Maximum Allium Ursinum

It's that time again - the part of the year I like to refer to as the 'Ramson Raid' (or alternatively, 'The Garlic Grab'). I found these beauties growing in Charing, but like most foraging opportunists, I'm a little wary of the perils of picking plants on the fringes of dog-walker-heavy playing fields or recreational areas.

Pole Position



A Kentish totem pole, yesterday

I recently discovered this fine creation near Lenham Heath, whittled from what looks like an old telegraph pole. I like to think it was created as some sort of gate guardian to ward off any evil ne'er-do-wells who considered entering the gated yard in which it stands - a bit like the Jangseungs of Korea.

Either way, some determined bugger spent a good while whittling it, presumably on a step ladder, and I think it stands as a sterling example of crude Kentish folk art.

Berry Bonanza

The first rule of foraging is you do not talk about foraging...and even if you do, never reveal your top scavenging spots. This applies particularly in cases where the food being picked is the fruit equivalent of a gold nugget. Last week, I made a hedgerow discovery which made me inordinately happy (all I'll reveal is it was in the vicinity of the fantastically-named Razor Grinder's Wood, not far from my favourite haunt, the Pilgrim's Way).

Ladies and Gents, behold : the wild strawberry.





At the risk of sounding quite corny, there's something thrilling about accidentally stumbling across wild food when you're not even looking for it. The berries seemed to catch my eye like small glistening rubies in an innocuous bit of tatty hedgerow at the base of a telegraph pole.

You have to be quite dainty when collecting them (not easy with my sausage-fingered hands) as they squash quite easily, but by crikey are they worth the effort. You can faff about making jam with or them or preserving them in syrup, but the connoisseur's way to eat them is to keep it simple, just with a dollop of cream. So that, dear readers, is what I did.  

Granted, they were small, but much tastier than their cultivated cousins.

The Quay

In a bit of a diversion from the norm, I thought I'd take the opportunity to promote an excellent film called The Quay, produced and directed by a pal of mine, Richard Fleury.

The film chronicles the final year of Thames barge building at Standard Quay in Faversham, Kent, before the site owners began developing the land into housing and restaurants. Charting the tireless campaigning of the various shipwrights, craftsmen and local people trying to preserve the site's centuries-old heritage, it's a superb, and very moving film. 

Essentially, you find yourself witnessing the sad demise of tradition in the face of insensitive modernisation and what some ignorantly consider to be 'progress'. 

The film has been selected for screening at two leading film festivals: Rushes Soho Shorts and Sheffield Doc/Fest‘s Videotheque. Watch the trailer below and visit this site for more info: http://www.thequayfilm.net/

The Quay Official Trailer from Richard Fleury on Vimeo.

Back in the Saddle

After a cycling hiatus while the weather was grim, I took to two wheels again last weekend, with a rough idea of cycling through Sandway, Boughton Malherbe and Grafty Green then onto Lenham Heath and Warren Street. I often tend to set myself a few checkpoints on an OS map and have a very vague idea of how I'm going to reach them, often dismounting to venture blindly along footpaths, merely because I think they look interesting. This seems a natural way to approach trekking through the Kent sticks to me, as it takes you off the beaten track and into unexplored territory.

The trusty steed at rest

The journey didn't kick off to a very promising start. Cycling through Sandway and across the bridge over the M20, I looked down to see gridlocked traffic, the cracking sunshine obviously bringing out the daytrippers. Seemingly to ease this congestion, two emergency slipways had been opened to allow traffic onto the narrow country lanes. Cut to a frantic scene of me battling uphill into Platts Heath pursued by a steady stream of impatient Sunday drivers. A 4x4 the width of the entire road was nose-to-tail with me for some distance. Don't get me started on 4x4 SUVs. I think these upper middle-class 'status tanks' are the sorry scourge of England and unless you spend a lot of time driving up mountains/across the Serengeti or towing a caravan the size of an aircraft hangar, you don't need to own one. End of flamin' story. The driver of this particular chumpmobile, too impatient to wait for me to pull into a passing place, overtook within a hair's breadth, pushing me into a hedge. I then did what any rational person would do - I gave him a mighty double-digit salute and pedalled on my merry way. The panoramic view when I reached Boughton Malherbe was worth the brief aggro :

Just outside Grafty Green, I ventured onto a little-used public footpath which led through some woods. Peering through the knots of ivy and gnarled trees, I noticed a cylindrical brick structure and decided to investigate further. I think I've had this compulsion to explore mysterious, derelict structures since I was a nipper, when I had designs on becoming a detective (as a kid, I owned numerous books on how to dust for fingerprints, track spivs and be an all-round fedora-wearing gumshoe). The fact that this building had been claimed by the forest flora merely heightened its appeal. It reminded me of the mysterious, vine-laden structures on the cover of one of my all-time favourite records, R.E.M.'s Murmur.

