TWO OR THREE generations ago, many families depended directly on the land for their livelihood. Nowadays computers feature more conspicuously than cowslips as components of everyday life, but the instinctive appreciation of nature is often still handed down from parent to child. So it was in our family, and I can still recall lying face down in a field of cowslips and breathing in their scent, wading through bluebell woods, or seeking out the earliest pale yellow blooms of primroses to pick a tiny bunch for my mother. Such behaviour would cause a sharply disapproving intake of breath nowadays, as primroses have been sprayed, ploughed, dug up (and, it must be admitted, picked) to the verge of extinction. The loss of these wonderful wild flowers can, however, be compensated for by creating a suitable habitat for them in your garden.
During the first autumn we did nothing to our prospective meadow, apart from cutting the grass short in October with a Hayterette rotary mower. Doing nothing is, in fact, a good strategy at first. How else are you to know what would happen naturally? It would be a botanical disaster to plough up a field of potential wild orchids, for instance, only to re-sow with buttercups and daisies. Of course, a meadow left unmown will revert to scrub, as first coarse grasses, docks, thistles and brambles make a take-over bid, then small shrubs and bushes, until finally—about 200 years later—mature woodland is recreated. So leaving things entirely in nature’s hands is not necessarily to be recommended.
When spring arrived, I began the twin tasks of investigating what flowers were already present in our little field, and which ones might suitably be added, sketching out a field plan using the fence posts as grid markers. Plodding methodically, head-down, back and forth across our field, I developed a headache—plus a nodding acquaintance with the leaves of sorrel, buttercup, plantain, dandelion, oxeye daisy, cat’s-ear, clover and knapweed, noting on the master plan which species lay in which square. Cowslips were there too, not of their own accord, but planted in a spirit of optimism a month earlier.
The available mix of plants did not immediately set the heart afire with visions of blooms shimmering in the sunlight. It’s difficult to get excited over plantains and dandelions, for instance, and orchids and fritillaries were plainly not going to put in an appearance just yet. Of course beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I have occasionally seen fields so full of golden dandelions as to be almost literally stunning, but our flowers were sparsely scattered and would clearly need some encouragement.
Given a large enough area to plough, or one small enough to dig over, it is possible to begin a flowering hay meadow from scratch with appropriate supplies from a reputable wildflower seed merchant. This method would appear to have a lot to recommend it, as you can choose your favourite flower and grass mix suitable for local conditions, and having sown it according to instructions, sit back and wait for a colourful pageant to unfold before your eyes. During the first growing season, when the new growth tops 4-5 inches (10-12.5 cm.) it is advisable to firm the plants into the soil either with a roller or by treading evenly across the area. Once the greenery has sprung upwards again, mow to approximately 2 inches (5 cm.) in height and rake the clippings off; repeat the cutting each time the grass and plants reach that height, even though it will be frustrating to behead your budding flowers. This will ensure that the following summer will produce a fine show of well-rooted wild flowers amongst—rather than overwhelmed by—the meadow grasses. The regular July and October mowing regime can then begin, and in subsequent years the number of flowers will steadily increase. However, a meadow ‘make-over’ like that is rather costly, so we decided to wait and see how our grassy patch would develop.
The first development was that it turned brown. This was somewhat alarming, and prompted an urgent study of grass types—not a subject I had given much thought to previously, grass being something that one mowed in order for children to play on. However, given its head, grass naturally develops different characteristics according to species composition, and our most predominant grass turned out to be sweet vernal, which sports brown feathery seedheads. Its name is variously attributed to a sweet taste when the stem is chewed, or a sweet smell when cut and drying as hay. Either way it sounded reassuringly rural, so we learned to love brown-tinged grass until the other greener species grew up to join it. The helpful tendency for them to appear one type at a time aided identification, until finally we had a dozen species to study. Their names were often aptly self-explanatory, including meadow foxtail, giant fescue, cocksfoot, and crested dog’s-tail.
