We British as a nation have always liked to think of ourselves as excelling at freethinking, and breaking new ground. We hold a kind of rose-tinted affection for characters like ‘Alfred Russel Wallace… a public figure in England during the second half of the 19th century, known for his courageous views on scientific, social, and spiritualist subjects… His formulation of the theory of evolution by natural selection… predated Charles Darwin’s published contributions‘.
Detail from Alfred Russell Wallace’s Malay Arcihpelago field study, 1854-1862 (Dutch East Indies)
Wallace, like Darwin and many others during the Victorian age, revelled in pioneering, swashbuckling tales of audacity and derring-do. In a similar mould, David Douglas, (of Douglas Fir fame) boldly went plant hunting:
‘Look, there’s the humble flowering currant, Ribes sanguineum, whose rosy-red racemes mark the beginning of spring. This was introduced by David Douglas, as were lupins, California poppies and many of the conifers that are now staples of our arboretums and suburban gardens… Douglas paid for his discoveries with his life: he was killed in Hawaii at the age of 35 in a pit dug to trap wild bullocks.’ (Plant Hunters, Victoria Summerley, The Independent 2012)
Perhaps this independent, fighting spirit goes some way to explaining the British intractability and dislike of being ‘told what to do’, and our often obstinate refusal to have our national character ‘compromised’ in any way. On our travels through and past the Victorian age, we have taken the liberty of passing where, when and how we like, but remain sceptical of the rights of others to enjoy the same privileges in return.
Perhaps we believe that our role in developing significant scientific theories, ‘taking charge’ in the name of civilised society, and (when not meeting dramatic and bitter ends on our intrepid adventures) generally patronising the world at large and providing a kind of template for what an aspirational, civically-minded modern citizen should look like, are good enough reasons to continue.
In the C18, Like the British, the Dutch, the French and the Spanish were also busily building empires with the human wealth of regiments and commandeering small countries in honour of their sovereign rulers. Eminent plant hunters Joseph Pitton de Tournefort (accompanied by talented early botanical artists like Claude Aubriet) were expanding the plant palettes of their respective countries and creating incredible botanical art for the record.
So it seems that this outward looking, exploratory tendency has brought a world of diversity to our doorstep. Interestingly, this doesn’t seem to have been enough to sate our voracious appetites for novelty. George Shull (an American, no less) discovered something known as ‘hybrid vigour’ – the process of selecting desirable qualities through the mixing of material with distinct/diverse genetic differences to create a strong, uniform hybrid:
‘For over a century animal and plant biologists have known that mixing two diverse strains of a plant or animal can result in more vigorous and healthy offspring. This “hybrid vigour” was first shown by American Plant Scientist George Shull at the Station for Experimental Evolution, Cold Spring Harbor, in 1908 when he crossed two different corn strains resulting in a more vigorous hybrid…’
‘Hybrid offspring are called the first filial or “F1” generation, hence the term gardeners are familiar with when buying seed; ‘F1 hybrid’. To produce F1 hybrids, the farmer crosses two pure-bred parent strains. Often, these parent stocks are relatively small populations and hence are genetically rather uniform. For this reason, the hybrid offspring tend… to be more vigorous than their parents…’ The Difference: A Modern Genetic Perspective, channel 4, 2000
That said, it is difficult to quantify good and bad qualities, which in reality, are as far from binary as it is possible to get – is uniformity really a good quality, and is unattractiveness really a bad one if we are only going to eat something? Talking of bad qualities – we Europeans (for our sins) also spawned the Drumpft, who is allegedly descended from Scottish and German stock. Happily exported, and thoroughly naturalised abroad.
Genetic diversity (and indeed diversity in general) is also partly why we need open pollination and heirloom varieties too.
‘…we slowly came to realise that most modern varieties have been bred for the needs of large-scale chemical farming, where all aspects of the environment are controlled with fertilisers, herbicides, insecticides and fungicides.
After all, supermarkets demand shiny fruit, that are tough to survive shipping and display, and so these are what are being bred. But these commercial varieties give poor results when grown on a home scale without all their chemicals. And whatever has happened to qualities such as flavour and tenderness?’ Real Seeds
Even British natives, (now frequently hybridised beyond recognition) like Dianthus gratianopolitanus, were accidentally introduced along with early Norman stonework imported from northern France for the construction of castles and fortresses after the invasion of England by Norman Vikings in 1066.
So some of our most famous ‘natives’ were, in fact, secret stowaways, introduced by accident. No one ever seems to agree on the precise origins of a plant and the same often applies to people. Indeed in many cases, it does not appear possible to make a definitive case.
Convallaria majalis is often considered to be native to the UK, however: ‘It is often difficult to separate native and alien plants and the map must be regarded as an approximation’ (Online Atlas of the British and Irish Flora)
Species seem to creep across continents and as climates change, they adapt. So what is a ‘true’ native – how can it be defined? Does it have inherent genetic weakness from millennia of breeding with only the true and ‘proper’ form, or does it enable noble and ‘pure’ lineage? Is a hybrid culture or material stronger because of its hybrid status? I have found investigation of this topic generates considerably more questions than it answers.
Jolly Old QE2, looking lovely. She’s a tiny bit German, you know.
Where exactly does the cutoff point lie, and is it ever possible to identify it? I am ‘White British’. But I am descended from Scotland, Ireland, Norfolk, (maybe some Dutch) Newcastle (maybe some Viking or Northern European), and Lancashire. And those are just the parts of my lineage I know about – should I decide to research my ancestry further, I’m sure I’d find a few surprises.
It’s complicated. Like me and my fellow inhabitants of the British Isles, many plant species are now completely naturalised and are not only valuable in terms of interest but now fully adapted to the climactic meteorological fripperies and caprices of the UK, of which there are multitudes (just in case you hadn’t noticed.)
Time, ‘What Science Says About Race and Genetics’, Nicholas Wade, 2014
Channel 4 ‘The Difference’, 2000
The Independent ‘The Plant Hunters’ Victoria Summerley, 2012
Real Seeds Online
Online Atlas of the British and Irish Flora
The Origin of Plants, by Maggie Campbell-Culver
The Douglas Archives
Nelumbo nucifera, or the lotus, is an aquatic plant known for its ability to grow from brackish, muddy swampland – and perhaps a little-known emblem for peace and purity in some regions of the world. It’s completely unrealistic, but the sentiment here is irresistible: ‘…According to Hindu philosophy, human beings ought to live like a lotus flower in this wily, unscrupulous world, completely detached and pure hearted, untouched by evil forces.’
