardening notes, re-awakening our seed collections, and planning for spring growth, so maybe you'll join me as we look towards spring and bake a Bonnach Bride!

Florence Marian McNeill’s Bonnach Bride You will need: 4 ounces of Oatmeal A teaspoonful of fat or dripping (plant-based oil works just as well) A pinch of baking soda A pinch of salt Hot water McNeill claims that you will also need four special implements, but I think we can probably manage without! But, if you wish to follow the recipe to the letter, collect: A spurtle for stirring the mixture A notched bannock stick or rolling pin which leaves a criss-cross pattern A spathe; that is, a long-handled heart shaped iron implement for transferring the cakes from board to griddle A banna-rack to cook the bannocks on Mix the ingredients into a firm dough, then knead and bake over a smokeless fire.

References McNeill, F.M. (1929) The Scots Kitchen: Its Traditions and Lore, with Old-time Recipes.

Blackie and Sons: Edinburgh 47

viii: Red Squirrel Press presents...

James McGonigal First things (from The Camphill Wren, 2016)

My Granny made porridge first thing with the same untroubled movements of hand and eye, the same patience that she gave to her night prayers.

It is a holy and wholesome thought to eat porridge and pray for the dead every day of your life, I now think, reaching down a white bowl from its shelf.

James McGonigal has published two collections of poems with Red Squirrel Press, The Camphill Wren in 2016, and In Good Time, in 2020. He has published five earlier poetry collections, from 1990 onwards, and a range of prose works including anthologies, criticism, biography and letters.

He lives, writes and gardens by the Antonine Wall north-east of Glasgow.

Red Squirrel Press is a self-funded independent press based in Scotland. It was founded in April 2006 by Sheila Wakefield and has published over 200 titles to date. www.redsquirrelpress.com

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Facebook: redsquirrelpress

Twitter: @redsquirrelpress

Kate Tarling The Artist painting her Beijing map

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ix: Book Club The CBD Handbook: Using and understanding CBD and medicinal cannabis (Mallion, K.: Aeon Books, 2021) Reviewer: David Hughes Until very recently, those wishing to learn more about CBD, the endocannabinoid system, or simply medicinal cannabis have been forced to navigate a very poorly charted sea of information. Most have accrued their knowledge from a small number of online resources, many of which are copied and pasted from originals that are outdated, selfinterested, or quite simply wrong. This tendency is repeated in the real world, where the general public's knowledge of cannabis’ interactions with the body is practically nonexistent. For those who are in the know, the subject can be so overwhelmingly complex that it can be difficult to convey in simple terms; it requires such fundamental shifts in understanding. What the medicinal cannabis space has been crying out for (particularly in the UK) are credible voices who convey easily navigable, well-researched material that covers the entire subject of interacting with medicinal cannabis from an advisory position.

This book delivers exactly that— and does so concisely, with the best of cheer and intention.

The book is arranged in a manner that serves as an excellent starting point for anyone wishing to make health improvements with medicinal cannabis. The quality and relevance of the information is such that an absolute novice can encounter the very forefront of scientific understanding about cannabis, its history, basic taxonomy and interactions with the body in a couple of readings.

For those who already have an understanding of the subject, it’s an entertaining and enlightening way to fill in those blank spaces in your knowledge base. Speaking personally, I know I will be directing people towards it as a primary resource; the information and nomenclature is bang up to date and presented in a format that can be read front to back or dipped into as required.

Most welcome is a detailed description on the workings and importance of the endocannabinoid system— not only how it functions and its fundamental role in positive health outcomes, but how to begin 50

introducing non-endogenous cannabinoids to the body in a capable and caring manner.

Importantly, the book doesn't shy away from the coalface of cannabis science by limiting the examination solely to Cannabidiol (CBD).

Instead, it lays out a whole-plant medicine approach which comprehensively examines the medicinal benefits and properties of all the major and minor cannabinoids present in cannabis. The chapter focusing on the benefits of terpenes, flavonoids and secondary metabolites will be of particular interest to herbologists, as will the one on herbs that work synergistically with cannabis.

