Cows and Hogs
A few posts ago I uploaded a shot of a dried umbellifer and a clever soul asked if the plant was cow parsley or hogweed. Interested (but clueless) myself, I searched through my files and found this picture of said umbellifer in early summer…well, it’s not the exact plant but it was growing in the same spot, so I am sure it counts…
I am sure the owner of the garden couldn’t possibly have hogweed in her patch, even if this was growing beside a little stream. As a bit of a smart Alec To be certain, I dug out an old copy of Wild Flowers of Britain and Northern Europe, which I gather has been a favoured pocket guide ever since it was published by Collins in 1974.
Shouldn’t have done that…do you know how many types of white umbellifer there are? Dozens, I tell you. Quite simply, dozens, and I am afraid I am barely any wiser. So, any suggestions? Could it be lesser water parsnip? Fool’s watercress, wild celery or even fine-leaved dropwort?
Oh blimey…Angelica? Or even hemlock? Impossible!
Pignuts, shepherd’s needle and moon carrot…
And, last page…or, first page, actually. Realise I’ve uploaded these in the wrong order.
Am intrigued to see that caraway and coriander count as wild flowers. Coriander appears to be native to southern Europe which makes me wonder if it was introduced to England by the Romans, along with central heating, straight roads and the cultivated apple. Or was it brought over in early European trade? These days it seems to be used almost exclusively in Asian and Middle Eastern cooking but it would be interesting to find out if there were any Tudor recipes that called for coriander – either fresh or dried.
But I digress. Hogweed, cow parsley or hemlock?
Best Intentions
Forgot to add that I had every intention of taking some new, frosty snaps this weekend but, ah, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, isn’t it?
The night before, Fella had arrived with a shiny new coffee plunger (the best kind of gift, it came in a box wrapped in brown paper) and muffins which he had made. So in the morning we had breakfast in bed and read the paper (the one with the nice pink pages). I should add that he brought the breakfast to the bed.
V: This is wonderful, thank you. I feel like Lady Muck.
F: You are Lady Muck.
With this warm winter and my own attachment to a comfortable bed, I fear my winter image stock will be a little thin this year. Where might I register an interest in a snowfall later in the month?
Dendritic
Against a dawn sky coloured with fading highlighter, bare winter branches remind me of the Nile and, tangentially, of Churn and the Chelt, Slad, Severn and Wye, Avon and Thames, with its source not far from here; further afield, the Great Ouse, Graham Swift’s fictional Leem, the Yare, the Blythe and the Alde; and then on, on, on to the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo, the Orange and Vaal, Gamtoos and Gouritz, Kowie, Kromme and Kei, Mtamvuna and Umzimkulu, Hluhuwe and Mfolozi, Tugela and uMngeni and their tributaries, Msunduzi, Bushmans, Lions, Karkloof and Mooi.
Plants for Rain
Something lovely from Christmas in Suffolk:
Once (years ago, of course) in a feature about plants that are attractive to bees, I mistakenly referred to umbellifers as umbrellifers. The error dawned on me the night after I’d submitted the piece. In mild panic I rang the editor the next morning but it was too late. The piece was for a weekend paper and it had already gone off to press.
Still, looking at these woody spokes revealed by wind and ice, it’s not a wholly inaccurate term, is it?
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