Self-Sufficient Herbalism. Lucy Jones
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plant populations.
A butterbur hat!
Wild harvesting is a wonderfully nurturing and relaxing activity. It provides a really good counterbalance to the demands of clinical practice and restores our spirits if we are feeling a little depleted. It is most definitely in our bones, and I encourage you to learn to connect with it if, so far on your herbal journey, you have not yet done so.
7
Planning your herb garden
At the planning stage of a herb garden it is a very good idea to assess what opportunities and constraints there are at your site. Every site has its advantages and disadvantages. It is very tempting to get stuck in and start planting straight away, but a little patience and planning will reward you with far fewer obstacles down the line as well as beautifully vibrant herbal crops.
The first priority is to understand the nature of the site that you have chosen. What is the soil like? Is the site shaded or in full sun? What climatic constraints are there: is it prone to frost or high winds, for example? If it is prone to drought, is there sufficient clean water to provide adequate irrigation? What was the site used for before? Could it have been subject to chemical applications, or does it have a persistent weed population? What browsing animals could have access to the site, and will you need to fence it to keep them out?
The site of my herb field in West Dorset before its creation, and nearly the same view four years later.
As well as common herbs, I grow Himalayan Burdock (Saussurea lappa), a Tibetan medicine that is officially extinct in the wild.
Once you understand the broad physical qualities of your herb-growing site, you can move on to the second main consideration, which is to review your herb-growing objectives. Do you want to grow a wide range of medicinal herbs in order to provide a dispensary for treating your patients, or do you have specific requirements for an established herbal product range that you make? Do you intend to grow some commercial crops of herbs to supply others alongside your own needs? Is your main objective to concentrate on growing herbs that are difficult to get hold of from wholesale sources, or do you wish to focus on conservation, growing species that are endangered in the wild? Will your herb garden be ornamental or utilitarian in nature? Would you like to create a demonstration garden to teach people about herbs? Does the design of the garden need to accommodate visitor access or reflect particular themes, such as a sensory garden for the visually impaired?
Most herbs are very easy to grow and will tolerate a wide range of sites, especially if you can modify the growing conditions a little with good soil management and irrigation, as needed. This means that most of us can establish a beautiful and productive herb garden and grow the herbs of our choice. With that happy thought in mind, let us find out how to understand the physical attributes of our site.
Soil
The most fundamental thing to consider is the soil. Soil is so much more than something on which to grow our herbs. As human beings, we only survive and thrive due to our relationship with plants. Soil enables those plants to grow, and in turn we are nourished and formed by them. Yet, alongside this physical action, soil has a deeper energetic function. Soil provides us with a ‘template’ for groundedness and wholeness. When we take plants into our bodies as medicine, they deliver a reminder that we are part of a bigger whole. A message of wholeness and connection with the earth is a very potent agent of healing indeed.
Chalk downland meadow in West Dorset.
I first learnt properly about soils while studying at Oxford University. I was taught by the legendary soil scientist, Dr Philip Beckett. Phil Beckett was a very inspiring lecturer and tutor. He was quite a character, and we all loved his lectures. He was amusing and informative, and he encouraged us to think for ourselves. He once wrote in New Scientist magazine: ‘In research, as in life, most seminal ideas often arise before the mind and imagination have settled into a rut.’1
I vividly remember the magic of first seeing the relationship between the distribution of plant species and the soils beneath them. Our student cohort from the Agricultural and Forest Sciences undergraduate degree course was on a field trip to Blewbury Downs, a steeply sloping area of chalk downland near Oxford. We were divided into groups, and each group was tasked with digging a soil pit at a different point on the slope. Our location was a beautiful wildflower meadow. Around us was a hugely rich and diverse flora, including a multitude of grasses, Wild Thyme (Thymus serpyllum), Gentians (Gentiana spp.), Scabious (Scabiosa columbaria), Horseshoe Vetch (Hippocrepis comosa), Wild Carrot (Daucus carota), Eyebrights (Euphrasia spp.) and many more.
After the hard graft of digging our soil pits, we walked from the top of the hill down to the bottom, comparing the soil profiles at different locations. They varied quite a bit in different parts of the site, and we could see that the distribution of each plant species in the meadow was much influenced by soils and aspect. Not only did the plant species present vary on slopes facing to the south or to the north in the same area, but they also varied according to whether they were growing at the top of the slope, part-way down it or at the bottom. It was fascinating to see that even microclimatic variations in aspect and soil type created by large anthills had resulted in different distributions of plant species compared to the overall distribution on the main slope. Suddenly, I realized that I was seeing the meadow in a new light. The arrangement of the plants had become predictable and understandable, as well as beautiful. It was as though I had been taught to read a code that had previously been illegible to me. Everywhere I looked, the connection between soil type and plant distribution was clear and visible. That moment permanently changed the way that I view the landscape around me.
The portentousness of the revelation was healthily balanced by a great deal of hilarity when we all retired to a nearby pub for lunch. Bearing in mind that we were at Blewbury Downs, some of our group had selected Fats Domino's rendition of ‘Blueberry Hill’ on the jukebox, and, with impeccable timing, the first iconic chords had rung out just as Phil Beckett stood up to begin a detailed explanation of our findings. To his great credit, he joined in the joke and waited until the track had played out before starting to speak.
Wild Carrot growing on the downs above Blewbury.
So, while studying at university I learnt that if we understand the nature of soils, we can read the landscape around us and appreciate the intricate web of cause and effect that characterizes it. If we are aware of the link between soils, landscapes, and the plants that grow there, we automatically have a sense of place and a way of understanding different localities. Even in unfamiliar places we can find a sense of security and familiarity. We learn to associate particular plant species with certain soil types and, as wildcrafters, we learn to predict where we are most likely to find the plants that we need. As growers, when we understand our soil, we can discover which species will grow best on our land and which cultivation practices will help to ensure optimum plant growth and productivity. For a self-sufficient herbalist, soil really is fundamental.
Soils with different textures provide plants with varying levels of nutrients, aeration, and stability. They respond more or less quickly to the increasing warmth of the sun in the spring, and they vary in their ability to hold onto water or withstand being walked on or driven over without damage.
Particular soil textures are the result of the proportions of three different particle sizes: sand, silt, and clay. Pure sand feels gritty. Anyone who grew up making