Tag Archives: flowers

Flowers for the solstice

One of my ongoing issues with the Pagan concept of the wheel of the year is that it can focus a person’s sense of the seasonal down to eight key days. Outside, the cycle of the seasons is a process from day to day, and if you aren’t engaging with it day by day, you’ll miss things. That in turn can help perpetuate the simpler eight key points narrative because we don’t tend to see the things we aren’t looking for.

The demoiselle flies (smaller than dragonflies, but different from damselflies because they have dramatic black wings) tend to show up a few days before my birthday. A week ago there was a big hatching. A couple of days ago I saw my first dragonflies of the season. Most of the garlic has died back, most fledglings are now out of the nest, but there are still clutches of new ducklings hatching. That’s true where I live, for this year, but next year may be different.

This year I have particularly noticed the arrival of cranesbill flowers and meadowsweet. As there’s a lot of foliage growing, they were able to do all their leafy growth without my spotting them, but now the flowers are out, the plants are a distinctive presence. The purples of the cranesbill flowers, the misty clouds of fragrant meadowsweet. I didn’t have them in my head as a solstice flower, I don’t remember exactly when they appeared last year. I tend to think of meadowsweet as something that blooms later on, and perhaps it is. Many of the usual rhythms are being thrown out by climate change.

You have to catch a cranesbill just right to see why it has the name – the flowers themselves are nothing like cranes. It’s the forming flower bud, which, before opening, looks just like a head and beak. There an edge plant, so look for them in hedgerows, along shaded footpaths and at woodland edges.

More about cranesbill here – https://shop.reallywildflowers.co.uk/products-page/wildflower-plug-plants/meadow-cranesbill/

And a lovely piece on meadowsweet here with herbal and mythical properties https://whisperingearth.co.uk/2012/07/06/meadowsweet-queen-of-the-meadow-queen-of-the-ditch/


Pilgrimage to the flowers

In previous years I’ve managed both an Easter and a Beltain pilgrimage. The Easter walk talks me via two Iron Age hill forts to Gloucester Cathedral, and is very much a pilgrimage honouring the ancestors. Like most modern Pagans, I have my share of Christian ancestors, and the cathedral itself has family stories associated with it. The Beltain pilgrimage is all about wildflowers – bluebells, wood anemone, wild garlic. This year the flowers came before Easter, and I had to choose. I chose to honour the unsettlingly early flowering and to make my ancestral pilgrimage at some later point in the year.

Part of the route for my Beltain pilgrimage takes me along the edge of the Cotswolds, through an area dense with barrows. People have been walking that way – but not that path, I assume! – for thousands of years.

The flowers I go out to see, the garlic, anemones and bluebells, are all indicators of ancient woodland. It’s not my motivation, but it is certainly a bonus. Beech trees are not long lived, so the age of trees round here is not an easy indicator of woodland age.

It was a beautiful day. Bluebells in swathes, like a misty sea in the Woodchester valley. The scent of them subtle and gorgeous. Very small lambs out in the fields. We sat near some of them (but not too near so as not to cause alarm) to have lunch. As we ate, a raven sang to us from nearby trees, pausing for the odd fly past to make sure we didn’t miss any of its raven-ness. It’s such a distinctive voice though that we didn’t need to see in order to know. Later, we found the heronry, which we’d been looking for, and several herons who looked to be in the business of making more herons.

I have personal stories and family stories about Woodchester Valley. I have folklore and history as well. Repeatedly visiting an area at a specific time of year adds to the web of stories as things happening to us are woven into the tale of our relationship with the land. The year we saw a buzzard take a rabbit. The variations we’ve walked, the people we’ve walked with…

We walk fairly quietly, but it is about engagement and engagement includes the people around us. The valley is managed, and home to a lot of wild things. There was a large flock of tufted ducks, bigger than any group we’ve seen there before. Last autumn there were dragonflies in great number. It’s not a pilgrimage to somewhere, but a big, circular walk. It’s a pilgrimage into the land and the season, a deepening of relationship with place and a commitment to holding that connection.


A sudden spring

Last Friday when we walked through the wood it was all much as it had been through the winter. There were buds fattening, but that was all. We walked through the same wood two days later, and everything had changed. The brown of dead leaves covering the ground had been replaced by green as the wild garlic had come through. Elder leaves were unfurling in earnest – they always are early in that spot. The wild plum had produced its first flowers.

This is a route I usually walk several times over a week, so I know its habits well and watch it for seasonal changes. Going from brown to green so quickly startled me. But then, the Friday had been warm enough to be without a coat and this had clearly affected the soil.

I read once that as trees feel the approach of spring and gear up, they put out heat – not a vast amount, but enough to give any plants at their base a head start, too.

Last week I blogged about spring walking, and the uncertainties of planning long wanders early in the season. I worried about the cold. What happened instead was that I was stripped down to bare arms at one point in the walk, with too much sun an unexpected issue. I’m not sure if it’s sun stroke or heat stroke that gets me, but I’ve never had to think about either in February before. March yes, but not February.

There were kingcups in flower, the celandines are out and I found some amazing snowdrop patches. I didn’t have a camera, but I plan to change that. I don’t want to spend my time looking at the world through one, but I would like to collect more images of plants through the seasons. More of that as it happens.


The Greening

The coming of spring is a very location specific thing. Even across a few miles, sheltered and exposed spots have slightly different seasons. Through March, I’ve watched the greening. The first shoots poking up through the soil have now arrived fully, opening out into garlic leaves, particularly. The elders have unfurled their leaves already, with the hawthorn not far behind. I’m seeing the chestnuts opening, although the black buds of the ash trees seem tightly shut still. I think the beeches will open soon, and the oaks of course always tend to be a bit later.

This time of year brings a rush of new life and colour and that can be uplifting. I was outside yesterday, enjoying the sun, and more especially, the colour. One of the things I really struggle with in winter, can be the loss of colour. Yes, granted grey is a colour, but apparently lots of grey doesn’t work for me. Perhaps it’s the lack of strong differences. Perhaps it’s the washed out quality of winter colours. I do better when there are bright, cold winter days with blue skies and more intense dark shades for contrast.

I have an emotional dependence on colour. When my environment has very little colour in it, I tend to get melancholy. The relentless beige and magnolia of the hospital where I gave birth really got to me. I’ve struggled with the white walls of this flat, although we’ve inserted what colour we can by other means. January is the time of year I am most motivated to decorate. It’s also the time of year I’m likely to want a mad, psychedelic colour scheme, which isn’t always optimal.

However, painted colours are no substitute for sky and plant colours, and the colours of spring, the yellows of daffodils and primroses are a real joy. I’ve been comforting myself with a chilli plant, and the bright red peppers are cheery, but do not have the same effect as the white of the first blackthorn flowers or the snowdrops. I don’t think it’s simply because of that rush of new life or promise of longer days, either. After the grey days, white is a colour that impacts on me too (in flowers but not in wall colours, I am not sure why!), the vibrancy of white against a washed out winter background, can be startling. The presence of flowers is a thing in its own right.

Green is a wonderful, soulful colour. It is, for me, the colour of life. The green of chlorophyll in plants is a parallel to the blood in human bodies. It is the essence of the plant world, and a key part of most food chains. Green is life, health and hope. Once again, we survived the winter. We did not freeze to death, or starve, and perhaps there’s something very fundamental, ancestral in me which responds to this. The seasons turn, and the greening promises reasons for optimism.