Lotus Flowers with A Landscape Painting in the Background. c. 1885-1900. Martin Johnson Heade, North Carolina Museum of Art
In many Eastern religions such as Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism, the lotus is used repeatedly to represent inner peace and purity in much spiritual illustration. The idea that filth and pollution can be transcended and separated from earthly degeneration by meditating upon the lotus flower is seductive, although we all know purity and cleanliness are more likely to be achieved with graft and chemical karma: rivers of elbow grease, a giant lakesworth of Mr. Muscle (other cleaning products are available) and several reservoirs of bleach. The chemical angle doesn’t work for the mind, unfortunately. In Buddhism, the lotus is said to represent total purity of body, mind and speech: duck-like, its repellent qualities see water droplets slide from the smooth surface of the petals like mercury.
The Hindu goddess Lakshmi holding & standing on a lotus, Raja Ravi Varma ‘Lotus (he 荷, lian 莲) The lotus is the flower of the sixth month and summer. It is a symbol of purity because it rises out of the mud to bloom. Lotus blossoms are often depicted as a throne for the Buddha, and the lotus is one of the Eight Auspicious Symbols of Buddhism (ba jixiang 八吉祥).’
Jiezi Yuan Huazhuan, Lotus Flowers (Mustard Seed Garden Painting Manual)
‘Legend has it that the 14th day of June in the Chinese lunar calendar is the lotus’s birthday, commonly known as the Lotus Festival. This custom originated in the Song Dynasty (960-1279)’
There is an annual lotus festival in Guangzhou, China: ‘Guangzhou’s Fanyu District is the ideal location for this picturesque outdoor event, with its many waterways, ponds and lakes… The Lotus Flower Festival showcases over 280 different varieties of lotuses, with a total of around 15,000 individual flowers on display.’
The lotus is not just vital to Indian and Chinese depictions of inner peace and purity, but was also central to ancient Egyptian culture and symbolism. Because the flower closes at night and reopens at dawn, it was used repeatedly in the applied arts to symbolise rebirth and regeneration – an archetypal Egyptian preoccupation.
Egyptian Lotus Chalice, Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, MD, USA
Probably a more universally recognised symbol of peace, the olive branch, inhabits the collective consciousness as a traditional peace offering.
Olea europaea, Köhler’s Medizinal Pflanzen 229, by Franz Eugen Köhler, Köhler’s Medizinal Pflanzen
‘Early Christian art often depicts a dove flying and holding an olive branch in its beak. The dove is a symbol of the Holy Spirit, and it brings the olive branch (a symbol of peace) down to the people on Earth. Christian tradition also adds a dove carrying an olive branch to the story of Noah and his ark, a sign for Noah and his family that the flood and storm had finally ended after 40 days and 40 nights.’
Olive Trees, Vincent Willem van Gogh
One of the oldest living olive specimens can be seen at the Garden of Gethsemane. Ironically, plumb in the middle of a religious conflict which has been going on for as long as I can remember.
One of the oldest olive trees in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jerusalem, by Bogdan Kosar
Pablo Picasso, Colombe de L’Avenir 1962, featuring a dove carrying an olive branch.
Picasso was an active member of the communist party from 1944 until his death in 1973 and a dedicated advocate for peace:
‘In 1944, after the liberation of Paris, Picasso joined the Communist Party and became an active participant of the Peace Movement. In 1949, the Paris World Peace Conference adopted a dove created by Picasso as the official symbol of the various peace movements. The USSR awarded Picasso the International Stalin Peace Prize twice…’ Therein lies yet more irony.
War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy
The Lotus Temple or Bahai House of Worship, New Delhi, designed by Fariborz Sahba
Imagine, by John Lennon
Organisations for Plants and Peace
‘Plant for Peace is an initiative designed specifically to assist rural communities and smallholder farmers in conflict and post conflict territories around the world to achieve food security and sustainable economic development thereby contributing to stability by empowering communities to become self sufficient through sustainable agriculture and trade.’
Julia Ward Howe
Two Bobs – Dylan and Marley
The Dalai Lama
John Lennon & Yoko Ono
St. Francis of Assissi
All images Wikimedia Commons, with the exception of ‘Peace Signed Official’ Headline from the Pall Mall Gazette, below (Imperial War Museum Archive)
Pace Paix Pax say Peace in every language
Placard for the Pall Mall Gazette. Refers to the signing of the Treaty of Versailles.
Imperial War Museum, London Art.IWM PST 12972
Notes: The Nobel Peace Prize, first awarded in 1901, is an invaluable resource for finding out more about individuals and organisations widely considered to have made outstanding contributions to world peace.
We have begonias with fancier pants than the ladies of the Folies Bergères in 1910, Chrysanthemums brassier than Angie Watts circa 1987 and potatoes more purple than Prince’s paisley pantaloons (read Sally Nex’s blog for Crocus on the French heirloom potato variety ‘Vitelotte’). All the results of meticulous and laborious selection, over many painful years indeed – but still – just by selecting and manipulating specific forms, to breed in the characteristics we value.
So. Given the almost infinitely ludicrous diversity of the plant kingdom – including a vine with a flower that resembles a pelican’s bill (Aristolochia grandiflora) and orchids that look like tiny people; mimic bats, moths, or pretty much anything in their immediate locale – the idea of deliberately mutating plants by blasting them with radiation seems… well… a bit mental.
I had never heard of ‘gamma gardens’ until a friend sent me a link to an article about experimental gardens or ‘gamma fields’ being developed by the Japanese and the Russians in the 1950’s and 1960’s; a practice later more widely known as part of the ‘Atoms for Peace’ pro-nuclear propoganda campaign launched by the Americans in 1955 to clean up the appalling image of the nuclear industry following the disastrous bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945.
The advancement of this original research is still being built upon today at Brookhaven National Laboratory in Long Island, New York, which opened in 1947 as an atomic research facility. However their research themes have broadened significantly to include such lofty enlightenment as ‘Exploring cosmic mysteries across the smallest and largest scales imaginable, from neutrinos to dark energy’ and ‘colliding subatomic particles to recreate matter from the dawn of time, and study the force that gives shape to visible matter in the universe today’. The list of Nobel Prizes is a little dizzying. Perhaps a bit beyond my pea-brained forays, but still. We press on.
‘The Atomic Gardens grew out of post-WWII efforts to use the colossal energy of the atom for peaceful pursuits in medicine, biology, and agriculture. ‘Gamma Gardens’ at national laboratories in the US as well as continental Europe and the USSR bombarded plants with radiation in hopes of producing mutated varieties of larger peanuts, disease resistant wheat, more sugary sugar maples, and African violets with three heads…’
Improbably, an irradiated peanut fell into the hands of an housewife and atomic gardening enthusiast from Eastbourne, one Mrs. Muriel Howorth. The said peanut was gifted by progenitor Walter C. Gregory of North Carolina State College, U.S.A, and became a local celebrity in its own right when it sprouted and grew to gargantuan proportions in Mrs. Howorth’s back garden in Eastbourne.
