A witches' garden grimoire, tips and planning your own magic garden

Journal Entry: Spring 2020 in the witch’s garden – on delayed plants, medicinal herbs, fairy garden planning and a warning to reptiles

Wild Columbine, May 4, 2010 with Foxgloves in the background.

The witch’s garden theme this year has been self sufficiency. It’s not the black plague, but hopefully it’s the worst we’ll see in our lifetimes.

My plan was to put more focus on the moon garden and cottage garden, but I made the mistake of ordering those plants from Spring Hill Nurseries. Back in February, before the shit hit the fan. They were all in stock and set for shipping a week or two before the first state shut down. It’s almost three months later, and the shipping date has been pushed back twice this week. And yet I get emails daily pushing me to place another order.

So yes, I’m pissed, but what can you do? By the time I realized they didn’t actually have those plants in stock, nobody else did either.

So I focused on the vegetable garden, and herbs attuned to healing.

Growing a witch’s garden in the midst of a pandemic takes on a new urgency I find. I’m paranoid enough to worry about things like supply chains, so I wanted to be sure I had home remedies for common ailments, just in case.

And with that, my witch’s garden grew rather traditional.

In the past I focused on poisons and the more diabolic botanicals. But the cunning women (and men) of the past were more focused on healing than harming.

So new plants you’ll likely see popping up this year include Wood Betony Bergamont, Bloody Dock, Horehound, Valerian, Patchouli, Vervain, Angelica, Hyssop and Rue. Which meant I needed to clean out a new bed, as well as extend existing beds. It’s been the spring of the shovel, hoe and rake.

One area was cleared off by the birds. The gardener has been feeding them all winter, and on cold mornings she got into the habit of just spreading the seed on the ground. The result of that has a nice patch cleared of all vegetation and nicely aerated, if somewhat devoid of worms.

It’s also resulted in birds returning to the lawn which I hadn’t seen since I was a kid. We have bluejays now, and woodpeckers. The last few nights I’ve heard owls.

Belladonna or Deadly Nightshade, first bloom, May 4, 2020

What survived the winter in the witch’s garden?

I was surprised to see Belladonna come back this year. Last year I had one plant which only reached about eighteen inches, always looked puny and died back early and the weeds took it.

So I was amazed to see that it was one of the first things coming up this year, and even more when it had its first bloom on Walpurgis Night. A gift from the witches if you will, as typically the first bloom happens in later June or July.

Elfwort or Elecampane, second year, May 4, 2020

I was concerned about the Elfwort I planted last year. I dutifully checked the area where it was planted a few weeks back and found two likely suspects, one of which I accidentally broke down to ground level. I cleared out around them, gave each a bit of food and kept them watered. Only to realize I was off by about a foot, when the Elecampane burst out in a different location and within a week had leaves a foot long.

So I also have two thriving and as yet, unidentified weeds which weren’t Elfwort after all.

I ordered a second plant, which I planted this week next to last year’s. These little bastards grow exceptionally large, up to eight feet with a large yellow flower. There’s a lot of folklore associated with them and they can be used medicinally.

And with a name like Elfwort, you can bet it has a place in a fairy garden.

Two Moonwort plants came back this year, which was also surprising. I scattered a few seeds along the border last year and a few plants tried to make it, but ultimately died early. They only bloom the second year, so I was happy to see two plants pop up, and were among the first things to bloom in the witch’s garden this year. They develop translucent discs later in the season which contain the seeds for next years.

Casting serpents from the fairy garden

We’re considering turning the old garden into a fairy garden. Not the cheesy kinds you see in nurseries and garden centers, but one with plants rich in folkloric associations.

Unfortunately, it’s grown rather feral over the past couple years, and has become the breeding ground for serpents. I hate snakes. It’s not a rational fear. If I know one is there I’m fine with it. I won’t touch it, and if it comes towards me I’d likely run screaming like a little girl. It’s much better than it used to be. I had some bad experiences you see?

It’s that instant I see it I hate. I fucking dread it, so I’ve been avoiding that garden. But as the damned things are spreading out to other parts of the lawn, I have to do something. I tell myself they’re good, a sign of a healthy ecosystem. They keep rodents down. But no rodents, no owls. I prefer owls to snakes.

The gardener is my snake handler. I whacked one with the weed eater last week, and she dutifully dispatched it. She’s a vegetarian, so she carried it a block away to a vacant lot, full of trees and grass to recover. She’s thoughtful that way, and whilst her gardening skills are sometimes a bit iffy, she takes care of me.

