As we slowly emerge from a year better suited to the plotline of a dystopian science fiction novel, this year more than ever the recent arrival of spring brought with it the promise of brighter days ahead. In this most magical period of metamorphosis, once the ice begins to thaw, spring flowers and plants, much like us mortals, start to peep their heads up out of the earth in search of the sun. And as trees blossom and flora magically transforms the forest floor and meadows into a kaleidoscope of colours, a walk amongst nature might well lead you to believe you’ve entered your own living breathing fairy tale. Thanks to their unique forms and ability to incite a sense of wonder, it’s perhaps not all that surprising that flowers and trees frequently spring up in European folklore, where they are revealed time and time again to have magical or supernatural abilities and be laden with superstitions. So to celebrate the enchantment of this glorious season and its flora, some of our best-loved women writers and poets take us on a magical journey through Northern Europe’s spring forests and meadows, sharing some of their favourite flora folklore, superstitions and rituals along the way.
Niamh Boyce, acclaimed Irish writer of the novel The Herbalist and fairy tale themed poetry collection Inside the Wolf nostalgically recalls frolicking in Irish spring meadows as a young girl and indulging in the flower picking rituals and superstitions linked to their wildflowers.
Spring arriving, with its snowdrops and daffodils, reminds me of playing with flowers as a very young child – hunkering on the grass and plucking daisy petals to forecast (does he love me, or love me not!) or splitting their stems with our thumbnails and making daisy chains to put around our necks or wear as crowns and parade around. We held buttercups beneath each other’s chins – a golden shine on your skin meant you loved butter. We blew dandelion clocks to tell the time, and avoided ‘pissy bed’ flowers out of superstition – so much of our play had magical elements, we were such happy little pagans.
A year into the pandemic, Jen Campbell, the marvellous British author of the magical The Beginning of the World in the Middle of the Night short story collection and book of poetry, Girl Aquarium, has spent the past twelve months shielding in her home. In this diary entry, she ventures out at 5am to walk through an ancient spring forest, where a discovery of a bed of Wood Anemone sparks a reflection on its magical and more sickly folkloric associations.
In the forest at the end of our street, we come across a bed of Wood Anemone. The seeds of this plant are mostly infertile, so stumbling across large amounts of it is seen as proof of ancient woodland. I crouch down to look, feeling the soil underneath, which is soft, and this — according to Lewis Carroll — means that these flowers cannot talk because they are fast asleep. The Wood Anemone’s sepals are white, not green, which gives the appearance of petals — in fact, they look like pale, white buttercups.
They are delicate little things. Greek mythology tells us they sprouted from Aphrodite’s tears, as she wept over the death of Adonis. The Romans believed that the first to flower, every spring, should be plucked as a charm against infection. Folk would herd the ghostly flowers into their arms, proclaiming: “I gather these against all diseases!” The flowers would then be tied around the necks of the sick while they prayed.
It starts to rain, so I stand up to go home, pulling my coat close to me. The Wood Anemone closes itself in wet weather, too. Folklore would have us believe that this is to keep fairies safe and dry inside their flowers. And even though, like all anemones, the Wood Anemone is poisonous, it is said to have medicinal properties, especially against respiratory infections. Ingest too much, however, and you will die. In China, they call Wood Anemones the flower of death.
Folklorist Niina Niskanen shares some of the rituals and folklore connected to her native Finland’s forest flowers, Violet and Twinflower and Lily of the Valley, long used to entice fairies and to attract or repel potential lovers.
Some wildflower violets commonly found in Finland are the Forest Violet (Metsä-orvokki) and the Marsh Violet (Suo-orvokki). According to folklore, wild violets are thought to have magical abilities. They are also believed to attract fairies with the violet was being a portal to the fairy tale otherworld. In rituals, Violet was also the flower of the lovesick and was used to attract true love and provide protection from evil spirits. Similarly to violets, another common flower found in Finnish forests called the Twinflower (Vanamo) is also said to entice fairies as well as forest spirits. The bell-like flowers of the Vanamo mean that it has been given the nicknames harakankello (magpie´s bell) sirkunkello (singing bird´s bell).
Lily of the Valley is Finland’s national flower with its name in Finnish kielo, referring to the tongue-shaped leaves or Tongue (Kieli) and Cow’s Tongue (Lehmänkieli). Said to protect spell casters from the evil eye and keep unwanted suitors at bay, they are extremely poisonous so beware should you come across them on a trip to the forest!
Deirdre Sullivan, author of feminist fairy tale retellings Savage Her Reply and Tangleweed and Brine and numerous equally brilliant novels, reflects on encountering the warmth of the dandelion in spring fields and the folklore superstitions linked to the hawthorn tree: a favourite of the Celts who once ruled of her native Ireland, and witches alike.
In terms of everyday plants, the Dandelion is one that I really like, for setting intentions, and to serve as a reminder of warmth and happiness. It’s a very common little plant, and the combination of its bright sunburst, and its healing properties mean I always enjoy seeing it. I also tend to be drawn to trees with somewhat sinister associations, the Hawthorn being the one most grounded in Irish folklore and superstition for its connection to the fairy realm, and the implied threat to anyone who harms it. I like the tradition of planting yew trees in graveyards, and the connection that it has to longevity, death and rebirth. I also found the fact that it was poisonous extremely fascinating and compelling as a child.
Susan Earlam, writer of the forthcoming eco-horror novel, Earthly Bodies, meditates on the secret life of an Italian walnut tree, an ancient being who has been the innocent bystander to witchcraft rituals practised at its base in the 13th century. During Sabbats, witches were believed to hold banquets, engage in ecstatic dance and even orgies with demons who took the shape of cats and goats at the foot of one particular tree, and through use of a flying ointment, supposedly took flight before becoming spirits of the wind.
