Blackthorn beauty

As March turns to April, millions of tiny blooms spring from the spiny shrubs in our hedgerows, covering their dark stems in creamy white blossom. Adele Brand writes in praise of the unsung but resilient blackthorn

- Adele Brand

I call it the fragrant frost. It arrives with a shiver at winter’s end when a cruel north-east wind blows – so the legends say, but then folklore has never seen the best in blackthorn. It is true enough that the hills seem dozy, with trees bare and sombre beside meadows bereft of wildflowers. And there, suddenly, impossibly, spring’s pioneer splashes brilliant white paint over hedgerows with such impatience that its own leaves miss the show.

Blackthorn, black bark, white blossom: a warm snowfall that wafts sweet almond perfume. Flowers of five petals apiece and long stamens tumbling; so tightly do they cluster that the limbs that bear them are but shadows in the veil, black stems sturdy beneath. In March and April, blackthorn celebrates contrast like an artist working in monochrome.