We cleared out another area next to that garden and found three. Or rather she did. I stood behind her and helpfully pointed them out when they began to slither. Since then I’ve been keeping that area clean. Grass free even. Slowly I’m attacking the bushes they hide in and trimming them back, making a lot of noise in the process. She’s going to tackle the woodpile in the back where I’m convinced the mother of all snakes lives.

I’d likely just burn the pile but the thought of an exodus of squirming reptiles would make it impossible to sleep for years.

Some pretty things make an appearance

I planted Aliums in the witch’s garden a couple years back. Last year I was surprised to see them come up, though they were rather puny. This year I have four coming up, and at least half had good size heads already.

I first fell in love with Alliums at Old Westbury Gardens, on Long Island. There’s a summer cottage in the wood which had them in profusion and finding that spot was like stepping into Wonderland. I don’t yet know if there is any folkloric attraction, but I’m sure fairies would find them as enchanting as I do.

So anyway, the gardener and I are transforming that garden into a fairy garden. Which will mean plant shopping and it will likely be next year before it really starts coming together. We’re both short on that delayed gratification gene, but we’re getting better at it. And we love plant shopping.

So far I have Mrs. Sinkins Dianthus and coral bells planted, as well as Japanese Yew. There’s a holly bush nearby and a wall of ivy which now covers much of the patio and sidewalk, which also needs trimmed back. Another job for the gardener as it butts up against the aforementioned snake infested wood pile. I did have Lilac growing there, and Evening Primrose which I’d love to bring back. I was getting a few Primrose returning, but now I think the dense floor of ivy and squirming mass of reptile keeps them from coming back.

I have Daffodills there each spring, and Cala Lilies later on. And there’s a Clematis growing up the wall of Ivy. About seven years ago I planted St. John’s Wort, which is still thriving. I’m trying to train it to fill one of three beds I had, but it will likely be next year before its full. Each year I get about a liter of Wort, which keeps me somewhat level. It’s one of the few medicinal herbs I’ve actually used on a regular basis.

There’s an ancient rose bush, which I didn’t even know was there, to give you an idea how thick the brush around it was. It was growing up about twelve feet into its branches. I’ve got it cut back to a manageable size now, but it’s way too shady there for roses. Still it’s a hardy bastard and keeps trying.

And there are Azaleas, Peonies, Honeysuckle and an unidentified, crazy bush which knows no boundaries. It’s the secondary snake haven, and this year will be trimmed back.

I built the patio out there some years back and didn’t know it’s acceptable to keep the blocks an eighth of an inch or more apart. It makes patio construction much easier. Instead I went for the Inca gap, not able to get a playing card between the stones. The main reason we want that patio cleared to use however, is it has about the best view of the stars we have. Or at least one which is conducive to kissing as well.

One needs hidden spots in the garden. And with the Mrs. Sinkins Dianthus, which has a clove like evening scent, it’s a good excuse to spend evenings there. Behind the ivy.

New plants in the witch’s garden

Henbane, The Witch’s Garden, May 4, 2020

I was expecting a bit more from Henbane last year. Instead I got a plant that grew about a foot tall, always looked scraggly, put out a few flowers and was promptly eaten to the ground by bugs. Tragically, before I could get photos.

I later read this is typical. After realizing I didn’t get a photo of it in bloom, I decided to try again this year. It came in the mail, I planted it and it was promptly eaten down to the ground with two days. I’ve used a _________ spray on it and will keep my eye on it this year. At least till I get a photo.

Belladonna Turkmenistan, The Witch’s Garden, My 4, 2020

I’m trying a new Belladonna this year, a species from Turkmenistan with yellow flowers and purple veins. It’s said to grow a bit taller than the European versions, so I planted it away from the others. In addition to the one I had come back, I ordered four more Atropa Belladonna plants. I have them scatted among Monkshood and Daylilies, and eventually there will be a Yew bush casting shade. With our hot, often dry summers I find dappled sunlight suits Belladonna better than lots of full sun.

Or at least that’s my theory this year.