During research for writing a novel, I discovered some stories around Walnut trees, specifically one in the Benevento region of Italy which was connected to a group of local women, then seen as witches, in the region. In addition to the local women, “witches” were said to have travelled from all over Europe to practice rituals at the base of this particular tree. I’m really interested in how trees bear witness to life and time passing, and this tree must have had many tales to tell.
Emma Carney, practicing witch and founder of the Digital Coven, grew up on a farm where she spent lazy spring days seeking out fairy folk and channelling the spring goddess Persephone in its surrounding meadows and woodlands.
Spring to me has always been the most magical season. I was always enchanted by the myth of Persephone as a young child, and to be honest I still am. I imagined her emerging back into the world, the ground literally singing in glee as it was reenergised, ready to gestate new life. My family farm always had a blanket of daffodils and I took a lot of pleasure in learning all the varieties, finding a new one each year. I also have the most wonderful memories of making daisy chains with my friends in the fields and crowning each other as the Queen of Spring whilst doing little dances in a circle holding hands. I still have some of these crowns, dried between book pages and saved for prosperity behind a glass frame.
As I wandered through the woodland, I delighted in the spouting of the Snowdrops and Bluebells, making sure to visit the secret nooks where they would grow annually. Being from Irish stock, folklore was rife in my Family and I believed that the Fae would make dresses and hats out of their petals. I was careful never to pick them though, just to look. On sunnier days, my cousins and I would always go exploring to see if we could see the little people at the bottom of our garden. I truly believed that they had frequent meetings behind the flowers there. In spring it was the Cherry Blossom which I used to collect up into big piles and mush between my fingers, breathing in its fragrant smell.
Eventually, as I have grown into the Witch that I am today, I still collect Cherry Blossom for my spells, using it in the oil that I make in my Moon water for spell work. I often dry some of the petals for future use, mainly for self-love and abundance work. However, I still make sure to mush some between my fingers for old time’s sake though. Some memories are sacred.
Poet and nature writer Bethan Langford reflects on the beauty and superstitions linked to the Wales’ national flower, the daffodil. Synonymous with this time of year and instantly identifiable trumpet-like head, the flower is connected to numerous folktales, myths and shrouded in superstition.
Whoosh! Their heads are up and we’re off, into the rambling spring once more with daffodils, daffodils and more daffodils! Be they the thinner, paler-petalled wild British daffodils, or the darker more well-known variety, this charismatic flower perfectly conjures up the season, with all its connotations of new life, hope and joy. Growing up in Wales, where it is our national flower, deciding whether to wear that humble leek or a bright daffodil on the Dewi Sant Eisteddfod (feast of St David) was an easy choice.
Daffodils have long dominated the landscape in Wales and indeed across the British Isles, perhaps largely due to their poisonous sap which simultaneously prevents many plants from sharing its company and animals from making it dinner. These near-ubiquitous flowers are beautiful, and they know it. Pouting their coronas towards the sky, they are also known in Latin as Narcissus and connected to the Greek myth. And the names go on: yellow maidens, butter and eggs, Easter roses, lent lilies (from their appearance between Ash Wednesday and Easter), Cenhinen Bedr (Welsh for Peter’s leek) or sometimes daffydowndilly if you were around during the 16th Century.
Yet when it comes to this cheerful flower, it seems that joy is only to be found in the company of others, for whilst a bunch of daffodils are thought to grant happiness, a single bloom is said to bring misfortune. In medieval Europe, a single Daffodil was also believed to portend death if it drooped when you looked at it. Yet should you be the first to notice the initial Welsh Daffodil of the season then your following year may be filled with riches. Avoid trampling them at all costs for this effort might bring good luck too! With their cheerful, seemingly fateful, presence everywhere, I shall certainly try.
After abandoning UK shores for the Dutch city of Haarlem several years ago, writer Jayne Robinson wistfully recalls the magic of chance encounters with the bluebell patches of Britain’s woods before delving into their more sinister superstitions.
Since leaving my home country of the UK six years ago, something I miss most in springtime is the joy and age-old wonder of stumbling unexpectedly upon a patch of bluebells in the woods. Surely one of nature’s most enchanting gifts, almost half of the world’s bluebells can be found illuminating the forest floors of the British Isles’ most ancient woodlands – some of which are thought to be the last remaining traces of the wildwood which covered its landscape after the last ice age.
From the violet haze that swirls like a will-o’-the-wisp between the trees to the up-close beauty of these little fairy bells with their curled-up toes, this dainty species holds a power like few others. The bluebell is at its most bewitching in shaded woodland areas, where cool conditions intensify its purple colour. This duality of shade and beauty, at once ancient and fleeting, is at the heart of the sinister folklore that surrounds the flower.
If a child picks a bluebell in a bluebell wood, they will never be seen again. These secret places have also long been known as enchanted portals to another realm, where people are carried away by fairies. It is also said that blue bells ring to call all the fairies to a gathering, but if a human hears the sound, it would be their death knell. Harbinger of death, yes but as one of the first flowers of spring, the bluebell is also a symbol of life and rebirth. And the fact that it’s a spring flower which rings out in the darkest of places means its a symbol we could all find a little hope in just now.
Many thanks to the writers who so kindly contributed to this feature. You will be able to read interviews with authors Niamh Boyce, Jen Campbell, Deirdre Sullivan and folklorist Niina Niskanen in the coming weeks.
Lyonesse Journal 