‘As a quoted line of verse will suddenly evoke by association a complete poem, so a specimen of any given plant will call up not only all the flowers associated with its particular habitat, but the whole feeling and atmosphere of the place itself.’
Jocelyn Brooke, The Wild Orchids of Britain (1950)
Hampshire
June 2013
Steve Povey started botanising at the age of six. His father was a keen naturalist and would frequently take him out into the Chilterns to look for rare plants and insects. On one of these forays, he distinctly remembers seeing his first Bee Orchid, which he fondly recalled ‘appearing enormous to a little lad!’. Slightly put out that he’d found his first Bee Orchid at a younger age than I had, I tried not to make things a competition; I got the impression I would lose. Later, around the age of ten, he was shipped off to his older cousin in Sussex for every school holiday. She was an avid botanist and particularly loved the chalk grassland of the South Downs, a habitat that remains Steve’s favourite to this day.
June had begun bright and clear, the sun beating down in an effort to make up for lost time. I drove to Petersfield to meet Steve, who had agreed to join me for a day of orchid hunting in Hampshire. As I walked across the car park to his battered silver Ford Mondeo, I knew it would be an exciting day. Dangling in the front window, hung from the rear-view mirror, was a cardboard cut-out Sword-leaved Helleborine.
As he drove me along Hampshire’s winding country lanes, we talked about the challenge I’d set myself and its progress so far. He asked me to list the species I had never seen before and kept interrupting to suggest sites I should visit. We both agreed that the Small White Orchid would be one of the hardest species to find.
Today, we were off to see Britain’s largest population of Sword-leaved Helleborines, now one of Britain’s most vulnerable orchids. Despite this, it would also be one of the easiest to find: 85 percent of the British population’s several thousand plants, grow in a Hampshire woodland, not far from Petersfield. The only time I’d seen this orchid before was when I was sixteen. I’d managed to drag my sisters along for the day and persuaded my mother to let me take a break from revising for my GCSEs and drive us on the eighty-mile round trip to Hampshire.
The genus Cephalanthera is an older, more primitive group of helleborines and includes three UK species: Sword-leaved, White and Red Helleborines. While the first two are scarce but widespread, the Red Helleborine has an extremely restricted distribution, with only two or three populations. The name Cephalanthera comes from the Greek kephale, meaning ‘head’, and antheros or ‘flowery’, which together describe the large inflorescence.
In Wild Orchids of Britain, Summerhayes fondly recalls how ‘the contrast between the white flowers and the fresh green leaves produces a charming effect, which is much enhanced if, as is sometimes the case, there are several plants growing together’. Steve’s first encounter with Sword-leaved Helleborines was just as Summerhayes described.
In the late 1970s, he was asked to survey a large garden just north of Petersfield which was due for development to see if there were any ornamental plants worth saving before the bulldozers moved in. As he turned into the property, he noticed the long rose border that lined the driveway. It wasn’t the roses that drew his attention, but several dozen Sword-leaved Helleborines. Unable to believe his eyes, he didn’t recognise the orchid in front of him for what it was straight away. He’d never seen Sword-leaved Helleborines before, let alone in the rose border of a semi-suburban garden. He scrambled out of the car for a closer look at this fine colony of Cephalanthera longifolia, growing in the most unlikely of places.
Steve had recalled that this species was more common just north of Petersfield than anywhere else in the country, but surely that didn’t mean looking for them over garden gates. He tried to save some of these plants, but as with many orchid species, they didn’t enjoy being moved around so unfortunately none of them survived. Now living near Petersfield, Steve sees these orchids all the time and is a regular visitor to the copse we were heading for. If we were lucky, he said, we might find the rare hybrid of Sword-leaved and White Helleborines, Cephalanthera x schulzei.