This is the first time I've come across any writing on that particular topic. This allows the reader to begin to draw lines of commonality between the volatile components and fragrances found in cannabis and where and why they appear in other species of flora— a fun and fascinating divertisement.

For the practitioner, the chapters on the clinical use of medicinal cannabis will prove useful. A range of specific conditions are discussed, along with case studies based on the author’s own experiences. Extremely relevant, and of high value to those seeking guidance, such convincingly sourced information is not easily stumbled across online. A cold eye is cast across the lack of regulation of the market. This is important when patients are attempting to access high quality medicines, but it also serves to alert the reader to how much care should be taken when beginning to access or use CBD and medicinal cannabis.

Overall, the more people who can make sense of medicinal cannabis, the better— if it leads to an improvement in the health outcomes of those who are seeking help from these medicines. Superbly referenced and highly credible, this handbook should be the starting point for anyone wishing to build a relationship with CBD and medicinal cannabis.

Actually, it’s THE book.

ix: Book Club The Passionate Grower’s Guide to Herb Gardening (Ross, D.: self-published, 2022) Reviewer: Claire Hattersley In his new pamphlet, Duncan Ross generously shares a lifetime’s experience of working ‘up close and personal’ with herbs. This book is both practical and inspirational and is jampacked with the sort of ‘how to grow’ and ‘how to use’ guidance that only comes with many years of authentic experience.

The plants, of course, take centre stage. Many herbs are important pollinator and food plants for wildlife as well as having culinary or medicinal uses, and it’s Duncan’s wish that this book “will widen the interest in their cultivation so that more can be done to help not only nature but also ourselves and our health.”

The geographical range of herbs featured is extensive, from a chapter on the native herbs of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland to chapters featuring the herbs of Japan and North America. I particularly enjoyed reading about Duncan’s herb hunting trips to the Himalayas— “probably the most spectacular and spiritual mountain range in the world” — and learning of his search for the elusive Jatamansi, a rare medicinal herb.

In his opening chapter, Duncan shows us how, by weaving an awareness of the four elements (earth, water, air, and fire) and the four seasons (spring, summer, autumn, winter) into our herb gardening, we can enrich and expand our connection to nature. This is further explored when Duncan introduces us to biodynamic gardening, sharing his personal insights and experiences throughout the book.

This book is a fabulous resource for anyone who wishes to introduce more herbs into their lives, and they couldn’t be accompanied by a better qualified teacher than Duncan Ross.

Seeking Reviewers Are you reading something you would recommend to others?

We’re always interested in reviews of books to share with fellow herbal folk.

Please simply send us a review, or get in touch: herbologynews@gmail.com 51

Kate Tarling The Artist holding her Beijing map

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xi: Contributors

Hazel Brady’s background is in IT, but she has always loved plants and since retiring has expanded her knowledge, especially around herbs. She completed the Diploma in Herbology at RBGE under Catherine ConwayPayne. Retirement has also given her the opportunity to develop another of her interests— an artistic practice centred in drawing and painting.

Amanda Edmiston was raised in stories; her mother is a professional storyteller, her dad was a toymaker, her grandfather a sculptor, her gran a repository of traditional remedies and folklore.

After studying law, then herbal medicine, Amanda began to blend facts, folklore, traditional tales, history and herbal remedies into unique works.

Based in rural Stirlingshire, you can follow her on Facebook, @HerbalStorytell, and find more of her works at www.botanicafabula.co.uk

Joanne Fullerton is a food activist who believes in taking a participatory approach to redesigning the current food system. She is currently exploring the role of imagination, community, and mycology in promoting ecoliteracy, individual sense of purpose, and health empowerment.

Joanne is an experienced chef, and has an academic background in biology, psychology and food security, and permaculture. She really enjoys taking photos of wild mushrooms, and growing, eating, and looking at edible plants.

Callum Halstead is Senior Gardener at Cambo Gardens. He studied BSc Horticulture with Plantsmanship at the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh and brings this knowledge to bear both professionally and in his own garden, where he also practices as a keen floral photographer.