The experiments led by the Japanese, the Russians and in the USA under the Atoms for Peace banner sought to ascertain whether any desirable qualities could be bred into crops using radiation technology in a peaceful, productive, economically responsible and positive way: “It’s clear from reading the primary sources that most people involved were deeply sincere. They really thought their efforts would eradicate hunger, end famine, prevent another war.” Paige Johnson, Pruned, ‘Atomic Gardens’
The only known functioning ‘gamma garden’ appears to be the Institute for Radiation Breeding in Ibaraki, Japan; (please, if anyone has information to the contrary please correct me) although I wouldn’t be surprised if there were ‘secret labs’ all over the place. I once heard a rumour there was one in a disused warehouse in Fairfield, Hebden Bridge, specialising in a mutant strain of giant rhubarb. I can’t corroborate on the Fairfield facilities but the ones in Ibaraki are comprised of a purpose-built ‘gamma room’ (for irradiating seeds, bulbs, scions and tubers), a ‘gamma greenhouse’ for experiments on subtropical plant material, and a working ‘gamma garden’, for irradiating plants growing in situ – creepily arranged in concentric circles with a ‘radioactive pole’ in the centre to deliver the radiation.
Eminent nanotechnology researcher and inspirational garden history and landscape blogger Paige Johnson (interviewed here by the brilliant ‘Pruned‘ blog) briefly describes the working process of ‘mutation breeding’ as:
‘basically a slug of radioactive material within a pole; when workers needed to enter the field it was lowered below ground into a lead lined chamber. There were a series of fences and alarms to keep people from entering the field when the source was above ground.
The amount of radiation received by the plants naturally varied according to how close they were to the pole. So usually a single variety would be arranged as a ‘wedge’ leading away from the pole, so that the effects of a range of radiation levels could be evaluated. Most of the plants close to the pole simply died. A little further away, they would be so genetically altered that they were riddled with tumors and other growth abnormalities. It was generally the rows where the plants ‘looked’ normal, but still had genetic alterations, that were of the most interest, that were ‘just right’ as far as mutation breeding was concerned!’
‘That’s a pretty direct route; the genetic change produced by irradiation remains in the commercially cultivated variety, as my research shows so far. So yes, it is possible that someone, planting atomic seeds in their allotment, produced a plant with a genetic mutation that was robust enough to still possess the mutated ‘feature’ today.’
It is impossible not to ask yourself why we need to ‘hurry’ more desirable genetic traits into crops using radiation when we already have plenty of diversity and disease resistance in existing plant material.
‘Atomic gardening’ was considered a fast route to selecting desirable genetic traits in plant material, and a primitive precursor to modern genetic engineering and GMO techniques – although the safety of the end product is arguably less controversial.
Gamma gardens have produced many cultivars of irradiated crops with ‘useful’ mutations. Positive mutations in specific plants have been identified and directly utilised in commercial production, including the ‘Rio Star’ grapefruit, widely grown in Texas – famed for their ultra-red flesh and juice – and the psychadelic sounding ‘Purple Orchid III’ a mutagenic sweet potato grown by the Chinese. FROM SEEDS TREATED IN SPACE. YES. IN SPACE.
In the mutagenic varietal olympics, The People’s Republic of China definitely gets the gold for the most mutagenic varietal cultivars released globally at 25.2%. With silver, Japan wins with 15%, and in bronze position is India, with 11.5%.
Perhaps unsurprisingly – given the celtic and anglo-saxon penchant for getting out of our minds, gamma gardens have offered us ‘Golden Promise’ barley – a salt-tolerant dwarf-mutant barley form used in the brewing industry for beer and whisky – and we took it. Interestingly, the Whiskies of Scotland PR machine fails to mention their choice barley cultivar was created using radiation.
I’m guessing that most of us would be clueless about the ‘atomic heritage’ of plant material or seed. In the same way as many products made with GMO crops are unlabelled, ‘it is unclear how many of these varieties are currently used in agriculture or horticulture around the world, as these seeds are not always identified or labeled as being mutagenic or having a mutagenic provenance’. *shudders*
Atomic Bomb, by Andy Warhol, 1965
Atomic Gardening, by Muriel Howorth, 1960
Track of the Month
‘Atomic’, by Blondie
Postnatural, highly recommended.
Any papers by Paige Johnson
As an ‘evegalist’, I should really be extolling the invernal virtues of curly kale and brussels sprouts, but my heat and light longings induce visions of Carribean promise, and the sweetest of all bromeliads, the pineapple.
The pineapple is an unlikely symbol of the British will to succeed in growing something entirely inappropriate against all the odds. For me, it is synonymous with ostentatious carved Victorian gateposts and finials, carnival, glamorous cocktails, the tropics, Barry Manilow – and by loose tropical-themed association, Wham!’s ‘Club Tropicana’ and Duran Duran’s ‘Rio’. I’m sure I recall pineapple motifs in the 1980’s, too, but I may have just made that up*. I certainly remember plenty of school discos serving cheese and pineapple hedgehogs and doing a ridiculous dance to Black Lace’s classic ‘Agadoo’, which seemed to involve a great deal of inexplicable pineapple-pushing.
The pineapple (Ananas comosus) is a fascinating plant, which lends itself naturally to design, (even harbouring the famously harmonious Fibonacci sequence, manifest in the ovules). The sequence is visible as raised, diamond shaped segments on the husk, which connected, form diagonal spirals around the entire fruit.
‘The Paraná-Paraguay river drainage basin is thought to be the region where the pineapple originated. It was also the home of the Tupi-Guaraní Indian tribe. . . ‘Ananas’ comes from the Tupi word nanas, meaning ‘excellent fruit’, as recorded by André Thevet in 1555. . . ‘comosus’ means tufted, and refers to the stem of the fruit. . . (it) is a perennial monocotyledonous plant with terminal inflorescence and fruit.’¹
Christopher Columbus, on his epic and impossible-seeming sea voyage, was the first European to taste a pineapple in Guadalupe, Mexico, in 1843 – but people didn’t figure out how to grow them until 1719, when the first greenhouse fruits were cultivated.
Fruit and vegetable growing went on to become a competitive sport amongst the Victorians, who strove to grow all the most elusive and exotic hothouse fruit and flowers in order to impress their eminent houseguests. ‘Rare, exotic and hard to grow, Pineapples were a symbol of great status and wealth in Victorian times. ‘A pineapple on your dining table meant you were a person of discernment, style and affluence’².