We arrived at the copse a little before midday with the sun high in the sky and slipped blissfully into the shade of the beech trees. Bounded by agriculture, this small patch of woodland is a sliver of tranquillity in the surrounding monotony of arable fields, a delightful everyday miracle. Tall, ivy-strewn beeches hold up the golden-green ceiling, criss-crossed by a fine skeleton of branches. The leaves took the bite out of the sun, leaving behind the cool warmth of a midsummer’s day.
Within ten seconds of going through the gate, I had already singled out my first Sword-leaved Helleborine. Or rather Helleborines, because the woodland was carpeted with their graceful white spikes. They are majestic plants; tall, with two ranks of narrow, pointed leaves. Its other name, Narrow-leaved Helleborine, is far too mean for a plant like this. The flowers are pure white and balance graciously atop the fresh green leaves, providing a stunning contrast. The top of the lip has intricate parallel ridges covered in a dusting of yellowy-orange pseudopollen – pretend pollen to lure pollinators to the flower without actually providing them with anything. They take, but don’t give. To me, it looked as if each flower had its mouth wide open, revealing an orange tongue and a row of sharp, pointed teeth. Unnervingly, there were no eyes to accompany it.
Steve’s friend Jeff Hodgson was there when we arrived. A tall, friendly Yorkshireman in his sixties, he had come down from north Wales for a few days to complete an orchid tour of the south. He had been down to Kent the previous day looking at Lady Orchids. Even though I’d seen them so recently, I felt a moment of envy. This summer of orchid hunting was already making me greedy.
Jeff led us further into the wood, soon turning off the main path and following a small badger trail that ran between the trees. There were Sword-leaved Helleborines everywhere. The population here is not only the largest in the country, but also one of very few that are actually increasing in size. Most colonies have fewer than fifteen plants and are therefore very vulnerable. Even here a large storm could have a severe impact on this population. While selective tree felling is used in the conservation of this species, random removal of large numbers of beech trees in a storm would allow too much light to reach the woodland floor, which would quickly be taken over by asphyxiating bramble thickets.
Sword-leaved Helleborines were first discovered in Helks Wood, near Ingleborough, in 1666. This location was already known for its orchids, as it was the place where the Lady’s Slipper had first been recorded several decades previously. Despite being considerably rarer than its cousin the White Helleborine, Cephalanthera damasonium, the Swords are more widespread. Even today it can be found in Wales, Scotland, Ireland and in central and northern England, although in tiny numbers. The Hampshire hangers, though, always have been and probably always will be the Sword-leaved Helleborine’s heartland.
After a minute or so of walking, Jeff suddenly pointed and rushed forward, bending down to look at what initially appeared to be two Sword-leaved Helleborines in bud. Steve knelt to examine the plants, checking bracts, upper leaves and sepals; no characteristic went unscrutinised, no detail unnoticed. He liked what he saw, rapidly arriving at the conclusion that these were the schulzei hybrid. The Sword-leaved Helleborines were in full flower all around us but all the White Helleborines were still tightly enclosed in their buds. These hybrid plants were evidently just about to burst into flower. The leaves were also different, not nearly as long and narrow as in longifolia, but clearly pointier and less broad than the damasonium’s. Steve showed us several smaller, but important differences that made this plant so transitional in its appearance, confirming beyond doubt that it was the rare hybrid.
I felt myself becoming too bogged down with which plants were hybrids and which weren’t, so wandered off further into the wood to clear my mind. Within seconds, I had found my second new species of the day. Under a large beech, a clump of Bird’s-nest Orchids: my sweet sixteenth.
The Bird’s-nest Orchid is one of the weirdest plants I’ve ever seen. Completely brown, it appears at first glance to be dead, but a closer examination proves otherwise. Each flower is velvety caramel and has two feet that look as if they’ve been drawn by children: big, clumsy and sticking out sideways. Some plants were still in bud, looking like bizarre trees covered with peanuts. This orchid never produces chlorophyll – the green pigment used in photosynthesis to help produce sugars – a fact that makes you question what qualifies as a plant.