IG: @callum_halstead

Claire Gormley is a graduate of Moray House School of Education and teaches biology and chemistry in Edinburgh. She earned an undergraduate degree in Biotechnology from James Madison University in 2017, and a MSc in Science Communication and Public Engagement from the University of Edinburgh in 2019. Claire is passionate about building positive relationships between communities and Science through education and engagement.

Claire Hattersley is a former head gardener at Weleda.

David Hughes is an organic gardener, fruit and veg enthusiast, plant nutritionist, terpine whisperer, seed collector, green librarian and half decent in the kitchen. Most often found disturbing the peace in the woods of East Lothian, or more occasionally wandering in unimproved pastures looking quizzically at things, David looks to explore people and their relationships with the plants that surround them by examining the esoteric sides of herbology through conversation, experience and silly wee stories.

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xi: Contributors

Marianne Hughes began following her interest in complementary medicine after a career in Social Work Education and voluntary work in Fair Trade.

Starting with Reflexology & Reiki, she progressed into Herbal Medicine. The evening classes at the RBGE got her hooked and she completed the Certificate in Herbology and, more recently, the Diploma in Herbology. Her current joy is experimenting with herb-growing in her own garden, in a local park, and alongside other volunteers in the RBGE Physic Garden. marianne@commonfuture.co.uk

Ann King has always dabbled in gardening in some shape or form is now a horticultural therapist and graduate of the RBGE Herbology Diploma. She is passionate about facilitating nature re-connection and enabling its therapeutic benefits by creatively adapting knowledge and stories for organised group sessions: either outdoors, incorporating exercise; or sedentary, indoor, experiential workshops. You can follow her on IG: @annlovesherbs or at www.thymefornature.com.

Dr. Ella Leith is an ethnologist and folklorist who studied in Scotland and now lives in Malta. She particularly loves folktales and the storytelling traditions of linguistic and cultural minorities. IG: @leithyface

Elaine MacGillivray is a former archivist who spent twenty years working across a range of archive services in Scotland, before deciding to retrain in a vocation more directly related to physical health and well-being. Elaine is inspired by many of the great thinkers she has encountered through her archives work. Her interests include the interconnectedness of people, place, environment, culture, diet, physical movement, health, and wellbeing.

Originally from Argyll, she now lives in Perthshire.

Rose Morley qualified as a Bach Flower Registered Practitioner in February 2017, after studying the system for over two years. It was her longstanding, keen interest in alternative medicine, and her passion for flower remedies in particular, that led Rose to obtain Bach Foundation International Register (BFRP) Practitioner status. rose.morley@hotmail.co.uk

Maddy Mould is an illustrator living in the Scottish Borders. Her work is influenced by the magic and history of the surrounding natural landscape.

IG: @maddymould and maddymould.co.uk

Kyra Pollitt is a graduate of the Diploma in Herbology at the RBGE. When not editing Herbology News, she works as a translator, interpreter, writer and artist. She lives on the Isle of Harris, where she is busily planting and growing a garden. www.actsoftranslation.com and www.wilderorb.com

Dora Wagner is a graduate of the RBGE Diploma in Herbology, and a Didactician in Natural Science. She also works as a Naturopath for Psychotherapy, and as a Horticultural Therapist. She currently lectures in Medical Herbalism at the University of Witten/Herdecke, and is leading a project reconstructing the medicinal herb garden of an Anthroposophic Hospital in Germany. dora.wagner@t-online.de and www.plantadora.de 54

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xi: Looking Forward

03//22: The Active Issue If you’ve enjoyed these pages, be sure to catch our next issue, featuring:      

Your favourite columnists Plus, Herb of the Month: Nettle (Urtica dioica) Plus, the photography of Sheila Masson Plus, a focus on muscle Plus, an interview with WanderWomen Plus, poetry from Nine Arches Presents…

And more….

Herbology News is grateful for the support of Senga Bate, Beth Lucas, and our other patrons.

Join them at www.patreon.com/herbologynews 56