Sometimes a plant really resonates with me emotionally. Today, it was gorse.
Running along the side of what I call Lunar Lake (owing to it’s crater-like perimeter) but is actually called Alexandra Lake (named after Alexandra of Denmark who Queen-consort to Edward VII at the time of its excavation, around 1906–7) or Sandhills Pond (owing to its sandy banks) there currently stands a vision in yellow.
I had to stop and take a picture (a great way to look closer on the spot and at leisure, later), zooming into pea-like petals of bright sunshine made up of fused keel (the lower petals of a Fabaceae family flower enclosing the stamens and pistil), wings (the two lateral petals) and a sail-like banner of standard (the top petal). Little ships of hope set against a steely January sky.
The flowers are fastened to a black-haired stem by an obvious peduncle (stalks) and two pairs of little bracts but they don’t sit there alone. Guarding their radiant exposure are a dark-green army of rigid, deeply furrowed spines, modified leaves designed to withstand the harsh weather of exposed bush and grassland. The special forces of the plant world.
At first I thought it was Scotch broom (Cytisus scoparius), which is found in abundance on the Flats but the spines say otherwise. Scotch broom has almost identical flowers but long stalks of vegetative, simple, three-part leaves. Scotch broom also flowers in late spring.
This then must be it’s thorny cousin known as common gorse (Ulex europaeus), which does indeed flower in January, providing little nectar but an early source of pollen for emerging bees and their Queens, and a sheltered nesting place for small birds.
I’ve heard that the flowers smell of coconuts. I lean in to inhale the scent, spines piercing my face in the quest for just the faintest hint of tropical. It does indeed deliver the goods, albeit in a dose that’s more of a mini-break than a desert island gap year in terms of escapism.
I’ve also read that you can eat gorse flowers – as a trail snack, added to salads, in drop scones cooked over a fire, picked in vinegar like capers, or as gorse wine or cordial (find a recipe on Robin Harford’s trusted site Eatweeds) – but consumed in moderation as the plant is also known to contain slightly toxic alkaloids. Apparently the taste also gets stronger in spring (common gorse blooms from January through to June) so you might want to leave any foraging until then.
If you’re after capturing the colour while inhaling the aroma, you can also try using gorse flowers to make a natural dye (historically used for some tartans, apparently) although you need a significant haul of blooms (picked with gloves to combat prickles) or the help of a mordant to get a deep golden hue.
For the moment, the gorse gave me just the instant lift I needed to get through the potential monotony of another lockdown day. An unseasonal burst of vibrant colour but with a weirdly pragmatic dose of protective thorns. Optimistic but guardedly so. I may come back tomorrow to get my fill.