Self-Sufficient Herbalism. Lucy Jones

      3

      Connection with plants

      When we grow or gather our own herbs, it is inevitable that we develop a warmth and familiarity towards them. In the case of growing our own, we have to source our plants, perhaps buying in from a nursery, taking cuttings from a friend's garden or growing from seed. We tend them, watch them grow and mature, water them during dry spells and go out anxiously after high winds or hail to see if they have escaped without damage. If we gather herbs from the wild, we have to seek out each species that we need, quartering the area months before the plants are ready to harvest. As we get to know the area in which we live and practice, we build up a mental map of where to find various plant medicines. Hours of pleasurable time exploring green lanes and wild habitats are rewarded by a deep sense of understanding the local landscape and why the plants thrive where they do. Sometimes we set out looking for a particular plant, but it is equally valuable to just wander and explore. Plants call out to us when we need them, if we give them the chance.

      We learn to visit different gathering locations throughout the year to see how our plants are doing. Sometimes we can help them by a bit of judicious pruning of overhanging branches or the invasion of brambles into a precious patch of wild St John's Wort (Hypericum perforatum), for example. As the harvest season approaches, we will have had to visit our chosen patches several times to make sure that we do not miss the perfect time for harvest. It is only natural that we begin to feel very connected and responsible for the land around us, as well as the plants that grow there.

      It can be difficult to find what we need in any given year. Wild medicines have good years and bad years, and sometimes catastrophic events such as harsh hedge trimming or development can destroy a favourite gathering area, along with the plants that grow there. I remember the first time this happened to me. Cramp Bark or Guelder Rose (Viburnum opulus) grows in hedgerows and is not considered particularly rare, but it was not common where I lived in West Dorset – at least, not in a form and location where harvesting of usable stems was possible. Over a period of five or six years I had built up a mental map of all the accessible Cramp Bark trees and shrubs that I could find in my local area. I had four especially favoured locations, and each year I rotated small harvests between them. I began to prune some stems from the bottom of bushes in order to encourage long straight stems to grow up, long stems being much easier to strip bark from. This worked very well, and each year I managed to gather sufficient for my needs, until one year a whole section of one of my favourite Cramp-Bark-containing hedges was brutally and severely cut back, using a hedge flail. I actually cried when I saw the devastation. The beautiful wide grass verge alongside the hedge was muddy, rutted, and churned up. Precious Cramp Bark branches were lying all over the verge and the lane, chopped into tiny pieces, irrevocably mixed with random other species, completely unusable and covered in mud. I knew that the plants would recover in time, but I cried because of the missed opportunity for those plants to offer medicine to the people that need them. I cried because it was such a waste, and, most of all, I cried because as a society we have become so very disconnected and ignorant about the value of the wild plants that surround us.

      As well as the bitter disappointments over losing a favourite gathering place, we can also experience the euphoria of coming across a sizeable population of a plant that we need just when it is needed. These unexpected finds are always totally thrilling and magical. A few years ago, I stumbled upon a huge population of Wild Oats (Avena sativa) at the perfect stage for harvesting in an abandoned arable field scheduled for development. I had been searching my area for a couple of weeks, aware that it was coming up to Wild Oat season, but every time I walked the field edges, green lanes, and footpaths in likely locations, there were no Wild Oats to be seen. All of the usual organic arable fields had been ploughed up or put down to pasture. None of the headlands had been left unsprayed. Land had changed hands, and the new management regime discouraged Wild Oats. As my dispensary stock dwindled and my patients’ needs continued to grow, I was beginning to think that I might have to actually buy some in. Salvation came as I was following up a lead from a patient who mentioned a patch of Coltsfoot (Tussilago farfara) next to a footpath along which she often walked. I made a note of the directions, and at the first opportunity I set out to follow them. I can still remember the thrill of rounding a corner and seeing a whole field of Wild Oats waving majestically in the breeze. As it happens, I did not find the Coltsfoot until a couple of weeks later, but I was in Wild Oat heaven for a few days while I harvested and dried enough to last my patients for at least the following two years.

      When we grow or gather our own herbs, we have plenty of time, maybe a whole year or several years, to build a relationship with them. It becomes impossible to view them simply as a business input after that. At first, we may not notice that this shift has happened, but then we start to notice that when we open each herb storage container and smell the distinctive fragrance of each herb, we are instantly transported back to the day that it was harvested. We will probably remember the exact location, the weather and the sounds around us. Perhaps we remember the bird song, the sound of cows grazing or even our own singing. I feel that the memory of the harvest is a reminder of our shared bond. In that moment, it is as though the herb offered itself to be an agent of healing, and we agreed to help make that happen.