The Purple On Our Tongues

dragonfly dance & oyster shrine

The corn, ripe and golden, falls under the scythe. 6 August 2024.

Hello, and a warm welcome to the (just after the) New Moon in Leo edition of Bracken & Wrack.

Looking over the contents of this issue I think it’s a bit of a blackberries, smugglers and pilgrims special, and the three topics even weave and overlap in places. But that just seemed to be the direction in which this early August feeling wanted to be taken, and what could I do but comply?

This time we have:

• The Opening of the Lion’s Gate

• Poetry by Seamus Heaney & Hilary Llewellyn-Williams

• The Blackberry Picker Part 3

• Smugglers! (A Fine Cargo)

• A Blackberry-picking Smuggler’s Breakfast

• Pray Remember The Grotto: magical oystershell shrines

Now, this August new moon fell on the cusp of what is known as the Lion’s Gate. I had heard of this, but had never got around to looking into exactly what the phrase meant. The thing I did know was that the gate was said to be a mystic portal and that it fell on the eighth day of the eighth month under the sign of Leo. My immediate thought had been that this must be a wishful construct, as celestial or spiritual events have a habit of disregarding our wildly-fluctuating human calendars. But actually, further reading has made me eat my words - on the timing, at least.

I soon discovered that the Lion’s Gate Portal refers to the opening of a galactic gate that is said to deliver high-frequency energy into our lives, thus allowing us to open our energy centres, be inspired by new ideas and boost our intuitive abilities. This portal is activated by the rising of the dog star Sirius, a time that extends from the end of July until the middle of August (the ‘Dog Days’).

In the middle of this period, the Sun reaches the halfway point of 15 degrees of the zodiac sign Leo. This makes it the peak of Lion energy, as well as the midpoint of the cycle from the Midsummer Solstice to the Autumn Equinox. In fact the eighth day of the eighth month is not always the exact midpoint as the dates of the solstices and equinoxes vary, but as a resonant date numerologically it was chosen as the day to celebrate the opening of the Lion’s Gate. The two eights are symbols of infinity (and therefore magical) and of DNA, which of course is at the core of all that we are, so all the elements add up - well, at least until the calendar changes again. Even if it did, there would be logic in acknowledging this peak of Lion energy within its zodiac sign on whichever date it happened to fall.

Lammas-tide energies in this travelling altar I made: rowan berries, sloes and a Leonine sun.

Sirius is one of the brightest stars in the sky and apparently was considered by ancient astrologers to be our spiritual sun, as a counterpoint to the Sun that warms our physical bodies. So the rising and return of Sirius might be considered as the rebirth of our spiritual energy, illuminating our timeless soul. By contrast, the Sun illuminates our physical world which is transient and time-bound. The rising of Sirius also coincides with the annual flooding of the Nile valley bringing renewed fertility to the land, further supporting the theme of rebirth.

Astrologers say that the opening of the Lion’s Gate is a perfect time to infuse the Sirius energy into the very core of our being, allowing us to bring more healing, peace, creativity, freedom and love into our own lives, into the lives of others and indeed to the planet itself. This is interesting, given that the heat of the Dog Days has always had a reputation for ‘stirring the mad blood’.

Benvolio: I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire;

The day is hot, and Capulets abroad,

And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl

For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.

William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet Act III scene I

It is during these hot days around Lammas - we know that Juliet’s birthday falls on Lammas Eve - that the fateful fight between Tybalt and Mercutio leads to the inevitable tragic unfolding of events for the star-crossed lovers.

Does the idea of a Lion’s Gate at the peak of Leo’s power resonate with you? If it does, maybe this fleeting respite from the restless and irritable Dog Days is reason enough to stay open to the possibility that nourishing and inspirational energies are beginning to flow through an annually-opened celestial gateway.

Let’s be ready to receive them.

A few days after writing about St James’ Wort (ragwort) and the orange and black cinnabar moth caterpillars that feed on it, I came upon this little guy chomping away at the edge of a camping field in Whitlingham, Norfolk. Aren’t they amazing creatures? Like traditional witch’s necklaces of amber and jet beads flowing over the flowers.

SUMMER’S BLOOD WAS IN IT

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes.

Seamus Heaney, ‘Blackberry Picking’ (extract)

Click to hear this extract as an audio file:

Cliff top cottage sign, Doggett’s Lane, Happisburgh where there are lots of blackberries!