The flowers had not been idle in the mean time. Of those around the field margins I will write later, but in the field centre the first to bloom had been the locally purchased cowslip plants. A purist would call this cheating, and say that we should wait the necessary number of years for these attractive plants to reappear naturally. We knew that cowslips were native to the area, but unfortunately they are often one of the first casualties that result from changes in land management. I therefore could not resist planting some cowslip circles, and enjoyed their brave splashes of colour as their golden keys nodded in stiff spring breezes. Dandelions also appeared early, and surely would be greeted with greater appreciation were they not so prone to pop up uninvited in neat suburban flower borders. As it was, their sunburst flowerheads enlivened the all-encompassing grass considerably.
After Easter, buttercups began to bloom, both the spiky-leaved meadow buttercup and the creeping buttercup, with its more rounded leaves. By May, the grass was some 16" (40 cm.) high, and the meadow buttercups readily cleared this height in their search for the sun. The creeping buttercups lived up to their name and flowered nearer the earth, producing a softer, more muted golden glow. Later on, a few of the charmingly-named goldilocks buttercups appeared, their leaves even more rounded and with flowerheads often incomplete.
As May progressed, the attractive pink flowers of common vetch clambered their way up supportive grass stalks, to be followed later by their golden-blossomed cousins, meadow vetchling. Then the first of our oxeye daisies opened up. Soon cat’s-ear flowers joined them, resembling tall and elegant dandelions, but with furry round-tipped leaves, just like the ears of a cat. Red and white clovers joined in, the red merging with the long grass, the white preferring the shorter grass of our pathways. Mouse-ear appeared too, its tiny white blooms accompanied by minute furry leaves, just the right size for a mouse’s ears. Lesser trefoil, a relative of clover but with smaller leaves and tight yellow petals, crept in also, keeping unobtrusively close to the earth. Sorrel began to open wide its lofty pink spires far above other more lowly flowers. The field began to look like I had imagined it all winter.
This was, however, an illusion, for photographs taken at the time show the field to be predominantly green, albeit with gold and silver overtones. I realise this sounds obvious, as grass is the major component of a hay meadow, but the human eye singles out the flowery elements to admire and enjoy, and this is what we were seeking to emphasize. There was no shortage of grass in the surrounding farmland; indeed the entire area was sympathetically managed by local farmers. Small woods hugged local streamsides, many hedges were still intact, spraying appeared minimal and wildlife flourished, at least by twentieth century standards—although modern agriculture had taken its usual toll on the wild flower population. If we had hungry cattle to feed, no doubt the attractions of guaranteed silage production would seem inviting as compared to a risky hay crop.
When wild flowers vanish, so too do a myriad of insects and miniature ecosystems. Butterflies are the most obvious casualties, but a multitude of creatures that had time to flourish in hay meadows can no longer survive. This means that animals and birds dependent on these creatures become more scarce, and so life becomes the poorer for us all. If odd corners could become meadows again, mown in June or July and then grazed or mown in the autumn, the difference would be significant. Admittedly, ancient meadow indicator species, such as adder’s-tongue fern and green-winged orchid, are unlikely to pop up, but in meadows—as in life—there surely should be room for the small and lowly as well as the rich and famous.
A field of humble buttercups and daisies in full bloom can be a splendid sight, and I have seen people stopped in their tracks, gazing in admiration at its transient beauty. It should be perfectly possible for this to be recreated. We therefore looked more closely, not only at our own meadow flowers mix, but also at those meadows owned by nature conservation trusts and the increasing number of privately-owned wildlife areas.
Dispassionate gazing showed us firstly that even the most famous areas cannot get it right all the time, and secondly that flowers occur naturally in drifts. The secret seems to be to encourage more and larger drifts of flowers, without producing an artificially concentrated appearance. Easy to say, time-consuming to produce, but enjoyable. The north-west corner of our field has the best flowery concentration, so our long-term aim is to repeat this over the entire area. Until we embarked on our meadow I had always considered myself to be a reasonably patient individual, but I must admit that having to wait for up to ten ten years to see the results of our efforts is not easy.
I will skip over the hay-cutting here (something I wish were possible in reality) as it forms part of a later chapter, and continue with our plans for meadow flowers. During the second spring some wild daffodils, planted the previous autumn, appeared. Much smaller than their domestic cousins, they nonetheless stood up to the March winds bravely, so we planted a few more. Most of the cowslips had survived the winter too, although I was not aware of this until one drizzly morning when the dandelions had closed up, leaving the previously unnoticed smaller yellow flowers still blooming: a welcome surprise on an otherwise dismal day. So we planted a few more of these also.