The cylindrical structure turned out to be just some sort of outbuilding adjoining an eerie derelict house, smack bang in the middle of the woods (see pics below).

The path running between the two separate parts of the house, mysterious kettle in background

The main ragstone cottage

There were various objects scattered around on the floors of the main house, which initially suggested that this had perhaps recently been inhabited by squatters, but I noticed that the utensils - a kettle, bowls, metal basins etc. - were of a certain vintage. The metal basins (in the pic below) looked like they belonged on a Victorian washstand, not in the hands of the average squatter, and the kettle appeared to be from the same era. All this gave the house a faintly Mary Celeste quality. Why would somebody leave all these objects here when they left? Given the slightly spooky air of the place, I didn't want to hang about too long, so I made my way towards Lenham Heath and Warren Street

  

I continued along the foot of the North Downs, past the Lenham Chalk Cliffs and a few great cobnut foraging spots. In this general area, there are various handy signs placed by the Mid Kent Downs Countryside Partnership which suggest that, amongst other chalk-loving plants, Salad Burnet grows around here. I've yet to spot some, but I plan to hunt the elusive stuff down in the summer.

Just outside Warren Street, I stopped for a break by the water tower, which I always think resembles some sort of aquatic fort turret from a 50s sci-fi flick, the way it seems to rise up out of the crops in the field. By this stage, my weary legs were thankful that the journey homeward from here was all downhill.

An Overlooked Commoner

Back in our reliably short British summer, I discovered some Wild Marjoram (otherwise known as Oregano[Origanum vulgare]) in my favourite foraging spot - the hedgerows along the Pilgrim's Way between Lenham and Harrietsham.

Origanum volgare - not vulgar in the slightest and popular with bees

As well as looking pretty dandy, this aromatic herb loves chalky soil, so you can't go far in Kent without discovering it growing in abundance. Everyone with a basic culinary knowledge knows you can chuck the leaves on pizzas and pasta to add that familiar Italian kick (although as John Wright points out in his great book 'Hedgerow', it's a species native to the British Isles). It's a tough perennial, very high in antioxidants and probably sitting untouched in a hedgerow near you. Gather some before the winter's upon us.

On the same day, I found myself in the Loose Valley, just south of Maidstone and thought I could smell the distinctive pungent odour of wild garlic on the wind (although I'm willing to admit it could've been a bumper order of garlic bread at the local pub). I made a mental note to return at some point to hunt the stuff down, but as I'm quite the novice at this stage, I want to be sure I pick the right stuff and not the very similar (and poisonous) Lily of Valley. The lack of garlicky stench is usually enough to give it away, though. Watch this space.

Cherries O'Death

Strolling across the field behind my house, I chanced upon something pretty alarming - a cluster of Atropa Belladona - otherwise known as Deadly Nightshade. I took a snap of it below.

Belladonna - the kind of beautiful lady you don't want to encounter

This notorious little plant, as well as being related to tomatoes and aubergines, is an uber-toxic, hallucinogenic and downright nasty piece of work. As the latin name suggests, it contains atropine, which affects the central nervous system in pretty horrible fashion. As Wikipedia delightfully informs us, poisoning from the plant results in "dilated pupils, sensitivity to light, blurred vision, tachycardia, loss of balance, staggering, headache, rash, flushing, dry mouth and throat, slurred speech, urinary retention, constipation, confusion, hallucinations, delirium, and convulsions". Lovely. In short, stay the hell away unless you want to perish horribly from complete organ failure whilst seeing some nice twinkling lights.

Throughout history it was used to poison the tips of arrows and also as a cosmetic to dilate women's pupils - which was considered attractive, if they could avoid the unfortunate side-effect of going blind.

Strangely enough, the rather sinister-looking black berries aren't the most lethal part of the plant - an adult would have to consume quite a number to cause any damage. Eat one leaf, on the other hand and it's game over.