If money were no object, and I could buy any house, anywhere, my money would have to be on the Dunmore Pineapple, Falkirk. Not only is it an immensely eccentric piece of British architecture, it presides over a huge walled garden, which (perhaps unsurprisingly) used to house numerous pineapple pits and glasshouses. And you can actually stay here, in the gardener’s annexes flanking the pineapple. Heaven.
‘The Pineapple is an elaborate summerhouse of two storeys, built for the 4th Earl of Dunmore. Though classical and orthodox at ground level, it grows slowly into something entirely vegetable; conventional architraves put out shoots and end as prickly leaves of stone. It is an eccentric work, of undoubted genius, built of the very finest masonry. To house the gardeners, stone bothies were built on either side of The Pineapple and it is in these that you stay. . .
It probably began as a pavilion of one storey, dated 1761, and only grew its fruity dome after 1777, when Lord Dunmore was brought back, forcibly, from serving as Governor of Virginia. There, sailors would put a pineapple on the gatepost to announce their return home. Lord Dunmore, who was fond of a joke, announced his return more prominently’³
When I think of some of the achievements of the Victorian age – the incredible, labyrinthine and still-functioning drains under London, numerous engineering conundrums in the form of improbable bridges, huge, towering iron behemoths and multiple industry-fuelling engines of mammoth proportions – growing a pineapple seems small beer. Horticulturally, however, it is no mean feat. Dedication and constant cossetting is mandatory for pineapple maintenance. I have seen it done with great success at The Lost Gardens of Heligan, where they have what they believe to be the United Kingdom’s ‘…only pineapple pit, the only working, manure-heated pineapple pit in Britain today. It was unearthed in 1991 and architectural and horticultural historians spent many months researching the history of its construction and technology. The first structure here was probably built in the eighteenth century’†.
From this incredibly labour intensive and high maintenance Victorian affectation, the pineapple grew to symbolise wealth and fecundity, which (in a highly ironic about turn) in the modern world is more likely to be seen as emblematic of an excessive consumer thirst for exotic curiosity, and comes at a price: the ubiquity of intensive farming, monoculture, environmentally and socially damaging growing practices and unsustainable air-miles. Maybe I will have a kale and sprout superfood powershake instead of a piña colada after all.
Track of the Month
Wham! ‘Club Tropicana‘ Party staple of my school discos in the 1980’s, and featuring George Michael, object of my (sadly misdirected) pre-adolescent desires.
Book of the Month
‘Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life’, an inspiring book by one of my favourite authors of all time, Barbara Kingsolver. A highly political slow-food rollercoaster about the Kingsolver family’s decision to take a militant pro-local food stance and give the twos-up to massive agribusiness, intensive farming, chemical-peddling, gene-manipulating multinational corporations. An illuminating book to inspire and educate fledgling heirloom gardeners and smallholders to continue with their struggle to grow diverse, locally produced food selected for flavour, and perhaps even adapted to local conditions. (The Seed Savers exchange is well worth a look if crop diversity and heritage cultivars are your bag).
*I did a quick poll on social media about this, and found that my memory was not as bad as had I feared.
The National Trust for Scotland
¹Natural History Museum
²†Lost Gardens of Heligan
³The Landmark Trust
Anton Seder Prints, Images courtesy Panteek, Wikimedia Commons
All other photos: Wikimedia Commons
A tree turning leaf from verdant green to fiery vibrancy is like nature’s lightbulb moment – a flash of brilliance before winter sets in. The riotous conclusion, hidden since budbreak, appears from almost nowhere. Mother nature throws up her showgirl-skirt ruffles with abandon; flashes us her rainbow knickerbockers and chucks on her gaudiest baubles.
This sudden flash of brilliance soon gives way to the sedate evergreens and minimal silhouettes of winter. November is a month when glow, hue and luminescence are at the forefront of the imagination; the absence of summer colours and sunny brightness gives way to the brazen blaze of senescent fire you find in autumn colours, the reds, oranges, yellows and pinks which light up the grey skies like an open fire in a windowless boxroom.
Lux, lx, illuminance. Lumen, lm, luminous flux. Watt, W, power, radiant flux. These are scientific terms used to describe and measure the levels and power of light. One of the eminent founders (or ‘Lunarticks’) of the Lunar Society of Birmingham, James Watt – was responsible for coining the term ‘horsepower’ and was named for the measurement of radiant flux, or ‘watts’. The Lunar society were a group of industrialists and philosophers at the forefront of the ‘Birmingham Enlightenment’, who met monthly on the Sunday falling nearest to the full moon, between 1765 and 1813. They remain esteemed as one of Britain’s most significant and influential groups of active pre-industrialists, the original ‘ideas’ men.
One of my own early ‘lightbulb’ moments during my misspent youth in Yorkshire involved badgering my parents to take me and my friends across the perilous border into Lancashire to see a ridiculous amount of lightbulbs all in one place and make ourselves frightfully sick on the big dipper. Yes, the multiple highlights of Blackpool seemed to me to be the height of fun in the 1980’s. It certainly beats sitting in a wet field watching my dad turn the headlights of our Ford Cortina on and off on the Widdop Road c.1985. Incidentally, Strictly Come Dancing hailed from the Blackpool Tower Ballroom on Saturday 15 November (where if you went back in time, you could also see an eight year-old me dancing to the famous Wurlitzer organ). Lightbulb overload.
For an alternative route to illumination, you could swing east to Parcevall Hall Gardens and religious retreat for an almost impossibly contrasting experience. Enveloped in the undulating Wharfedale-towards-Nidderdale hillscape of North Yorkshire, Parcevall Hall was created in the late 1920’s and early 1930’s by one of the founding members of RHS Harlow Carr – W.P Milner. Parcevall Hall is now owned by the Diocese of Bradford and is still used as a religious and spiritual retreat today.
Milner was a devout man with a penchant for rare Chinese and Tibetan plants. He laid out his garden in the late 1920’s utilising natural outcrops of rock for his famous rockeries, and copious quantities of gritstone from the hall’s dedicated quarry were hauled down to shore up the immense buttresses he used to contain his ambitious cruciform terracing.
The result is a dramatic (and slightly gothic) combination of intriguing eastern planting, (much of which is characterised by vivid autumn foliage or berries) framed by immaculate, imposing stonework and structural, geometric hedgework.
Many old and heritage apple cultivars can be found here, and the bright palette reminds me that the traditional garlanding and decoration we see at winter festivals are all about bringing light and colour to the oppressive seasonal darkness and are undoubtedly inspired by the natural ornamentation we see on our native trees and in the hedgerows: Ilex aquifolium, Euonymus europaeus, Taxus baccata, and Malus species, fruits and berries beading the boughs well into winter.