As spring progressed, we realized that mowing (rather than simply treading down) our meandering paths improved the appearance of our meadow. As a result of this policy I found myself preceding the mower, digging up any oxeye daisies which had been wayward enough to grow on our designated routes. These I transplanted to the field centre, together with others growing between our hedge plants, as I reasoned they would not show to full advantage there. Oxeye daisies are literally the stars of the meadows in our area. Imposing versions of the daisies that grow on almost every lawn, these 18" (45 cm.) high beauties flaunt an elegant frill of white petals around a golden pin-cushion centre. Single flowers obligingly spread out to become sturdy clumps, which sway with the summer breezes. By mid-April I had moved over three hundred daisies, so I transplanted myself to the field centre one sunny afternoon and declared it was time for a rest. This pattern of working has been repeated many times since, with bouts of frenzied activity interspersed with wonderfully lazy days, when there is nothing to do but absorb the sights, scents and sounds around us.
With summer approaching, the now familiar succession of plantain, dandelion, buttercup, vetch, daisy, cat’s-ear, clover, mouse-ear, lesser trefoil and sorrel progressed. One late arrival, however, is worthy of mention. Just when all the other flowers are going over to seed, and the meadow takes on a dry, hay-like structure, there will be an overnight explosion of orange-yellow, as bird’s-foot trefoil bursts into bloom. Insects love it, and the volume of their buzzing increases immediately. Any good wildlife meadow has a definite ‘hum factor’, where the humming of countless insects forms a sleepy, throbbing backdrop to a summer’s day.
Although the transplanted daisies could be seen starring the turf in previously dull grassy patches, it became obvious that nature would need a helping hand if we wanted an improved broadleaf plant mix in the foreseeable future, so we embarked on a circle digging programme later in the summer. It was unfortunate that this coincided with a drought, causing the clay soil to resist a spade in no uncertain terms. Even when the earth was turned over in these sixty-seven hard-won 18" (45 cm.) diameter circles, the clods stubbornly refused to crumble until battered with a wood-carving mallet, to the bemusement of casual observers.
Many meadow flowers take more kindly to autumn, rather than spring, sowing. This is logical, for this is the time they would naturally have fallen to the ground and been trodden into the soil by grazing cattle. We chose oxeye daisy seeds, which if bought by the 100 gram (4 oz.) packet are very reasonably priced, and duly sprinkled these on our newly dug circles in September. Lacking cattle to tread in the seeds, or a tractor-drawn roller, I rolled them in using a kitchen rolling-pin, thereby confirming my local reputation for eccentricity.
In the third year, the wild daffodils doubled in number (which still only made about ten clumps), so in a spirit of enthusiasm I ordered a hundred more bulbs for autumn planting. Having endured wet and chilly winters, spring flowers seem doubly welcome. Nearly all of these survived, though many took a year or two more to produce flowers along with their leaves. Likewise with the cowslips: most—though not all—had again survived. With a rush of blood to the head when I saw their cheerful flowers unfurling, I blew the housekeeping money on a wheelbarrow-load more of them, making a total of about a hundred and fifty, thus producing a ‘cowslip field’ rather than ‘a field with cowslips in it’. Such an instant result can be a real treat.
The summer meadow flowers appeared on cue. The new oxeye daisy seedlings grew apace, but were not sufficiently sturdy to flower that year. Despite this, we took heart at their healthy appearance and repeated the operation the following September, this time sowing just over a hundred square patches (a different shape, so that we could differentiate between different years’ sowings). Furthermore, we widened the experiment by including seeds of some other native meadow species. It would have been pleasant to sow poppies and cornflowers but, being annuals, these need the ground to be cultivated each year in order for the seeds to germinate, something we were not able to do.
The following year, the daisy circles effervesced into bloom, their borders merging with the surrounding grasses, looking as if they’d always been there. In June, when meadow flowers are at their full height and the question of “why are we bothering with all this hard work?” seems so well-answered as to no longer require asking, it is pleasant indeed to sit in the field of an early evening. Buttercups glow, daisies seem luminous and the low-slanting rays of the setting sun turn the tall spires of sorrel into pink spun sugar—a counterpane of candy floss cast over the meadow—appearing and disappearing for a brief moment in time each day.
