I was late in planting my sweet peas this year and it seems that with the cold and wet spring they’ve been playing ‘catch-up’ ever since. So it was a joy to see the first flower at the weekend. Just when everybody else’s beautiful sweet peas are finishing mine are finally getting going!
Sweet peas have so much going for them. Native to Sicily, the southern Mediterranean and the Aegean Islands they bring a breath of summer sun and warmth to any garden.
The colours are rich and vibrant – or delicate and subtle. The perfume is simply heavenly – and quite heady. Just a few stems cut and placed in a vase can scent a room for days. In the language of flowers sweet peas have been used to express youthful love – symbols of delight, beauty and affection. As a child I recall visiting a great aunt and being given a posy of sweet peas to take home – it was the first time I had encountered their wonderful fragrance and I was entranced!
Sweet peas have been associated with gratitude and loyalty and are linked with firm and lasting friendships. The flowers appear fragile but are hardy and resilient and have been used to symbolize strength and courage in the face of adversity.
The poet John Keats wrote:
Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight: With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white…
So enjoy them – outdoors in all their splendour as they romp up a support, or indoors where their colour and perfume will bring joy to all.
I’ve written about lavender before (see post 12th August 2020) but at this time of the year you really can’t have too much of a good thing!
As well as producing beautiful flowers – the sight of which is enough to instil a sense of tranquility – simply brushing your fingers along a stem of lavender flowers releases the magical fragrance, encouraging a sense of calm, ‘de-stress’ and peace. Simone de Beauvoir once wrote: “I am thinking of the lavender in my garden. It is like drinking a glass of cold water when you are really thirsty.”
That feeling of well-being can be captured and enjoyed long after the garden lavender blooms have faded and summer is just a distant memory. Dried lavender is wonderful for refreshing wardrobes and cupboards, for scenting an airless room or for conjuring up a refreshing cup of tea.
Lavender for household use is best picked just before the first flowers are fully opened. Snip long stems and dry them by spreading them in a single layer on a cloth somewhere warm and dry. You can also hang the stems in small bunches indoors – as they dry they will release their magical fragrance. After about three weeks, rub the stems gently over a tray and gather the dried flowers. Use in potpourri or dainty lavender sachets.
Soaps and toiletries have long featured lavender due to its cleansing and antibacterial properties. Before the days of deodorant products the Elizabethans would use dried lavender in laundry to absorb stale smells. After washing clothing it might be spread on lavender bushes to dry in the days before tumble dryers.
Smoothing a little lavender oil on the forehead can relieve headaches and stress – after breathing in its intoxicating scent a sense of contentment pervades your whole being. Lavender soothes but stimulates; it relaxes and refreshes. Breathing in this wonderful fragrance calms the mind, helps recover hope and optimism and makes the world seem a more promising place.
In the days before housework was a daily task made simple with modern appliances, lavender was one of the herbs used for strewing when reeds and rushes would be scattered on floors to absorb dirt and detritus from everyday living. Modern cleaning techniques mean that such measures are no longer necessary but a carpet sprinkled with lavender can make a room smell fresh and delightful. Simply grind two cups of dried lavender together with two cups of soda and four teaspoons of ground clove and cinnamon. Sprinkle the mixture on a carpet, leave it for about an hour and then vacuum up to leave the room smelling sweet and cleansed.
This effort may leave you feeling in need of a cup of tea – simply brew a tablespoon of dried lavender in hot water for about five minutes, add honey to sweeten, if desired, and then relax and enjoy with this little gem from the 19th century American novelist and poet Myrtle Reed : “It always seems to me as if the lavender was a little woman in a green dress, with a lavender bonnet and a white kerchief. She’s one of those strong, sweet, wholesome people, who always rest you, and her sweetness lingers long after she goes away.”
May that sentiment make you smile and refresh your day too…
It always seems a bit strange that we celebrate midsummer only two days after the summer solstice. This year feels particularly odd as summer has been a long time arriving in the northern hemisphere – only now are the winter woollies being put away and sunny summery clothes take centre stage.
The days are at their longest, the sun feels welcomingly warm and gardens that were held back by spring chill are now bursting into life as though making up for lost time.
Before the change from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar in 1752 St Barnabas Day fell close to midsummer and there’s piece of folklore that goes like this:
Barnaby bright, Barnaby bright The longest day and the shortest night. When St Barnabas smiles both night and day, Poor ragged robin blooms in the hay.
Ragged robin is a wild flower of the hay meadows and haymaking is at its peak at this time of the year. Good weather is essential to ensure the hay is harvested in peak condition and stored dry for winter fodder. St Barnabas day marks the first day of haymaking – the old country saying was, ‘On the day of St Barnabas, put the scythe to the grass.’
The heat from the midsummer sun is thought to imbue herbs with their healing qualities so this is the day when they are gathered at dawn and then put to dry for use in simple herbal remedies or hung at doors and windows to ward off harmful spirits.
St John’s Day falls on 24th June and celebrates midsummer. There is an old belief that, ‘If the cuckoo sings after St John, the harvest will be late.’
Usually the cuckoo arrives in April, starts singing in the middle of the month and stops in late June – so there appears to be a grain of truth in the observation that if the cuckoo is still singing after midsummer then the season is certainly late and the harvest will be late too – potentially serious if it coincides with the less reliable weather of early autumn.
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