Two works of art about light in the darkness, ideas as illumination – literally and metaphorically – sparks, inspiration and transformation.
Track of the Month
High Voltage, by Electric Six. Coincidentally, also from Detroit, Michigan – where Nocturne In Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket currently resides. Currently? See what I did there – I’m on (electrical) fire. Somebody pass the fire extinguisher.
Book of the Month
The Lunar Men: The Friends Who Made the Future, 1730-1810, by Jenny Uglow
Plant of the Month
Rosa moyesii ‘Sealing Wax’, a species rose collected by all-things-eastern enthusiast W.P Milner in the 1920’s and 1930’s.
All images my own, with the exception of the landscape photograph of Blackpool Tower and the Illuminations and the botanical drawing featured at the end of the post, which are courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
There is a freedom and creativity that resonates in the naming of apple and pear cultivars which I have long appreciated. I like to revel in the Anglo-Saxon olde-englishness of these names, which are frequently punctuated with an insolent gallic shrug or a royal continental flourish. These vivid, descriptive names make it easy to imagine what inspired our ancient, not-so-ancient and new-world growers to christen their apples so peculiarly and poetically. There is also a bawdiness and an undercurrent of innuendo in some of these names that definitely has an appeal all of its own.
So here is my pome-poem to celebrate my love of this eccentric British tradition.
Redstreak, Forty Shilling
Ten Commandments, Bishop’s Thumb
Swan’s Egg, Princess
Holly, Allen’s Everlasting
Book of the Month
The Herefordshire Pomona
‘The Herefordshire Pomona’ – containing original figures and descriptions of the most esteemed Kinds of Apples and Pears’, by Robert Hogg and Henry Graves Bull, first published between 1876 and 1885 is currently on sale on ABE books at a mere £13,000.00. But it is in very good condition.
Track of the Month
Apple Stretching, by Grace Jones
Paul Cézanne, ‘Apples and Oranges’
‘Apples and Oranges. . . combines modernity and sumptuous beauty. . . the most important still life produced by the artist in the late 1890’s’ (Musée d’Orsay)
Plant of the Month
Malus domestica. A blazing glory of cultivars and varieties.
Images: Wikimedia Commons, Musée D’orsay
Sugar cane is a stately plant, and a member of the grass family (Poaceae). It is not dissimilar to some of the the Bamboos in appearance, with thick, often striated culms and marked, conspicuous internodes.
It is incredibly tall (up to four metres) and in flower has a magnificent plume, rather like a giant Miscanthus, It is usually grown as an annual, from cane cuttings. There is an especially beautiful Hawaiian cultivar called ‘Pele’s Smoke‘, a towering grass with glossy, dark purple leaves.
Saccharum officinarum is likely to have originated in New Guinea and the South Pacific, where it is locally known as a ‘Canoe plant’ – the freight transport method of choice in Polynesia. Not quite logistics on the scale of Norbert Dentressangle or Eddie Stobart, in other words.
While we’re on the subject of transportation, I once took a bus tour in Cuba, where our antedeluvian bus broke down next to an enormous sugar plantation. While we waited for the driver to FIX HIS OWN BUS (which he duly did), an old couple proceeded to cut a cane with a pocket knife and showed us how to chew the cane for the refreshing juice. It wasn’t a bad way to spend an hour and gave me pause to ponder quite how resourceful people become with so little. Cubans are the ultimate heroes of recycling.
Sugar cane is an incredibly utilitarian crop – paper can be made of the fibres when all the cane juice has been extracted and is a key crop in the development of ethanol and biofuel. It is also used for thatching, basket making, weaving, and has a variety of medicinal applications.
On a less utilitarian (and more fun) note, you can make rum from molasses and cachaça from fermented and distilled cane juice, both of which I sampled* in Cuba. Party time! Cachaça is the most popular spirit in Brazil – approximately 1.5 billion litres are consumed annually. And the Brazilians know a thing or two about the party spirit.
There’s a Yorkshire version of Cachaça (Foggage) made using fermented moss and new fern foliage, which is traditionally made in a peat bog during Whitsun week (ideally wearing clogs). It is particularly popular in the old mill town of Hebden Bridge, but beware, 70% proof is almost too alcoholic even for the rock-hard locals. Foggage goes some way to explaining the common chant of ‘You’re going home in a Yorkshire Ambulance’ on a Friday and Saturday night down Hebden.
Although sugar is a crop grown far afield in tropical and sub-tropical regions of the world in a climate so different to our own, it is enmeshed with the rising and falling fortunes of Great Britain and Empire.
The British Empire grew from the original English Empire, first recognised in the early 1600’s when the English settled in the ‘Thirteen Colonies‘ (which in 1776 finally became the independent ‘United States’) Alongside these settlements increasing colonisation and exploitation of the small islands of the Caribbean was also occurring. These smaller sugar plantation islands quickly became Britain’s most profitable colonies.
It is impossible to talk about sugar without mentioning Sir Henry Tate, founder of the Tate Gallery and prolific art collector, was a successful grocer and entrepreneur before making his fortune in the sugar trade, just as the British Empire was expanding and during one of the most rapid periods of economic growth in British history. Tate bequeathed his collection to the people of Great Britain in the form of the original Tate Gallery opened in 1897 (now known as Tate Britain).
It is noteworthy that Tate’s success was largely attributed to the patenting of a method of creating the sugar cube, and that our ideas about contemporary art have such strong associations with the white cube, or an inverted white cube – the four white walls of a traditional art gallery interior.
Henry Tate might be in a spot of bother if he was around today. Health professionals and diet and nutrition specialists alike seem to agree that we are pretty addicted to sugar, which is used as an additive in pre-prepared food with abandon and seems to sneak into almost everything
You could certainly include sugar alongside other plants with significant addictive properties; Papaver somniferum (opium poppy) Erythroxylum coca (Cocaine) and Coffea arabica (coffee). The insidious use of sugar as a high-calorie and now nutrition additive in pre-prepared food is squarely blamed for the global obesity ‘epidemic’.
An ode to sugar, Fuller’s Point in Sussex, (reputedly built by the Squire of Brightling John ‘Mad Jack’ Fuller to win a bet) represents a sugarloaf, which before 1872 – the year Henry Tate patented the sugar cube – was the iconic conical shape in which sugar was traditionally formed for retail. Previously, bits would have been broken off and sold to individual customers in groceries at point of sale. Sugarloaves were rendered obsolete by the event of Tate’s patent on sugar cubes.