Unlike most species, the Bird’s-nest Orchid’s name isn’t derived from the appearance of its flowers or leaves, but from its roots, which form an entangled mess superficially similar to a bird’s nest. It was first recorded in 1597 by John Gerard, who rather rudely calls it a ‘bastard or unkindely satyrion’ (satyrion being the name for an orchid at the time). He does, however, describe it wonderfully as having ‘many tangling roots platted or crossed one over another very intricately, which resembleth a Crowes nest made of stickes; from which riseth up a thicke soft stalk of a browne colour, set with small short leaves of the colour of a dry oaken leafe that hath lien under the tree all the winter long’.
German botanist Hieronymus Bock, writing even earlier than Gerard, noted that it grew in the woods and hedgerows where birds nest. He decided that these orchids must grow where the semen of small birds has fallen to the ground. Indeed, this concept was extended to other species too: that orchid flowers rose up from the semen of the animals they resembled. This idea survived for more than a century.
So how is it that a plant with no chlorophyll, and therefore no means of capturing energy from the sun, can survive and grow? It is often written that Bird’s-nest Orchids are saprophytic, obtaining their nutrients from decaying leaf litter. However, this is not true. Instead, the orchid makes use of the mutualistic relationship between a fungus of the genus Sebacina and trees such as beech. The tree photosynthesises and passes carbohydrates on to the fungus, which in return supplies the tree with vital mineral nutrients that are otherwise difficult to obtain from the soil. The Bird’s-nest Orchid cheats by invading this system, digesting the fungus and in doing so obtaining carbohydrates indirectly from the tree, offering nothing to either the tree nor the fungus in return. In this way ‘parasitic’ would be a more accurate adjective than ‘saprophytic’. One end of the fungus is attached to the tree, receiving carbon produced by photosynthesis; the other end is attached to the orchid, which is siphoning off this carbon. They are outlaws, sneaky thieves who execute their criminality with perfection.
Because they aren’t dependent on light for food, Bird’s-nest Orchids are almost always found in dense shade, often in the absence of other herbaceous plants. The ones in Hampshire were no exception. The woodruff had backed off, leaving the orchids all alone in the beech leaf humus. Being very careful not to squash any of the surrounding spikes, I knelt down on the ground and examined one of the larger brown plants. It looked as if it’d been coated in golden honey. Where the light filtered through the canopy, the orchids were lit up ginger and orange.
They really are exceptional when you stop and think about it; the overwhelming majority of the world’s 400,000 species of land plant manufacture their own food using chlorophyll, so how is it that this tiny orchid has evolved to take a risk and abandon that strategy, potentially putting its very existence in the hands of an organism as tiny as a fungus? In this small Hampshire copse, where the woodland floor was home to sweet woodruff, bugle and Sword-leaved Helleborines, these Bird’s-nest Orchids were definitely the odd ones out.
I returned to where Jeff and Steve were still admiring the hybrid helleborines before we made our way back to the main track. Steve began telling me about his adventures with the late Francis Rose, an enthusiastic botanist whose knowledge of the British flora was unrivalled. Rose had never been able to drive, and his wife no longer wanted to travel for long distances so Steve and his friend had started to take him orchid hunting on a regular basis.
Steve first heard of Francis Rose when he moved to Selborne in the late 1960s. He lived in the next village and was a close friend of Lady Anne Brewis, who was the BSBI county recorder at the time. Steve regularly visited the nearby Noar Hill Nature Reserve, an area of late-Medieval chalk workings that boast a fine array of butterfly and orchid species. He recalled how he would often see Rose walking about the reserve either alone or with a colleague. ‘As with most such people you are to some extent in awe of them,’ he said. ‘It took a while before I plucked up the courage to approach him.’
One day, while on Noar Hill, Steve discovered what he thought was a hybrid of Chalk Fragrant and Common Spotted Orchids. Rose happened to pass by while he was studying the plant so he asked if he would offer his opinion. He came over, took one look at the plant and then, with a smile, happily agreed with Steve’s identification. He then asked if Steve would like to help him find some unusual Bee Orchids that he had spotted on the reserve the previous year, and so the ice was broken and a friendship began.
