AS Carl Linnaeus was crossing Putney Heath in London in 1736, the botanist’s eyes alighted on a prickly bush. Asking his coach to stop, he jumped out, fell to his knees, and wept at the sight of the golden flowers, which he had been (unsuccessfully) trying to cultivate in his greenhouse in Uppsala, Sweden. Gorse might not usually provoke such an emotional reaction, but its ability to light up the winter gloom is unrivalled.
Common gorse (Ulex europaeus) starts to flower in January and appears to flower all year—hence the old country saying ‘When gorse is out of bloom, kissing is out of season—but this is actually a botanical illusion.
There are three species of gorse and, when common gorse finishes flowering in June, western gorse (Ulex gallii) or, in the South- East of England, dwarf gorse (Ulex minor) take up the torch from July to November. The result is a strong chance that, at any time of the year, at least one species of gorse will be in flower.
Gorse is a member of the pea family (Fabaceae) and is able to manufacture its own nitrogen through its root nodules. This allows it to live happily on low-nutrient soils and its name derives from the Anglo-Saxon Gorst, meaning waste—a reference to its prevalence on heathland. Among its local names are furze, as it’s known in the New Forest and Exmoor, whin in Scotland and Cumbria and, on the upland areas of Devon, where it can turn whole hillsides yellow, it has assumed the delightful nickname of Dartmoor custard. Wherever it grows, the delicious dollops of flowers dominate the landscape. This is particularly true in the Quantock Hills in Somerset, where western gorse weaves among purple heather to create a dazzling carpet.
Preceding pages: Gorse in its glory engulfs the hills of the Pembrokeshire coast. Above: Sheets of silk created by the red gorse spider mite, dew-spangled like fairy gossamer
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