John Fuller was an Eton educated member of the landed gentry and was a conspicuous advocate of slavery, having inherited several West Indian plantations on his father’s death, including sugar plantations. He was a notorious drinker, patron of the arts, bachelor and generally a bonkers egomaniac with a penchant for follies and an inexplicable philanthropic streak. His mausoleum is an extraordinary miniature pyramid which looks entirely out of place in the sleepy churchyard of St. Thomas à Becket, Brightling.
The mausoleum inscription from the 1791 poem by Thomas Gray ‘Elegy Written in a Country Chutchyard’ is beautifully apt and demonstrates that Fuller was not completely unthinking:
The cultivation of sugar cane, along with cotton, indigo and rice, are all crops tainted with the spectre of slavery; the largest forced migration of workers to plantations and processing points of all time. Slavery bound generations of black Africans and West Indian people to a brutal system of obligatory and unremunerated life of toil and hardship, reducing people to articles of property, wrenching families apart and in the worst cases, completely brutalising slave owners and enforcers as well.
‘Slavery in America began when the first African slaves were brought to the North American colony of Jamestown, Virginia, in 1619, to aid in the production of such lucrative crops as tobacco’.
Annually, a Slavery Remembrance Day is held on 23 August; ‘a significant date as it commemorates an uprising of enslaved Africans on the island of Saint Domingue (modern Haiti) in 1791’ (Liverpool Museum of Slavery)
Slavery was not abolished in the UK and the British Empire until 1833 and remained legal in many states in the USA until 1865.
Sadly there are still many problems associated with sugar production, low wages, and cases of unexplained diseases (mainly in Central America) in plantation workers – especially relating to kidney failure – which appear to be connected to cultivation and more specifically, harvest.
Many medical professionals are attributing the high levels of fatal kidney failure in plantation workers to heat stress and dehydration, while others believe the unrestricted use of chemicals banned in many other parts of the world where sugar cane is cultivated may also be a contributing factor.
Two pieces; Victor Patricio’s painting ‘Corte de Cana’, 1874 (above)
and SIR HENRY TATE’S MAUSOLEUM, 2012, Brendan Jamison
A perfectly pitched piece by Irish artist Brendan Jamison. A replica of Sir Henry Tate’s Mausoleum in miniature rendered entirely in carved sugar cubes. Well worth a click on the link.
Books of the Month
Sweetness and Power, Sidney Mintz
Fifty Plants that changed the Course of History, Bill Laws
Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Harriet Beecher-Stowe
Track of the Month
It has to be ‘Sugar Sugar’, by The Archies
Plant of the Month
Saccharum officinarum ‘Pele’s Smoke’
LIverpool Museum of Slavery
National Tropical Botanical Garden, Hawaii
Missouri Botanic Garden
The Poetry Foundation
British Medical Journal
All images Wikimedia Commons. Attributions have been included.
Who knew that jet – a hard, black, organically-derived mineraloid commonly found in the gothic cliffs of Whitby in North Yorkshire, is formed from the fossilised remains of Araucaria araucana (Monkey Puzzle) tree?
‘. . .Araucaria is derived from the Arauco region of central Chile, where the Araucani Indians live. This is the land of the monkey puzzle tree (A. araucana), so named because the prickly, tangled branches would be difficult for a monkey to climb. It has been suggested that an armor of dagger-like leaves on ancient araucariads might have discouraged hungry South American herbivorous dinosaurs, such as the enormous Argentinosaurus that weighed an estimated eighty to a hundred tons!’
The Araucariacae family encompasses three genera: Araucaria, Agathis and Wollemia. Within these genera some incredible ancient trees can be found, some of which are at least equal in their outlandish beauty to A. araucana. Living fossil Wollemia nobilis (discovered in Australia in 1994) is definitely one of them.
‘Fossil evidence indicates that the Aracauria family reached its maximum diversity during the Jurassic and Cretaceous periods, between 200 and 65 million years ago, with worldwide distributions. At the end of the Cretaceous, when dinosaurs became extinct, so did the Araucariaceae in the Northern Hemisphere’.
So, Araucaria araucana probably became extinct in Whitby between 200 and 65 million years ago, and mindblowingly, the fossilised remains of those extinct trees now yield significant jet deposits along a very short stretch of North Yorkshire coastline, between Runswick Bay and just to the North of Whitby. The Romans loved it – York being the centre of the Roman trade – and Neolithic/Bronze Age examples of jet jewellery have also been found.
Jet was highly prized by the remarkably gothically-minded Victorians, who loved a bit of hard black shoegazing. Queen Victoria famously wore it among her widow’s weeds on the death of Prince Albert in 1861, and its subsequent links with mourning and Victoriana have been set in stone ever since.
Whitby itself is more or less the epicentre of English gothic high-kitsch, with vampire and ghost tours whispering their terrors on blackboards advertised around each cobbled bend on every Whitby street.
I have often wondered if the gothic legacy of jet itself is partly responsible for Whitby’s morbid obsession with all things crepuscular and dark. Bram Stoker’s 1897 classic novel ‘Dracula’, famously partly set at Whitby Abbey, obviously has more than a bit-part to play in the nocturnal notoriety of the town’s undeniable witching-hour romanticism.
It was a stroke of genius that Stoker chose Whitby, with all its associations with mourning, death and disaster, to frame his novel. His treatment of the town itself is decidedly anthropomorphic, with the town emanating a ghostly sea-misty malevolence compounded by many tales of shipwreck, gore-soaked whaling voyages seeking yields of whalebone for stultifying, suffocating corsets and stays, as well as blubber oil for lamp burners. Throw in a few biblical coastal storms and you have a potent briny literary brew which for me is completely unrivalled in atmosphere.
Luckily for Stoker and his iconic gothic novel, he seems to have divined Whitby’s ongoing knack for misfortune, which has only served to reinvigorate the powerful and magical dark mysticism invoked by ‘Dracula’. In 1914 Whitby Abbey (a glorious manifestation of incredible architectural gothic provenance and having survived centuries of assaults, including The Reformation) sustained further damage from two German battlecruisers Vann der Tann and Derfflinger. A hospital ship, Rohilla, was also sunk in the bay during the attack.
You can certainly feel a very peculiar ambience at the Abbey, if you brave the 199 steps to the top – even surrounded by hundreds of other tourists. Perhaps it is the dishevelled countenance of the Abbey, with all the sea and wind-pocked headstones and the merciless position high up on those precipitous cliffs. Or perhaps my knowledge of the Abbey’s tumultuous and tortured history is seeping in? I’m never quite sure.