Steve remembers him as very calm and pleasant, but also very resolute. On many occasions, when Steve was planning a trip to some out-of-the-way place in the hope of finding a particular species, he would pop round to the Roses’ house armed with a map of the area in question. In a matter of moments, Rose was not only able to tell him precisely where to find his plant, but also what else he could expect to see while he was there. He’d always say: ‘You must also go here and here, oh and this place is fantastic for this’, scattering the map with crosses. He seemed to be able to do this for just about anywhere in the country.
Francis Rose sounded like a remarkable companion and Steve told me how he wished he’d had a tape recorder with him, for during each journey to a particular site he would recount in great detail many of his own memorable experiences of discovering particular orchids after many years of searching, and occasionally he would describe the rivalry that existed between himself and what are now considered to be some of our finest early twentieth-century orchid hunters. These tales were legendary, and not recording them remains one of Steve’s greatest regrets.
On a number of occasions, they visited sites where many years before Rose had found some rare species of orchid and thought it would be good to see if they were still there. Steve laughed as he told me how ‘it was always surprising, even in his later years when walking was becoming less easy, how much time he would dedicate to refinding them – far more than I would probably have given. Off he would go, fighting his way through the thickest undergrowth, often out of sight for an age before appearing again, slightly dishevelled and often with twigs and leaves caught in his hair. But with nothing to report he would go off again. In a few memorable cases his persistence paid off, when almost at the last minute, just before deciding it was a lost cause, he’d discover a few plants’.
I was particularly jealous of one trip to Kent: ‘On one occasion in late June he showed us a secret site for Late Spider Orchid; there were about twenty plants in a group, each with around twelve to fourteen flowers. I have never seen anything like it, and only about thirty yards from a main road!’
Reaching a fork in the path, we came across a loose collection of sticks stuck in the ground on either side of the track. These I remembered from my visit three years previously. At any famous site, wherever it is in the country, there will always be regular enthusiasts who visit throughout the flowering season. When they find new spikes coming up or in flower that are vulnerable to damage from the path, they will insert a twig into the ground to warn people of their presence. Of course, they also act as a guide to orchid hunters visiting the site for the first time.
This particular group of sticks were marking Fly Orchids. It seemed a long time since I’d seen the two plants in Gortlecka Meadows in Ireland. There were several spikes in flower here, all bearing only one or two small conker-brown flowers. The chequered light fell upon the low-lying and sparse ground vegetation, providing the perfect habitat for this small orchid. It’s one of my favourites, quietly going about its business. They were easy to miss in the dappled beech-brown shade.
Tree felling in woodland is a serious threat to the Fly Orchid. One would not think that this species would be in danger from over-collecting, given its somewhat dull appearance. However, there are stories of orchid hunts that ravaged populations. In 1898, S. L. Petty reported how collectors had raided the local woods for Fly Orchids: ‘dozens of people with baskets (and sometimes trowels too) invaded the woods, and, of course, asked no permission to take roots away, but did so.’
Back in the car, Steve and I headed further into Hampshire’s beech wood hangers. He talked of finding Ghost Orchids in Herefordshire, a total of seven or eight in his lifetime. Seven or eight! I would be indescribably lucky to see just one. He spoke of his love for the British flora. He claims to have seen about 95 per cent of our country’s plants, which is an incredible feat, and said that, if he wanted to, he could probably squeeze out another two or three per cent before he stopped travelling around. I was trying hard not to sound too jealous.
We drove for half an hour along a rollercoaster road, through the hangers, the cardboard Sword-leaved Helleborine swinging madly to and fro. The word ‘hanger’ derives from the Old English hangra, meaning ‘wooded slope’. Typically, beech hangers are extremely steep and are home to an impressive orchid flora throughout the season, if you know where to look.
