It’s that time of year when, across every patch of waste ground, in unregarded corners of semi-rural land, along villages, lanes and footpaths, the orange hawkweed flares out its gorgeous vulpine russet. It’s another of those pariah species loathed by the neat and orderly minded. I just spotted a few upright stems embellishing my garden. Good! Let them flourish there. They do no harm and please my eye.
Orange hawkweed has some fascinating traditional names. Fox-and-cubs is the most common, and self-explanatory. Another that crops up less often is more puzzling: Grim the Collier. Gerard’s Herbal, first published in 1597, refers to them thus. Maybe close inspection gives a clue. The dark buds against the flowers burning bright? A suggestion of an unshaven, red-haired miner up from the pit? There ought to be a DH Lawrence poem about them. There’s certainly a Jacobean play by this name, though it’s scarcely a candidate for a National Theatre live streaming (I can tell you that, having skimmed through it as background reading for an English degree decades ago).
Orange hawkweed loves churchyards. When I lived in Llanrhaeadr ym Mochnant, I’d often walk down into the churchyard in the evening, sit on a little ledge at the base of the church tower and revel in the hawkweed flowers that basked in the low late sunlight which set them glowing among the slate gravestones.
A close and rather smaller relative, its yellow petals often carmine-tinged, is the mouse-ear hawkweed (Pilosella officinarum), which was a favourite of the old herbalists. It’s long maintained its therapeutic reputation, and was used in America as a herbal defence against HIV. Research continues into its efficacy in treating other viruses and recent research has established an antibiotic effect.
Meanwhile, back in my garden, I’m pleased to see how my favourite flower of this summer season – meadowsweet, or “Queen of the Meadow” – has colonised whole areas along the verges with its creamy delicacy and complex fragrance. The joy of a semi-wild garden! The pervasive scent of meadowsweet flowers is quite distinct from that of the leaves, the latter almost almond-like. I leave my windows open at night that it might drift in and flavour my dreams.
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