What I am sure of is that Whitby is one of my favourite British seaside towns. As a child all those gothic tales and the beautiful black-as-night jet jewellery caught and charmed my imagination just as much as they do now. It was also a brilliant day-out escape from Hebden Bridge – which, as you will know if you have read my blog before – has a personal legacy of bleak gothic romance. Thank you very much rain, bleak industrial heritage, desolate moorland, Brontës, Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes – and Kate Bush, you didn’t help either. From one cruel, windswept romance to another. HEATHCLIFF!!!
Plants of the Week
Book of the Week
‘Dracula’, Bram Stoker
Track of the Week
‘Night Shift’ from the 1983 album ‘Nocturne’, Siouxsie and the Banshees
‘Abbey on the Hill, Whitby, Yorkshire’ by George Scarth French
‘Nocturne: Black and Gold – The Fire Wheel’, James A.M. Whistler
Whitby Abbey: English Heritage
Corsetry: The Vintage Fashion Guild
Terminology: Checked using Oxford English Dictionary
Paintings: MyPaintings, Tate
Jet jewellery: British Museum, Wikimedia Commons
History of Jet, Geology: The Whitby Jet Heritage Centre, and british-history.ac.uk
Taxonomy/Distribution of Araucaria: The Gymnosperm Database
Photographs: Wikimedia Commons and my own
Other websites and relevant articles, click on the link
I was disproportionately overjoyed when I stumbled upon Butea monosperma, a gorgeous tree which in India seems to embody the idea that the plants that grow naturally in the immediate locale should be used and revered where they grow, often to celebrate and facilitate necessities and local custom. Butea monosperma is not only emblematic of two important Indian regions – Uttar Pradesh and Jharkhand – but is, both spiritually and in a practical sense, completely interwoven with the routines and rituals of daily life.
Butea monosperma is a flaming, beauteous beacon of floriferous ornament, as well as boasting numerous utilities and an entire pharmacopia of medicinal applications – among which (unromantically) is a hemorrhoid preparation made from the fruit. Fortunately, and in favour of romance, some of her common names are highly evocative; the most notable being ‘Flame of the Forest’. She is also known regionally as Palash and Dhak¹, and is, perhaps bizarrely, named after John Stuart – the third Earl of Bute, and former Prime Minister of the United Kingdom from 1762 until 1763.
So even her taxonomy is intertwined with the fascinating history of the British Empire and India’s shackled relationship with it. John Stuart (1712-1792) famously negotiated the end of the Seven Year’s War with France and her allies in 1754:
‘The French and British East India Companies and their respective Indian allies were at war with each other. The East India Company led by Robert Clive defeat the French ally, Siraj Ud Daulah, at the battle of Plassey ending the rule of the last independent Nawab of Bengal. This is judged to be one of the pivotal events leading to the formation of the British Empire in South Asia. The resulting central administration and governance starts a process that leads eventually to the formation of unified India’.
Excerpt from http://www.theeastindiacompany.com/index.php/24/timeline/. Read more about the incredible history of the East India Company and the formation of the British Empire using the link above. Also see BBC 2’s current exploration of the birth of empire through the lens of the East India Company:
The Third Earl of Bute’s time in office was notoriously short. He was much maligned – or even hated – in Parliament, until his resignation after only 11 months. He was also a Scotsman, which may or may not have been an advantage in Parliament at the time. (Speculation suggests the latter).
Unlike the poor old third Earl of Bute (luckily for Butea) she is much loved, and still employed in countless capacities. Our ‘Flame of the Forest’ also goes by the moniker ‘Bastard Teak’, (presumably partly because she never rots of succumbs to the unpleasantries of podiatric fungi).The wood is so hard and resistant to rot that countless tools and implements are made from it². In a country where monsoon conditions can cause persistent problems with mould and rot during the rainy season, this must be invaluable.
Maybe we could introduce her to Hebden Bridge? The good folk of t’Bridge could certainly do with a top-class rot-proof hardwood to make their famous clogs, ‘worn by Yorkshire folk long before industry and machinery invaded that county of broad acres’, as it’s monsoon conditions year-round in the Calder Valley. However, it is sub-arctic as well, so it may not be a match made in heaven. Incidentally, I had a Saturday job at Walkley’s clog factory in Hebden Bridge when I was 16.
Photograph from the Imperial War Museum archive collection:
Because of Butea monosperma’s resistance to rot and entropy, her wood is routinely used for water-bearing vessels and appliances, drainage and pipework. Butea wood is noteworthy for being used to make well curbs and water scoops, and deteriorates incredibly slowly. So yes, perfect for Yorkshire.
The flowers are crushed and used to make dyes³ for religious festivals such as the festival of colours (Holi), interior paint and even has a role in funerary rituals. Where mourners have no incarnation of the deceased but are assured that their loved one is dead, a piece of Butea wood is substituted and cremated in place of a body. The tree itself is also associated with the Hindu fire god, Agni¹.
The traditionally English name of ‘Parrot Tree’ refers to Butea monosperma’s beautiful beak-like red flowers, emanating from massed stalks with dark green cup-like calices. Myriad ‘beaks’ radiate from the mass of stalks, conjuring up visions of gruesome pirates angrily dismembering their noisy avian familiars, debeaking poor old Polly and chums in a bloodthirsty and merciless frenzy. (Or perhaps that’s just my riotous and slightly ridiculous imagination running wild).
Continuing along the avian theme, Butea is an ugly duckling. Gangly and awkward in December and January when the tree is denuded of leaves and flowers, the gnarled silvery-grey bark only accentuates what is essentially an ungainly form. Messy and unfocused, the limbs grow in all directions and with a distinct lack of elegance. This phase is thankfully short. As the flowers crowning the upper canopy of the tree start to appear in February and March, the apex of each tree seen en masse clearly justify the name ‘Flame of the Forest’, creating the illusion of waves of flame.
Butea monosperma is native to tropical and subtropical regions – more specifically parts of the Indian subcontinent and southeast Asia. She belongs to the Leguminosae family, or Papilionideae. Other genera within the family include Acacia, Cercis (and a tropical vine wildly and rudely named Clitoria). According to http://www.theplantlist.org/ there are literally hundreds of other noteworthy friends and relations, too.
Butea monosperma is not only a beautiful tree, but provides seemingly endless resources for the people who are lucky enough to live alongside it. I have only touched on some of the uses of this versatile plant and, in particular, the medicinal applications merit significantly more detailed investigation. I hope to collaborate further on this subject with scientists and botanists in the near future.