The Hampshire hangers have historical connections with the eighteenth-century naturalist Gilbert White, who used to walk in the beech woods above Selborne, very near to Steve’s house. Selborne is a charming little village full of thatched red-brick cottages and gardens overflowing with roses and wisteria. It sits at the base of the thickly wooded hanger immortalised by White in his famous work The Natural History of Selborne. In his letters, he writes of his fondness for the beech woods: ‘The covert of this eminence is altogether beech, the most lovely of all forest trees, whether we consider its smooth rind or bark, its glossy foliage, or graceful pendulous boughs.’ Because he was an ornithologist rather than a botanist, though, very little of White’s letters refer to the plant life growing in the hangers.
Steve was taking me to another population of Sword-leaved Helleborines. He assured me that not many people knew of this colony, which grows halfway up the hanger. Compared to the copse we’d visited earlier, this wood felt nearly vertical. Trees grew out from the scarp slope at absurd angles. The chalky path zigzagged vertiginously upwards. I found myself eye-to-leaf with some of the tallest beech trees I’ve ever seen. The world had been tilted on its side.
Botanically, the hangers are arguably the richest of the chalk woodlands in England. We waded through some ramsons and the strong smell of garlic wafted along with us. Edward Step, in Wild Flowers in their Natural Haunts, writes how their ‘flat-topped umbels of white star-like flowers’ bloom in the woods in spring. He goes on to say that ‘a few weeks ago many persons would be mistaking its broad oval leaves for those of Lily of the Valley, until they happened to tread on one, and then the unmistakeable odour of garlic would quickly undeceive them. The flowers gathered in ignorance of the species are usually soon thrown away for the same reason – their broken stems give off too strong an odour to be pleasant’.
We paused briefly at a three-way fork while Steve tried to remember which way to go. Yellow archangel and bugle vied for attention in front of the beech and yews hanging precariously onto the slope. The weird cup-shaped flowers of wood spurge glowed lime green on their gangly stems.
Steve decided we should take the left-hand path. The scarp slope plunged downwards on my left as we walked along the chalky paths. It was a dizzying drop down into the valley. This was Edward Thomas country, and I wondered whether he had ever found Cephalanthera in the hangers above his home in the aptly named village of Steep. Had he been inspired by the pure-white blooms? Did he ever compose any poems about this orchid? I liked to think so.
Shortly we arrived at a small clearing carpeted in white: Sword-leaved Helleborines. I hadn’t expected to find them growing out in the open, and yet here they were, spreading out into the clearing, completely exposed yet evidently thriving. It was a wonderful sight: swathes of bladed bottle-brush spikes with the Hampshire hangers visible through a gap in the trees behind them. There must have been more than 200 plants scattered through the grass, and Steve assured me that this was almost definitely the second-largest population in the country. And yet barely anyone knows about it. He told me that a recent nationwide survey listed all the sites and the number of plants found there, and this place wasn’t even mentioned.
I felt there was more to this visit than met the eye. There was a great sense of inheritance about it. It was as if this was Steve’s population and he was entrusting the knowledge of it to me so that I would be able to visit and look after it when he was no longer able to. As if reading my mind, Steve recalled something his father had told him when he was a child: ‘If you ever gain any knowledge, make sure you pass it on while you’re still around.’ A secret colony of a rare orchid is a precious thing, particularly one of this size, and I felt honoured to have been entrusted with it.
The Sword-leaved Helleborine is so tied into my experience of steep beech hangers and Hampshire woodland that just seeing photos of it evokes memories of that warm summer day. Jocelyn Brooke found that ‘as a quoted line of verse will suddenly evoke by association a complete poem, so a specimen of any given plant will call up not only all the flowers associated with its particular habitat, but the whole feeling and atmosphere of the place itself’. I knew I would never forget the Swords of the Hampshire hangers scattered beneath the towering beech trees, their pure-white flowers twinkling in the gloom.