Meadow gardening differs from ordinary gardening in that the results bear the stamp of nature, rather than that of humans. The randomness of predation by slug, snail, bird, insect and animal, together with the vagaries of the weather, are apparent to a far greater degree than in a conventional herbaceous border and close-cut lawn. For instance, one year we were plagued with slugs crawling all over our hundred widely scattered seedling areas. The slugs were only tiny, less than one inch (2.5 cm.) in length, though judging by the amount they consumed they should have been huge. We had to sow again a month later: the seedlings only managed to grow to a quarter of an inch (0.5 cm.) before winter, and it was amazing they survived at all.
The following year I sowed into seed trays filled with peat-free compost. Although more fiddly, this method does have advantages, in that the seeds can be sown any time between spring and early autumn, and it is easier to keep the resulting seedlings watered until transplanting them when they are big enough to fend for themselves.
I list below wild flowers which feel at home in the centre of our little meadow. Only the wild daffodils and cowslips have been introduced. As you will have realized, there is nothing extraordinary here, and flowers such as these are likely to appear in any clay soil area. Specialist wild flower nurseries, whose addresses can be found at the back of this book, can supply seeds or plants (either fully grown or smaller sized ‘plugs’) for a variety of soil types and differing situations. So whatever your soil or position, it should be possible to choose a wonderful variety of flowers (see colour plates, and Appendices 1 & 2 for lists of species).
Bird’s-foot Trefoil (Lotus corniculatus)
Buttercup, Creeping & Meadow (Ranunculus repens & acris)
Clover, Red & White (Trifolium pratense & repens)
Common Cat’s-ear (Hypochoeris radicata)
Common Knapweed (Centaurea nigra)
Common Sorrel (Rumex acetosa)
Common Vetch, also known as Spring Vetch or Tare (Vicia sativa)
Cowslip (Primula veris)
Daffodil, Wild (Narcissus pseudonarcissus)
Dandelion (Taraxacum officinale)
Lesser Trefoil, also known as Shamrock (Trifolium dubium)
Meadow Vetchling (Lathyrus pratensis)
Mouse-ear Chickweed (Cerastium fontanum)
Oxeye Daisy (Chrysanthemum leucanthemum)
Buying Wildflower Seeds, Bulbs and Plants
Until recently it was very difficult to buy wildflower seeds, bulbs or plants. Now there are reliable sources where you can buy guaranteed native species (see also Appendix 5), sustainably grown and collected. Some useful addresses are given at the back of this book, and your local Wildlife Trust or conservation organisation should be able to give further advice.
Occasionally, advertisements appear for seeds or bulbs of unspecified origin. These are often cheaper, but are best avoided, since there is a good chance they have been plundered from the wild, possibly from other countries. In the latter case, any resulting flowers would in all probability be of different subspecies, and thus at odds with the aim of increasing the natural flowering ecosystems. Some garden centres may also offer dubious stock. It is better by far to seek out plants clearly labelled with their source.
Reputable firms are usually only too happy to send out catalogues, together with a list of stockists and/or mail order arrangements, on receipt of a large stamped addressed envelope. As more customers ask for wild flowers at their local garden shops or centres, demand will be stimulated and the supply will increase. At grassroots level, its quite possible that other local wildlife gardeners would be happy to exchange their spare ragged-robins, say, for your surplus kingcups.
Field Margin Flowers
Meadow flowers are the essence of summer, but hedgerow flowers brighten the days from early spring until late autumn. The following are amongst my favourites which have settled in happily with us, many along our eastern ‘woodland edge’ habitat. We hope they will be joined by others as time goes by. Given that we have usually been hoping to create small clumps of flowers, rather than re-seed an entire field, I have found it easiest to buy—or beg from friends’ gardens about to be weeded—a few established plants and allow them to seed themselves in following years. I do sow seeds as well, some of which flourish and some of which are demolished by slugs. A philosophical and patient outlook is desirable, but a touch of desperation can creep in on some days.
