Magical bushes and trees

Looking back, I was deprived as a child—at least in terms of folk lore. I knew the basic stuff, like not passing salt to someone, or the occasional necessity to throw some over your left shoulder. I was wary about walking under ladders, and always wished a single magpie a whispered ‘good morning.’ But that was it. I knew nothing about the magical power of bushes and trees. The only ‘nature walk’ we did at St Bonaventure's was walking up Cedar Road and picking up sycamore keys. 

But now I’m surrounded by magic, or so I’m led to believe. The borderlands are awash with bushes and trees steeped in the supernatural. 

Eeno11 - Own work

The rowan or mountain ash is regarded as a potent weapon against witchcraft, perhaps because as folklore has it, the rowan ‘…is the tree on which the devil hanged his mother.’ Whatever the theological implications of that particular nugget, locals used to plant a rowan near their houses to prevent the ‘evil eye.’ Others would adorn their stables with rowan on May Day. There it would hang until the following May Day, protecting their horses from unimaginable horrors.

The spotted laurel is more theologically inclined, its spots deriving from drops of  the Virgin Mary’s milk, as she fed the baby Jesus. 

Perhaps the most significant bush is the Holy Thorn, several cuttings of which were taken from the original at Glastonbury. These supposedly bloom at midnight on Twelfth Night.  As late as 1908 one such cutting at Wormesley was visited by up to forty people who were treated to cake and ale as they witnessed the event by candlelight. 

Rosemary too is significant. Like the Holy Thorn, it is also reputed to blossom at midnight on Twelfth Night—or so the locals of Orcop and Garway believed. They regularly stayed up to see it, no doubt with cake and ale. 

 I have mixed feelings about rosemary. A common belief is that the plant only flourishes ‘where the missus is master.’ I keep my rosemary well-trimmed but to little avail. 

By Sb2s3 - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44184869

The willow is more ambiguous. It will bring good luck when brought into the house on May Day and protects against the evil eye if presented to you by a friend. On the other hand, if a young animal or child is struck by a willow rod, it will never grow thereon. Useful tips for a future English cricket coach perhaps.

To be honest, I never knew vegetation could be so temperamental. A walnut tree in the garden of Porch House in Eardisland fell to pieces during the night. The tree itself was strong and healthy. There was no storm. It just apparently decided that its time was up—as was that of the mistress of the house who died shortly after. 

When Charles I was executed, it was noticed by the peasantry of Herefordshire that the ash trees had no keys that year in sympathy for the death of a king. In like manner,  lilac and laburnum mourn the death of a neighbouring tree by refusing to blossom the following year. Ivy, too, makes its voice heard. Should it suddenly wither and die on the walls of a house, someone in there will surely die. For someone who rips off dead ivy from my walls—having first cut off their roots—I’m clearly living on borrowed time.

All this I could have learned in my Liverpool school and yet never did. I can though draw a passably good sycamore key.