Baltimore, Ireland: Hedge woundwort was used for everything from binding wounds from falls to tending thorn-ripped flesh
As we step from the well-tended vegetable beds into the wilder part of the Glebe Gardens along the Ilen River estuary, we are greeted by a succession of reddish spires carried on square, hairy stems with red-stained angles. Each spire is composed of whorls of small hooded flowers whose pouting lips have white guidelines to help pollinating insects. For centuries the nettle-like but soft-to-touch leaves of hedge woundwort were nature's gift to wearied travellers, and were used to bind wounds from falls or thorn-ripped flesh. Close by, the taller columns of a colony of foxgloves extend the colour patch into the distance. Strung out along the line of the railway that once served the fishing port, these digitalis show the benefit of clearing an area of suffocating bramble and letting light and warmth into the ground.
The wild flower meadow carries a yellowish haze created by countless cat's-ears thrusting up among the grasses. Weaving their way through them are several species of vetch. The most striking, with its varied bluish-purple tints, is tufted vetch. This and the yellow meadow vetchling growing nearby have two things in common: both use tendrils to climb through surrounding foliage, and were used as cattle feed in the past. The bright yellow heads of the bird's-foot-trefoils also catch the eye but the bleached reddish-blue of bush vetch in the hedge almost escapes notice.
Navelwort, described after the dimple in the middle of each leaf, flourishes on coastal walls and rocks throughout most of Ireland, where its erect stem of small creamy bell-shaped flowers is usually rather short. Sometimes named pennywort, perhaps recalling the larger copper coins of an earlier time, its succulent green leaves ripen red with sunlight and age. Traditionally they were heated and used as a poultice. Here the plants are growing around the trunk of a tree, lush and tall. One cohort stands apart in the flower border, a guard of honour maybe as we leave the hospitality of these gardens.