The Blackberry Picker - Part 3

The blackberries along the lane (and in the garden here at The Old Shop) are getting into their stride now, and here we are at the penultimate part of The Blackberry Picker, an essay I wrote a year or two ago on that very topic. The Blackberry Picker has never been published, so I thought that Bracken & Wrack might be just the place for it. I begin serialising the story in At The Whim Of The Waves so that it would hopefully unfold in tandem with the ripening berries. The references to the seasons of previous years are out of date now, so I hope that hasn’t been confusing. But otherwise I really hope you’re enjoying it and finding it evocative of Lammas-tide days on a quiet lane in north Norfolk. I hope that your own local blackberry harvest in the wild places and wastelands is shaping up nicely.

Part 3

The thing with thorns is that they are more than prickly bunting adorning those whippy stems. They are hooks with evil intent and quite honestly I have come to the inescapable conclusion that their dearest wish is to embed themselves into your flesh. I may have acquired the dexterity to outwit them most of the time, but they get their own back by reaching out and trying to snag my clothes. Often, sneakily, two of their tentacles reach out towards me simultaneously so that one of them can entangle itself in as many places as possible while my attention is diverted by the act of freeing myself from the other. Preferably without pulling a thread or worse still ripping my thin summer dress.

I know all the tricks. And even tonight in the deepening twilight, I don’t intend to succumb. I’ll just walk to the corner and back. Perhaps a little way around it, towards the stream where some of the bramble thickets have been yielding unaccountably richly since blackberry season began. The blackberry season I never expected, given the dearth of rain at the right time.

No. I had braced myself for a repeat of the sad, sad sights of the past two Augusts. In both of those years, drought conditions prevailed at the time that the berries should have been forming after blossom-drop. After witnessing the luminous glory of springtime hedges spangled pink and white and adorned so thickly that the leaves struggled for space, what followed were - well, you couldn’t even call them fruits. Hand-sized knobbly growths closely packed with hard brown burrs. 

I wonder whether something within the pulse of nature has pushed every last ounce of energy into the berries this year? An unseen balloon-pump forcing into them not air, but juice; life force. A bid to avert the food crisis for the many wild creatures for whom the autumn bounty - or lack of it - sets the odds for survival over the winter. Those staggered peak fruiting times mean there will always be a few berries hanging on into the winter months on the semi-naked canes. Bare, but still showing their teeth. Squashy or desiccated as these berries may be, they’re still vital sustenance to birds, small mammals and badgers, and any other wandering beings. 

Even when the hunter-gatherers began larger scale farming in the Neolithic and Bronze Age, autumn’s wild bounty would still have been crucial, both to keep hunger at bay and to provide essential vitamins and minerals. Neolithic pits that do not appear to be what we would term ‘rubbish’ pits have been uncovered. Clearly intentional in their arrangement and curation, they have been found to contain large, separate collections of sloe stones, crab apple pips and hazelnut shells. Other pits contain objects that seem to have been carefully selected for deposition together. Often because, as analysis has revealed, they had originated in the same place. In one, tempered clay and heather, both from Cornwall, were found. The idea that these were ‘midden pits’ has now been rejected by archaeologists. There is an ancient sacredness in the gathering. 

As I pick, I reflect on what a place of privilege I inhabit. If a berry is too small or hard I pass it by. If it yields to the finger and thumb a little too readily when given an experimental tug, failing to come away from the hull with a satisfying snap, it is rejected. I return to the cottage with my artisan pottery colander filled to the brim with the cream of the crop. Simply, this is the greatest of luxuries. I won’t allow myself to feel guilt that my life does not depend on a successful foraging session, but I vow never to forget to be grateful.

Recently I’ve realised it’s a skill not everyone shares. Blackberry picking mastery has crept up on me unawares. Admittedly, it’s not exactly one for the CV. Having said that, there are those who warn that our future existence will, indeed, depend on just such things. One day we may have to fend for ourselves without the props that humankind has come to rely on in the millennia since a Bronze Age woman walked down, if not this lane then a track very close by, her practised eye seeking out every last October berry that wasn’t too riddled with tiny worms. Small, dry, seedy, overblown, squishy, not quite shiny enough she could handle. She had to. What if it was a very bad year for rose hips or elderberries?

The hedgerow bordering my lane dissolves into woodland to the east and bracken to the west and there are no more brambles until I turn the corner towards the stream. I hope there may be a repeat of yesterday evening when I had found myself in the twilight company of, first one dragonfly and then a whole sky full of gossamer-quick wings. Semi-silhouetted in the pink dusk, they skimmed and swooped, criss-crossing the lane again and again and gliding down the centre line. Perhaps the tarmac had held onto residual warmth after the intense heat of the day, attracting insects which had, in turn, lured the dragonflies into following. Mostly, though, they had just seemed to be enjoying the dance, and I had revelled in their presence. Setting down my full colander on the spiky, dried out verge and holding my arms wide, I had gazed up at them. 