Autumn Hawkbit (Leontodon autumnalis) belongs to the dandelion family, but is more slender and upright in its growth. Bright yellow flowers reach confidently skywards along our pathways, making me feel guilty when I behead them in the final cut of the year—although I am consoled by the knowledge that they will return next year.
Betony’s (Stachys officinalis) crinkled leaves brush softly against one’s legs on country walks. Their dense whorls of mauve flowers are modest in size, but they have character and the whole plant adds interest to a sunny glade.
A haze of Bluebells (Hyacinthoides non-scriptus) shimmering between sunlit tree-trunks is one of the glories of spring, with each succulent stalk carrying a complete peal of azure bells, bowing to the breeze. A nearby bluebell wood is aptly named Heaven Farm. We’re still working on that particular image, but our bluebells do brighten our May mornings.
Bugle (Ajuga reptans) has bright blue trumpet flowers, making this plant’s name easy to remember. It sends out long underground runners, so it is as well to be sure you want it in the first place. However, we welcome this cheerful extrovert.
Celandine (Ranunculus ficaria)—properly known as lesser celandine—either does well or refuses to appear at all; it does not believe in half-measures. The first waxy golden star is such a pleasant surprise that I bend down to admire it, only to find that an unsuspected crowd of celandine relations are clustering around the early arrival, so I step back hastily to avoid breaking up the family circle.
Cow Parsley (Anthriscus sylvestris) gives good value as a flowery space-filler, spreading thrusting roots and feathery leaves wherever there is bare earth for its seeds to land. Its massed white flowerheads are loved by insects, including red soldier beetles—which despite being called ‘bloodsuckers’ by generations of children, do not bite humans—and clouds of butterflies.
Flowers become scarcer as autumn progresses, but Devil’s-bit Scabious (Succisa pratensis) fills the gap, at least as far as small copper butterflies are concerned. They haunt these blue globes with all the loyalty of members at their favourite club.
Evening Primrose (Oenothera biennis) bears no resemblance, nor indeed any relation, to the common primrose—except for sharing the same soft yellow petal colour. Seen at its best on warm summer evenings, the plump pointed buds, set aloft on tall stems, burst to reveal showy flowerheads designed to attract pollinating moths. By moonlight these flowers seem to glow, but by morning many will have withered and died.
It is pleasing to watch a plump bumblebee clambering inside the gaping mouth of a purple Foxglove (Digitalis purpurea) flower, hearing its buzzing become more and more muffled, before it emerges complete with pollen. Being biennials, foxgloves take two years to bloom, but their fleshy leaves and tall flowering spires are so brilliantly robust that they are well worth waiting for. It is important to bear in mind that these plants are poisonous, so toddlers should not be left near them unaccompanied. Although foxgloves grow well from seed, these plants are relatively easy to buy from garden centres, so investing in half a dozen plants two years in succession should provide you with a colourful display for the foreseeable future.
Greater Stitchwort (Stellaria holostea)—also known by the more evocative name of gentlemen’s shirt buttons—speckles banks and hedgerows in early spring. It scrambles towards the sun on stalks thin as fuse wire.
Ground Ivy (Glechoma hederacea) carpeted the earth beside our blackthorn bushes right from the start, and revelled in the opportunity to spread its wings when the blackthorn was cut down. The muted purple trumpet flowers remain modestly close to the ground. Its rounded leaves, however, are rather more attention-seeking: when inadvertently trodden upon they emit a very attractive herbal aroma.
Herb-Robert (Geranium robertianum) may appear as a single plant in some unpromising spot one year, then the next year pop up all over. Their feathery foliage is as pleasing as their tiny pink flowers, assuming ever-deepening shades of red as summer progresses.
Knapweed (Centaurea nigra) is an unprepossessing name for this attractive bushy purple flower. There is a steadily advancing tide of it across our meadow each July, but after haymaking only those plants around the field margins remain. These survivors prosper, and each year bees throng around their shaving-brush petals, enthusiastically sipping nectar.
Nettle-leaved Bellflower (Campanula trachelium) is a member of the attractive campanula family. Its tall stems topped with pure blue flower-cups would be better-known were it not a shade-loving plant. So although it is often hidden from view, it makes a splendid feature and is worth seeking out.
