LAST year’s heatwave and drought reduced parched lawns to a uniform brown, but one species of spindly weed continued to rise here and there above the desolation, its dark-green feathery leaves and bunches of tiny white or pinkish flowers defying the arid conditions. Native across Scandinavia, Europe and Asia and now found around the globe, common yarrow is as tough as it is prolific. If it is mown, its base leaves lie flat and its stem regrows. Left to reach its natural height at the wayside and field edges, it may attain a good 2ft. In times past, this persistence was gratefully acknowledged, for common yarrow was a plant of considerable worth and figured prominently as a herbal remedy throughout recorded history and probably far earlier. Soil analysis at a Neanderthal burial site in a remote cave in the Baradost mountains of Iraq contained yarrow pollen, suggesting a significance to humanity as early as 70,000 years ago—or more.
The plant’s popular name derives (awkwardly) from the Old English geanwe, with closely related versions in Dutch and Old High German, but, botanically, it was inevitably enmeshed in the classical world. Homer wrote that the mythological Greek hero Achilles was instructed by Chiron the centaur in the use of yarrow to treat his warriors’ wounds in the Trojan War. The legend provided Carl Linnaeus, that indefatigable distributor of Greco-Roman labels, with a 1753 genus classification that combined ancient narrative with the reality of its multifilament leaves—Achillea millefolium. Early Christians believed it was the first herb the infant Jesus held in his hand and that he used it to heal his earthly father Joseph. The French called yarrow ‘herbe de St Joseph’ (today, it is achillée) and, in this country, its many folk names included carpenter’s weed.
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