Ahead of his Plant Science Lecture at the Garden Museum on Friday 25 November, adventuring botanist Leif Bersweden shares an extract from his new book Where the Wildflowers Grow:
I was feeling considerably better than I had been at the beginning of the morning, so after some soup and crusty bread I headed into Central London to conduct a second Hunt. I was curious: Westminster in midwinter is probably the last place and time you would think to go plant hunting. I wondered what was growing there, unseen in plain sight.
Alone now, I crossed Westminster Bridge at a trot. The clouds had cleared and the Houses of Parliament were glowing in wintry sunshine. There was a crisp wind – the kind that punishes any attempt to take your hands out of your pockets – and down below the Thames was being whipped into ruffled peaks. I walked through to Parliament Square, crossed the road and took a quick glance around. I wasn’t completely certain that I was allowed to walk here, but I was sure that this famous patch of grass that’s so often disturbed by the feet of protestors and campaigners would have at least something growing in it that I could count.
Behind me, Big Ben loomed silently over the city, its famous tower shrouded in tarpaulins. People – couples, mostly – were meandering around the Green, taking photos and selfies in front of Westminster Abbey. No one was on the grass. After another cursory glance around to check for please-don’t-walk-here signs, I stepped forward.
Parliament Square wasn’t exactly the epitome of biodiversity. It largely consisted of Perennial Rye-grass, a species with shiny, dark-green leaves that’s often sown to create parks and recreation grounds. But as I wandered, I noticed little plants popping up here and there. There were Shepherd’s-purse and Common Chickweed, but neither was in flower. A couple strolled past, arm in arm, eyeing me with a mixture of curiosity and misgiving. I grinned sheepishly at them.
Bright-red London buses slid by, heading south over Westminster Bridge. I glanced over my shoulder at the Houses of Parliament and eyed the police guards cradling their enormous guns. I felt like I was trespassing in one of the most famous places in the world. ‘Sorry, officer, don’t mind me, I’m just looking for midwinter wildflowers’ is the kind of excuse that would probably only increase their suspicion if I was questioned about my activities. My concerns were interrupted, however, when I saw the Daisy: tall, bright and open- flowered. I got down on the ground to have a closer look.
Flowers evolved for reproduction and, in their simplest form, the fertile structures at the centre – the plant’s private parts – consist of the female stigma and pollen-covered male stamens. Pollen is transferred from the stamens of one plant to the stigmas of another, which initiates seed production. A typical flower has a ring of green, leaf-like flaps called sepals that protect the unopened bud. When the flower opens, these shadow the petals, which are usually brightly coloured and serve to attract pollinators.
A Daisy flower is not a typical flower, though, but a collection of many tiny flowers called an inflorescence. The white petals that you pick off while playing ‘she-loves-me, she- loves-me-not’ all belong to individual flowers called ray florets. Look closely at the centre of a Daisy and you’ll see that the yellow dome consists of many little golden flowers: these are the disc florets, and each one has five tiny petals.
Cropping up in short turf all over the country, the Daisy has buckets of charm and is one of the most recognisable members of our native flora. It permeates our everyday lives without us even noticing: you may have woken up ‘as fresh as a daisy’, or comforted a toppled child with a light-hearted ‘ups-a-daisy, you’re all right’. In Anglo-Saxon Britain, more than a thousand years ago, it was known as the ‘Day’s Eye’, a reference to its habit of closing up overnight and opening again in the daytime.
While most people don’t think beyond the modest white and yellow blooms in their lawn, this is a plant with a rich cultural history. It features in folklore, mythology and medicine. In the sixteenth century the Daisy was used in herbal remedies for fever. The folk name ‘Bone Flower’ tells of its reputation for treating broken bones, and Roman physicians made use of its astringent properties to heal wounds suffered by soldiers in battle. Plants offer us a window to the past and, like the links in a Daisy chain, they connect us through time.
I never give Daisies a second glance, but I made a mental note to do so more often. As adults, we don’t properly appreciate this everyday wildflower. Unlike children, our ability to marvel so often lacks the innocent curiosity required to truly recognise a Daisy’s beauty. There was something brilliantly refreshing about this one, flowering with abandon in this bland sea of rye-grass, in the middle of winter, with London life going on around it.
Plant Science Lecture | Leif Bersweden: Where the Wildflowers Grow is Friday 25 November, 7pm: book tickets
Follow Leif on Instagram: @leifbersweden
Twitter: @LeifBersweden