The Blackthorn Winter

Our garden, clothed in the snow.

I was out walking last weekend with my son in Shropshire. We were on what my old mates who were in the army would have called a 'recce'. Taking in the scenery, and seeing what the hedgerows had to offer. The hedgerows and fields were once larders to our forefathers. They were fuel, food for their stock, and parish boundaries.

As we turned a corner, a stand of majestic oaks (Quercus robor) stood guard. Their grey, black forms silhouetted against a clear blue sky. Their thick fissures of bark resembling organic suits of armour. What events these silent watchers of history must have seen? Certainly two world wars and, more recently, the sad, slow, steady concreting over the countryside - indicative of all rural communities. 

We soon found what we were looking for: the blackthorn (Prunus spinosa). The fruits of these shrubby trees, ubiquitous in our hedgerows, produce the best winter drink known to man: sloe gin. Their creamy white blossoms are the harbingers of spring, closely followed by their botanical cousins, the damson (Prunus domestica). The small round fruits are ready to pick around October. They are truly inedible, so astringent; they seems to draw any moisture from your mouth. But steep the fruits in a mixture of castor sugar and gin, leave in a dark place for a year and they are a revelation. The resulting elixir will warm the cockles of the coldest heart. 

Later that week, the country was hit by snow - what rural folk call a 'Blackthorn Winter'. When the blossom of the blackthorn mimics the snow on the ground. 

The knot garden peeking out.

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