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.

But who is the performer? Blackthorn lacks the fame awarded to many larger trees, yet quietly embeds itself in folklore, landscapes and all frequently in flesh – its thorns are long thin spears whose tips can survive months inside their victim. Packed with alkaloids, the inflammation can be fierce. Yet blackthorn defies easy judgment. Its brutality is useful; we have recruited it as a livestock-proof barrier for at least 4,500 years, and pruned twigs unearthed in Cambridgeshire are thought to be evidence of the world’s oldest hedging. Still a mixed blessing, it often wanders via suckers from where we plant it, invading agricultural fields and rare chalk grasslands. It is nicknamed the Mother of Woods, for where it goes, other trees may follow. Beneficial but rebellious, adaptable yet stubborn, blackthorn is an old but unwilling servant.