Butea monosperma inspires artists, too:
Ranjani Shettar: http://talwargallery.com/ranjaniflame-pr/
Track of the Week
Light my Fire, The Doors https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vb5uJ4b78Q0
Book of the Week
The Strangler Vine, M.J Carter. A book about the oppressive and conflicting dilemmas of the Sepoys and the British military in India during the height of the East India Company’s powers. http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/book-review-the-strangler-vine-by-mj-carter-9102257.html
A collective representing small-scale forest farmers and co-operatives in Rajasthan, India, is harvesting natural products and promoting the understanding of their native forest plants (including Butea monosperma) through carefully controlled, sustainable trade: http://www.samarthak.org/?page_id=46
‘The Rajasthan Forest Produce Processing Group Support Society ( Samarthak Samiti ) is a registered organization (under Act 1956), which is active in six districts of the state with the broad objective of providing guidance and motivation to smaller organizations, cooperative societies and such other societies, which are engaged with minor forest produce collection and devoted to the cause of biodiversity conservation’
Other relevant links:
Graphic illustration of Butea monosperma: http://salliesart.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/butea-monosperma.html
On Gardening in India: http://www.cityfarmer.org/indiagarden.html
Other articles on Butea monosperma: http://www.downtoearth.org.in/content/when-satpura-blushes
¹On Etymology, colloquialisms, general usage, medicinal applications, customs and ritual uses of Butea monosperma, Vinay Ranjam’s plant survey document for the Central National Herbarium, (Howrah) has been indispensible:
²Applications & uses from references kindly recommended by Indian Botanists via
³On natural dye:
General information on indigenous uses of Butea monosperma:
Since we discovered how to transform plants into articles of clothing, as an inherently creative species, we have probably also pondered how we can beautify and enhance an unnecessarily dull piece of garb and elevate it in order to make a more decorative and interesting garment. Perhaps rather like the lady in this wonderful Mexican-inspired assemblage. Creative.
Some of the earliest archaeological evidence of dyeing comes from Mohenjo-daro, or ‘The Mound of the Dead’ in the Sindh province in Pakistan.
Textile (cotton) artefacts have been recovered from the archaeological site, which was a huge settlement and one of the first notable early ‘cities’ in the modern sense of the word. The artefacts recovered from Sindh have included pieces of cotton dyed with a madder-based (Rubia tinctorum) vegetable dye, and Indigo, (Indigofera tinctoria) from an ancient dyeworks:
‘One of the greatest accomplishments of the subcontinent was the development of the technology of dyeing and patterning of fabric. This is evident from the discovery of a dyer’s workshop at Mohenjodaro. . Indigofera tinctoria, source of the most fabled dye, grew in abundance on the banks of the River Indus. Over time various embroidery techniques were developed in the quest to further embellish the fabrics’ (Article from The Free Library, Bilgrami, Noorjehan, 2008)
Common madder (Rubia tinctorum) produces anthraquinone pigments in its roots, one of them being alizarin (1,2 dihydroxy anthraquinone) which has been used for dyeing textiles since 2000 B.C.’
The incredibly long, thick roots of the common madder (Rubia tinctorum) are a source of red dyes generally known as ‘rose madder’ and ‘turkey red‘, the intensity of the final colour depending on the type and amount of mordant (dye fixing agent) used.
A celebration of colour in India, the spring festival of Holi (translated as ‘burning’) sees the fury and vibrancy of reds and oranges, cadmiums, and siennas, moody blues and verdant greens thrown every which way over the human body.
Primarily, Holi is a celebration of the beginning of the new season. There is also evidence in Indian literature that it has been a celebration of agriculture, good spring harvests and fertility – (which has latterly been transposed onto married women). In the Hindu faith, it is commonly seen as a time to enjoy the new proliferation of spring colours.
Some participants in Holi still prepare plant-based pigments derived from Butea monosperma, a beautiful tree with flaming blossoms indigenous to tropical and sub-tropical Asia. The flowers are crushed to yield a bright yellow dye.
The festival ushers in the dominance of good over evil and the arrival of spring. Traditionally it is a day of forgiveness and an opportunity to socialise, heal rifts in relationships, and generally have a darn good hoot. Holi is celebrated at the approach of vernal equinox, and is closely linked with the full moon falling closest to it.
As a colour steeped in mystery and royal mythology, purple is an interesting colour case history. ‘Royal Purple’ or Tyrian Purple, was the colour of choice for the gods and kings of the ancient Greeks (and more latterly of diminutive purple pop-professor Prince – legend has it he still insists of Tyrean methods to embellish his raiments. (Not actually true).
The purple dye known as Tyrean or Royal Purple was extracted from the mucous glands of Mediterranean Murex brandaris (a species of mollusc) by the Canaanites and Phoenicians. It was initially extremely costly and time consuming to extract – four million molluscs for one pound of dye (hence the preserve of the regal).
The pauper’s version of Royal Purple could be simulated using a lichen, Roccella tinctoria. Unfortunately it was just as stinky and unpleasant as the Phoenician city of Tyre (famed for Tyrean Purple) and its overwhelming stench of rotting shellfish, because it requires weeks of steeping in ammonia (or piss, to you and me) for the colour to bind.
While Royal Purple is not derived from plants, composite purple dyes can be made by mixing blue dye extracted from Isatis tinctoria (woad) and Indigofera tinctoria (Indigo) with Rubia tinctorum, (common madder).
Other plants capable of producing purple shades are Morus nigra (Mulberry), Bryonia dioica (white bryony) and Caesalpinia echinata (Brazilwood) using sulphuric acid (or vitriol) as a mordant. I often employ vitriol myself on people I don’t like. Not the acid version – that would be GBH. Just the less harmful ‘ascerbic tongue’, which runs in the family. And I usually keep it to myself, (where possible).
‘Mauveine’, ‘Perkin’s Mauve’, or ‘Aniline Purple’ was the first synthetic chemical dye to be invented. It was discovered by William Henry Perkin by accident in 1856, in a failed attempt to sythesize quinine.
Usually I include a Hebden Bridge quip but I can’t find many reasons to joke this week. Before the height of the Industrial Revolution in West Yorkshire, I’ve heard anecdotes that the river Calder was hopping with salmon. From 1850 onwards, there were no fish stocks left, largely as a result of the chemical runoff industrial dyeworks discharged along the banks.
As a child growing up in Hebden Bridge, I still saw what appeared to be similar practices happening from time to time well into the 1980’s. Apparently fish are now beginning to reappear.
Track of the Week
‘Purple Rain’, by Prince
Also highly recommended viewing: ‘A History of Art in Three Colours’ a triptych of programmes with Dr. James Fox commissioned by BBC4 in 2012.
Book of the Week
‘The Colour Purple’, by Alice Walker
More Blogs on Plant Dyes and the Iconography of Colour
I have used what appear to be reliable sources, you can find further information on these by clicking on the links. Where I have quoted directly I have provided further information.
Images: Wikimedia Commons, attributions stated where necessary