Botanica Fabula

The stone months

Amanda Edminton

January is upon us and, whether the earth is frozen rock-hard or the weather gentle and mild, nothing much grows. Trees’ gelid branches hang ominously across our paths, and our gardens are laid bare— stony and mineral-coloured rather than full of the rich greens that suggest nourishing meals and healing herbal tisanes.

A few years ago, as part of the initial creation of my A Kist in Thyme project, I was collecting reminiscences about the use of plants for food and medicine from older members of the community. It was during one of these sessions that a woman, then in her nineties and the widow of a rural vet, told me how January and February had often been referred to as ‘the stone months’ by the crofting community they had worked with. Nothing grew in the stone months. This wonderful informant talked about how folk had formerly relied on what they could preserve or dry at the end of summer, but that the boom after the Second World War had led many folk to see foraging as a signifier of poverty— indicating a lack of disposable income, erroneously assumed to be the result of an inability or reluctance to work hard, and of a certain lack of respectability. To be respectable, people took yet more steps away from more self-sufficient days, and craved the exotic and out of season— equating them with signs of success.

Out of this conversation came a story. It looks not only at traditional food production, at connecting our diet to seasonal availability in our locality, but at the value of quiet, gentle, reflective times of the year, at our relationships with others, and at the importance of stories. So, as we embark on 2022, ‘Scotland's Year of Stories’, I'd like to share this story with you. In some ways, it expands on the story I shared last month in The Bare Issue, and follows the path taken by many stories as they look at how we cope with the hardest months of the year. Similar it may be, but I think you'll enjoy the twist...

There once lived a young man named Ail, kind-hearted and hardworking but with little to show for his efforts. His croft, though wellloved, was just a small rocky piece of land, mostly barren. However, despite his stomach often growling as he worked, he was always willing to lend a hand to others; despite the soil being nutrient-poor and stone-rich, he worked hard enough that it would yield a few Cabbages; and despite these Cabbages being small and misshapen and the only thing his land could produce, they were tasty enough— and he was always happy to share them with anyone who asked.

Ail managed to get by, mainly by going into the village and swapping a Cabbage here and there, or helping a neighbour with some heavy work. Those that knew him would give him a few Potatoes or a piece of bacon, an Onion or two, or a couple of eggs.

But eventually, in a cold, hard winter, a January came round in which he had only a handful of Cabbages left and no-one in the village had anything to spare. So Ail made a small fire, patiently boiled up a Cabbage soup, and hoped the spring would come soon.

He’d just poured his soup into a bowl, when he heard a quiet tap at the croft door. Wondering who could be out on such a cold dark night, Ail opened the door to find an elderly woman stood with a thin shawl and bright questioning eyes.

‘Young man,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you this dark, cold night, but could you let me have a warm at your fire, for I am frozen and hungry and have a long way to travel. ’

Ail ushered the woman in and, showing her to his seat by the fire, he put his meagre bowl of Cabbage soup into her hands, saying he would be delighted if she shared his meal.

The woman’s eyes twinkled, as she warmed her hands and ate her soup. Then, having nothing else to repay him with, she told him a tale of lands far away, basking in the warm summer sun.

The next morning when Ail awoke, the woman had gone— but he realised that, despite having given away his meal the night before, he felt well and his belly full, as if the story itself had fed him. What’s more, when he went out into his garden, he found that next to his meagre Cabbage patch— and appearing to be sprouting already —were the Potato plants he’d given up on the week before. Maybe the barrow of compost his neighbour had gifted had finally done the trick, or maybe the nights had not been as cold as he’d thought, but it looked like somehow his hard work had paid off. With a warm glow inside and a cold Cabbage under one arm, Ail set off to his neighbours’ house to see if he could swap it for an armful of straw to keep his new plants snug.

The year drew on, and March arrived— raging in like a lion, its gales still laden with the nip of the north wind, blowing branches from the trees. A warm fire blazed in the hearth, but spring was still nowhere in sight. There were only two Cabbages left, and the Potatoes were still very small. Once more, Ail settled in for the hungry few weeks ahead.

One night, as he built up his fire and listened to the storm howl, he heard once again a tap at the door. He was astonished to find the woman once more on the doorstep, her shawl a little more worn but looking a little better in herself. Smiling at the memory of her stories, Ail ushered her in towards his seat by the fire and shared the last of his food again. Smiling, she ate, and the colour returned to her cheeks. Then she started to tell poems— poems of length and beauty, poems of warm spring mornings, of flourishing gardens and meadows full of flowers. Ail fell asleep with pictures painted in his dreams.

In the morning, as before, he awoke feeling uplifted and full of life, but found the woman gone. Venturing into his garden to see the damage wrought by the storm, he found the weather had finally lifted and a pale sun shone through dancing clouds. He cleared his garden and fetched some Carrot seeds, stored away after the last year’s failed growing attempts. Surprisingly quickly, seedling appeared and, over the next weeks, thrived; the Carrots were doing better than he could have ever expected. By the end of April, he had a warm Carrot and Potato soup to enjoy of a night— and even enough Carrots to swap for flour from the miller to make a Crecy pie.

Ail was overjoyed when, one rainy April night as the showers became torrents, he heard the woman’s knock at his door. Now he had more than meagre soup to offer her as she took her place by the fire, and this time he noticed how well she looked and how she seemed to have greater ease in her movements. As she ate, she started to hum— a beautiful tune full of birdsong and summer warmth —but, once more, in the morning she was gone.

As May rolled in, warm and light, he successfully grew Spring Greens, dark and full of minerals. After her visit in June— and her stories of evening sunlight, of rebellious boys and disgruntled giants —he found Beans now grew aplenty in his garden. July brought songs, Celery and Lettuces; August brough poems, Onions and Plums; September brought tales of giant Turnips and Apples with hidden stars inside. Ail saw that the woman’s hair looked curiously red where before it had been white, and, in the morning’s warmth, he saw Apples growing on the barren tree by the door and found that root vegetables were starting to swell.

Each month, she visited just once; each time, he made her a meal; each meeting, she seemed bonnier and younger than he remembered— her eyes twinkling as she regaled him with tales and verse, songs and legends full of wonder. And each time his garden flourished a little more.

The year turned around, and January returned harsh and icy once more. Worse still, word came to the village that trouble was afoot in neighbouring lands. The villagers waited, fearful and cold, not knowing what to expect. When armies finally marched in, they cleared each home of provisions. No one’s stores were safe.

Ail wept as he watched them take his carefully stored and preserved crops, spilling the seeds he had kept for next year, but he knew he could not stop them. Hard work would replace his stores; he just had to manage for a few more weeks. Now, he watched and waited— worried for the woman, listening for her footsteps, craving her lilting voice, her songs and her stories, to take his mind off his hunger, but ashamed that he had nothing to offer her. When she finally came, he was building up a fire and singing a song he had learnt as a boy. The tears rolled down his face as explained that he had nothing for her, only the warmth of his fire— and maybe he could sing her his song? As he looked at her face, he was struck by her beauty, how interesting and alive she looked. Smiling, she held out her hand and took her place by the fire.

A song from the heart can be a magical thing. Now he was more than a year older, and she more than a year younger, their garden would grow and flourish. Needless to say, the woman was never cold and hungry again, and Ail was never short of a story or a warm arm in the cold nights.

Amanda's project The Kist in Thyme can be found here: www.botanicafabula.co.uk/the-kist-in-thyme