Gazing at the dragonflies that encircled me on a different day at St Benet’s Abbey, Norfolk.

To be concluded at the Full Moon.

Kestrel’s Eye candle for Lammas - its setting was the cliff top and the glaze reminds me of blackberries against the sea and sky. 2 August 2022.

The trouble we had to pick them! Scrambling

up banks and over fences, into rotting ditches,

stung, scratched, tousled, burred -

yet spurred on by the purple on our tongues

and promised heaps of sweetness.

Hilary Llewellyn-Williams, ‘Muin - Bramble’ (extract), The Tree Calendar

S M U G G L E R S !

View from the fish van: one of the many rocky beaches along the Menai Strait, Anglesey. 1 August 2024

I was on Anglesey last week and more than once we remarked on how well suited the little harbours, inlets and beaches would be to the trade of the smuggler. It’s very easy to imagine hidden cargoes being swiftly uncovered while wavelets sigh shhhhh, gulls wheel above and waiting arms drag the eagerly awaited treasure onto dry land.

In another weaving, I remembered that this tiny piece of writing from two years ago was inspired by my Lammas candle Kestrel’s Eye whose story-setting was the cliff top:

a fine cargo

Huddled on the clifftop, a group of figures stares out to sea. It’s hard to make out their number with any certainty, since they are all muffled up in dark cloaks. 

You may well imagine that their enveloping garments have been chosen as a defence against the biting cold. And you would be partly right, as you will be all too aware if you’ve ever spent a winter’s evening standing as still as a wary deer on an exposed east coast cliff top. But crucially these cloaks - together with simple woollen caps worn close to the head - make the men appear to fade into the shadows. If any of them own a tricorn hat they have certainly left it at home tonight. Showy silhouettes run the risk of attracting the kestrel-like eye of the Excise Men. 

It’s no coincidence that tonight is dark moon. However beautiful the view from the cliff top when the swelling moon rises over the sea with its opaline sheen, the last thing these watchers want is a rippling silver path to point, like an arrow, to their illicit activities. After what feels like hours, at Bull’s Noon, a quavering light bobs into view a long way out. A lantern! The men shuffle their feet and one of them smiles. Another gestures approval. The boat is coming in, and stowed beneath an innocent looking heap of sacks is a fine cargo indeed. 

The lantern is covered by an unseen hand and then released, three times. The sign! Silent and swift as hares the men move as one, with practised feet and a low gait. Picking their way down a well-trodden but hidden track between the ancient layers of sediment, each one breathes a sigh of relief as they feel their toes connect with the soft sand. Keep low and run for the boat, boys. - July 2022

Happisburgh cliff top, Norfolk where in my mind’s eye the scene takes place.

A blackberry-picking smuggler’s breakfast

In keeping with the heat of the Dog Days, rather than sharing a recipe for a warming porridge I thought a cool yet satisfying smoothie bowl might be just the thing for a smuggler’s breakfast.

Partly I was thinking about the story of the ghostly Happisburgh sailor I wrote about in Brazen Summer. The tale ends when the villagers, searching the spot at Cart Gap from which the apparition always began its spectral journey to the well, discover the rotting remains of a (surely smuggled) brandy barrel in a bramble patch.

As it happens, the house-name ‘Brambles’ you may have noticed higher up in this newsletter was photographed outside a cliff-top cottage at Cart Gap and there are masses of blackberry bushes all around it. Yes, I did poke around in hopes of finding remnants of an ancient brandy barrel - or even an intact one ;-)

This is a recipe I make on repeat year-round, varying the berries depending on what I have available. The bowlful I ate this morning contained only fruit from the garden (well, apart from the banana) but needless to say, foraged blackberries would fit the bill perfectly right now. In a recipe like this the flavour can be a little bland if you use blackberries alone, so I suggest adding lemon or orange juice to taste, or even the whole lemon or orange, peeled and de-seeded. It’s a smoothie, but designed to be served in a bowl and eaten with a spoon. Serves 2.

4 handfuls cashew nuts

2 handfuls porridge oats

1 tbsp chia seeds

1 heaped tbsp tahini (essential, although you could make it with peanut or almond butter for a different flavour altogether)

Good handful or two of berries - as well as the blackberries you could use strawberries, raspberries, blackcurrants, redcurrants.

