10 April

“Excellent herbs had our Fathers of old -
Excellent herbs to ease their pain”

I don’t remember how old I was when I first heard that poem, but I was still a young child, and it captivated me. I wasn’t old enough then to spot the irony in Kipling’s words, it was the names of the herbs that stayed with me; eyebright, elecampane, valerian, rose-of-the-sun. They weren’t the lupins or the pansies that I could identify – what were they then? As I grew older I read about Culpeper and the medieval herbalists, about Tudor knot gardens and apothecaries’ herb plots. Long before I’d developed any interest in gardening, I found herbs and their products fascinating; loved the way that my grandmother would called the hedge her chemist and her patch of cultivated herbs her first-aid box. Even at a young age, I recognised that something had been lost, there was some knowledge there that hadn’t been passed down to me, and I wanted to find it. Herbs are steeped in magic and myth, and I love their poetic and historical associations.

My grandmother died before I could learn her lore, but books helped, as did the re-awakening of interest in the “flowers and sweet scented things,” as the ancient Greeks called them. I used herbal beauty products, bought herbal medicines, and grew my own on windowsills in cramped city flats. I wasn’t a cook, any more than I was a gardener, so although of course I knew about their many culinary uses, my diet was all restaurant dinners interspersed with beans on toast. It was only fairly recently, however, that I gained the gardening confidence to start my own herb garden. If you are thinking elaborate box hedges and monastic-style cloisters, think again. My garden unfortunately isn’t large, and I cleared a smallish patch, about 12 foot square, in a tangled and overgrown patch to the side of the kitchen, overlooking the stream some 12 feet below. It turned out to be fortuitous, though I didn’t know it at the time, since an elder tree overlooks the site, potent magic for our forefathers who believed that the presence of elders would increase the beneficial properties of herbs. Herbs are such beautiful and generous plants to grow organically; they attract bees, birds and butterflies, achieving a high level of pollination and increasing the productivity and health of all the plants. I’ve packed so many into this space; parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme, of course, but also lemon balm, borage and hyssop, feverfew and comfrey, chamomile and lovage, and many more.

I’ve become far more adept, if not yet an expert, at using the plants, as well. As well as storing the flowers for herbal teas, I use aloe vera, comfrey and marigold as ointments, tansy to ward off summer flies, southernwood to deter moths, lavender for pillows, linen and room sprays. I’m no practitioner, but have used feverfew tisanes for headaches, peppermint for digestion, elderflower for colds. I’m a better cook, now too, born out of the necessity to feed my family well, and I can’t imagine cooking without herbs. I feel as if I’m slowly reconnecting to that lost knowledge; when I use herbs, there’s a little pull on the string that connects us to the past.
I’d heard all the sayings about finding God in a garden. I expected to become absorbed, to find peace, but I hadn’t expected to find my family there too, shades among the plants. Without planning it at all, my little herb garden has become a memorial garden. There is a lilac tree next to the elder, leaning protectively over the space, and I stood under the blossom last year, thinking of my grandmother, who loved lilac so much, and wishing ferociously that she were sitting beneath it. I’d planted some rose bushes in amongst the herbs, partly as companion plants to the garlic, partly as a nod to the old monastic tradition of planting apothercaries roses in their herb gardens. One of my grandfathers adored roses, and I felt his presence strongly one day, when I caught their scent drifting over to me where I worked. From then on, the idea snowballed; for my other Grandad, I planted deep red wallflowers along the low bordering wall; mixed with self-seeding forget-me-nots, they make a brilliant splash of colour in the spring. Sweet Williams for my Uncle Billy, my mother’s twin, who died at sea at the age of twenty. Irises edge the path, for my mother-in-law of the same name, who I never know, and Madonna lilies grow by the roses, for her and my unknown father-in-law. I didn’t plant them, but the delicate pink buds that will become fat luscious peonies, remind me of the babies I lost. I think I’ve written before about burying our beloved family cat, Henry, here, under the sundial, with Good King Henry all around. All this bordered by rosemary, for remembrance.

You wouldn’t think it by reading this, but I look forwards more than I look back, and don’t always long to reclaim the past. But I love the little drifts of memories that come to me on the breeze when I’m gathering herbs, the little nudges from familiar figures. “Wonderful tales had our Fathers of old, Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars.” Starlight and moonshine are the ideal background to my little herb garden; you feel part of a bigger whole, standing at night among the healing plants, listening to the water rushing past below. A life is a cycle, as is a garden; no wonder I never feel alone, out in the herbs.