The Romans named the Primrose (Primula vulgaris) ‘prima rosa’ or ‘first flower’; while this might not be strictly chronologically accurate, it is certainly first on my list of favourite wild flowers. Digging up plants from the wild is illegal; although primrose plants are available in most garden shops (and this is how we obtained ours), as regards biodiversity, it is much better to collect and raise local seed—see the Bibliography for relevant reference books. I longed to see these heralds of spring among our young trees and hedges, but realised that unless I was prepared to wait until the correct degree of dappled shade was achieved beneath mature leafy branches, I would need to carefully nurture any primrose plants we might buy until such time as conditions adjusted themselves to suit. To trim encroaching long grass from around each primrose plant does not strike me as a hardship, however, but rather a price amply repaid by the pleasure of gazing at their fragrant pale golden blooms. Accordingly, I dotted primrose plants all over the meadow and now enjoy them every spring.
Ragged-Robin (Lychnis flos-cuculi) loves damp places, which accounts for the general demise of this once-common wild flower, as most marshy places have been drained during the past century. Its deeply divided red petals make it pretty enough to grace any garden. Ragged-Robin will prosper in meadows if it likes the feel of them, so it is well worth experimenting with a few plants in various situations.
Red Campion (Silene dioica) resembles Ragged-Robin, except that its petals are less deeply notched. It is also attractive enough to appear in any herbaceous border. The seeds take well and the plant is not particularly fussy about sunshine or shade, its rosy flowerheads frothing out cheerily to greet passers-by.
Red Dead-nettle (Lamium purpureum) is an optimistic plant, almost as likely to bloom in February or November as in summer. Although often trodden underfoot, this persevering, low-growing species is worthy of a place in a wildflower garden.
Snowdrops (Galanthus nivalis) are only occasionally found growing truly wild these days, but any delicate plant which can bloom in January is most welcome. The flower is well-named, its pure white central pendant tipped with green and cupped within snowy, downcurving outer petals. I have planted several clumps of these, choosing plants ‘in the green’ (that is with their foliage showing rather than just bare bulbs), for these stand a better chance of surviving.
Toadflax (Linaria vulgaris), when viewed as a single plant, is deceptively fragile in appearance, but it self-seeds so well that its clusters of miniature yellow snapdragon spires are now our familiar companions all summer long.
Tormentil (Potentilla erecta) is one of those resilient plants that frequently spend their lives being trodden into brick paths. However, its silvery-green leaves and soft yellow flowers also enjoy scrambling over a woodland edge habitat, given half a chance.
Violets (Viola riviniana, V. reichenbachiana, V. odorata and others) appear at the same time as primroses, each complementing the other by sight and scent, and indeed bravery—given the chilly weather that often accompanies their appearance. Although so small, they have the dual distinctions of a colour and a perfume being named after them. They are forever associated in my mind with a shady country lane that we like to wander down after enjoying a cream tea at a local riverside beauty spot.
The leaves of White Dead-nettle (Lamium album) do indeed resemble those of the stinging nettle (Urtica dioica), but as the name suggests, they do not sting. Quietly opulent hooded white flowers, set between leaf-pairs, cluster at intervals up the pink furred stem and shine out from their chosen shady habitat.
We are having difficulty establishing Wood Anemones (Anemone nemorosa) under our trees, possibly because I suspect I have inadvertently dug them up during lapses of concentration whilst looking for new places to create seed beds. However, the one specimen that was accidentally transplanted amongst the roots of a wild service tree regularly reappears each year. So I have not yet given up hope of a cluster of delicate white flowerheads nodding shyly in the breeze.
Woundwort (Stachys sylvatica) is likely to be growing unnoticed around the back of garden sheds and beside rubbish heaps, but when given rather more prepossessing surroundings it can be seen to full advantage. Small maroon flowerheads are held proudly aloft and add another shade to the tapestry of wild flowers growing around them.
Yellow Archangel (Lamiastrum galeobdolon) is a lover of shady lanes and woodland edges. Its romantically named golden trumpet flowers seem too striking to go unnoticed, although this is often their fate. Once settled in, these plants spread and flourish.