1 large or 2 small bananas, preferably sliced and frozen overnight

Plant-based milk to give the thickness you like. I don’t measure but maybe start with around 400ml and add more if it’s too thick

Optional extras to add more goodness and fruitiness:

1 tbsp each of hemp, baobab and/or acai powder (or just a teaspoon of acai as it’s expensive)

Juice or whole fruit of 1 lemon or 1 orange (if using blackberries alone)

Simply place everything in a high-speed blender and whizz until it turns a beautiful pinky purple, adding more liquid if necessary. Serve with a dollop of coconut yogurt and a sprinkle of granola if you like.

PS: It would serve equally well as a pre-pilgrimage breakfast :-)

St James on the medieval rood screen of Edingthorpe church, Norfolk, with his scallop shell, staff and pilgrim bag. 4 August 2024

PRAY REMEMBER THE GROTTO

There is something about the world within an oyster shell that draws me deeply. For me, it’s not to do with pearls, which I know play a part in their mystique. In actual fact, I have read that the oysters found around the coast of East Anglia are not pearl-bearing, unlike British mussels, which do sometimes contain small pearls. Whenever I’m on the beach I find myself turning each shell over and over to gaze at its colours and run my fingers over its contours.

There is much I could write about oysters (and, well, you know Bracken & Wrack - it’s coming …) but today I want to talk about something that happens at this exact moment in the turning year.

These days oysters are a luxury, but in the past they were very much the food of the poor, being plentiful and easily gathered. It was not until the mid-nineteenth century, when stocks began to decline, that they became a dish for the elite. Before then, we are told by Sophia Kingshill and Jennifer Westwood in The Fabled Coast, oyster feasts were held in many places, and the great quantities of empty shells were traditionally made into miniature caves or grottoes, a custom that lasted into the mid-twentieth century.

The grottoes were hollow, and a candle was lit inside. Children would beg for a penny for the grotto much like the old ‘penny for the guy’ tradition on Guy Fawkes Night.

As Kingshill and Westwood put it: The custom was a relic from the days of pilgrimage; when it was an act of grace to visit the shrine of St James at Compostela, and those unfit for the long journey to northern Spain could pray before a home-made shrine instead. St James’ symbol was the scallop shell, in England translated into the more easily available oyster.

This would be interesting enough, but in This Hollow Land: Aspects of Norfolk Folklore, Peter Tolhurst goes further. He explains that pilgrims who had perhaps been to Canterbury or Walsingham and could afford to travel abroad might board a ship in Great Yarmouth in Norfolk, bound for Bilbao. From there they would continue on foot to one of the greatest shrines in Christendom, the Shrine of St James. On the saint’s feast day, 25 July (see A Savage Shock Of Joy for more about this) shrines were erected in Yarmouth so that those unable to travel to Spain could visit the town from where the ships departed and offer up prayers from this place with its spiritual link to the great Shrine itself.

In similar imagery to that given in The Fabled Coast, Tolhurst describes the structures as being traditionally made by local boys from oyster shells piled up to form a flat-topped mound, lit from a small opening by a votive candle. The more elaborate structures had a decorative border of shells and pebbles interlaced with seaweed and those who stopped to admire the work were invited to donate a penny.

Tolhurst explains that the shrines were descended from medieval shrines made from scallop shells brought back by pilgrims from Compostela, and says that the custom pertains to Yarmouth and appears to have been a debased form of ‘worship’ unique to the town. In fact, The Fabled Coast quotes a recorded example from Mitcham in Surrey (a suburb of London), but it’s not clear whether this relates directly to St James’ Day.

Where This Hollow Land’s version of events gets really interesting for me is the date on which the Great Yarmouth grottoes were assembled.

St James, of course, overseas it all. His feast day may be 25 July but after eleven days were removed from the calendar in 1752, the equivalent moment in the season occurred on 5 August. Like other ‘fixed’ celebratory dates - Michaelmas on 29 September for one - it seams that ancient memory of the feel of the natural world around us still holds sway in Norfolk. Here, the date to stop picking blackberries lest the Devil spits (or urinates) on them is, so Nigel Pearson tells us, eleven days later on 10 October.

And Tolhurst mentions that in his Perlustration of Great Yarmouth (1875), C J Palmer draws attention to the custom of assembling shell grottoes on - you guessed it - 5 August each year. On that date, the narrow alleys - rows - of the town would echo to the cry of ‘Pray remember the Grotto’ as pennies were begged for.

But time continues to shift the old and new calendars further and further apart, and now the season is thirteen days adrift of where it was before 1752. And that means that Old St James’ Day is now 7 August.

Which is TODAY.

So it looks as if I’d better grab my big wooden bowl of oyster shells and get busy.

‘Pray remember the Grotto’ - Old St James’ Day oyster-shell shrine with guardian eye and fairy-loaf stones, 7 August 2024.

Until next time.

With love, Imogen x