Aztec Dream Herb, growing in a container, April 27, 2020

Also new this year is Calea Zacatechichi, Aztec Dream Herb. Traditionally it was used to induce visions, as well as vomiting and flu symptoms as it’s nasty bitter. When taken in a more moderate dose it is said to help one remember their dreams, and makes the dreams somewhat more vivid. I might consider trying a tea made from it as I’m all for more vivid dreams. I just don’t care to vomit for them. And I might be too old for hallucinogenics, even with the Aztec connection. Then again …

Black Tulips in The Witch’s Garden, April 27, 2020

Black Tulips we planted because they look appropriately funereal, in a row along the front sidewalk, a nice introduction to the garden from the street. It’s a shame they won’t still be around when the Black Hollyhocks are blooming.

The lilies are coming up once more, the two large ones already close to four feet tall. I can still remember their scent from last year, and come hell or high water, we will have a moon garden this year.

And I close this entry out with a curious observation. We have a fairly large Jasmine plant, which comes indoors for winter. Last year, when it bloomed in the spring, the nights in that part of the house were fragrant, and Jasmine is my favorite scent. This year whenever I check there was no scent, despite having more blooms.

I put that down to it being warmer in here this year, as my gardener cares more for heat than I do. So we’ve had a warmer house, and Jasmine loves cooler nights. The past couple nights, as I take a walk through around one in the morning, I’ve noticed the scent. So it’s still putting it off, it’s just its internal clock is a bit off.

So Spring is well underway, and with all the time off, we’ve had a chance to get the gardens nearly ready to go. Our goal is to have them caught up by the beginning of June, and the pool open as well.

The season for rum drinks is almost upon us.

Laudanum from the Witch’s Garden: The opiate that drove the romantic poets to enlightenment and insanity

A Witch's Garden Grimoire, Classic Gothic Ghost Stories, Daily Life in History

I’m standing in the Tate Gallery, years ago, staring at the painting by Sir John Everett Millais of Ophelia. I know the story, and the story of the model, Elizabeth Siddal. It was the Pre-Raphelite movement in painting, the romantic poets were just fading away. Elizabeth was a great beauty of her time, but in a subtle way. She was the wife, as well as the muse of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Her and her husband both partook of Laudanum, her more than him. She became a full blown addict, lost a child, and died of an overdose. Upon finding her corpse, it took three doctors to convince Rossetti his wife was dead.

That painting always haunted me. The landscape looks like Wonderland. And as Ophelia floats down the stream to her doom, you don’t see the anguish. Or at least I don’t. I see Alice.

Laudanum is diluted opium, a ten percent solution in a tincture, some say the color of dried blood and very bitter. Many people think of opium as morphine, which it is, but it also contains the opiates codeine and thebaine, as well. The idea was hashed out by a Swiss-German alchemist, Paracelsus, known as the father of toxicology, in the sixteenth century. It went through many permutations, mixed with everything from alcohol to hashish, belladonna, mercury and even cayenne pepper. Along the way it picked up a devoted following.

And to think, it all came from poppies.

My favorite laudanum story, I got from a friend who swore it was true. Her mother in law, a nice little old lady here in the states decided to have a tea party, a real Victorian affair. She heard laudanum was a popular item in the Victorian era, and so managed somehow to score some, and proceeded to dose the tea with it. It did not turn out well, but all survived.

Into the Victorian era, Laudanum was cheap – cheaper at times than alcohol, available without a prescription and thought to cure almost whatever ailed you. Your kid keeps acting up? A few drops of opium will calm him down. Feeling a little down? It’ll pick you up. Diarrhea, bronchitis, colds, gout and of course anything to do with a woman’s reproductive system and cycle.

Being incredibly addictive, if you suffered from a prolonged illness you could come out of it with a nasty habit.

Or as was often the case, a fondness for the idyllic daydream state it gave you, or even your mind opened and creativity sparked. Until the addict’s habit takes over the creative part of the brain.

Being the artsy type, I’ve always been interested in the relationship between art and altered states. I freely admit, I’ve experimented on a number of occasions, with varying results. But the further you go down that path, the less and less work you do.

Usually. There are exceptions. But very few happy endings. You seldom read about anyone who speaks warmly of their time as an addict. I never got that far, but I got close enough to the edge to see what was on the other side.

Seed pods from an Opium Poppy, the source of opium. By Cate Davies, artist.

To the Victorians in particular, laudanum provided haven in a horrifying world. Britain’s extensive trade network ensures a steady, and cheap supply of opium to manufacture it. And then the Brits got into the cultivation of the Opium Poppy.

In Poe’s Ligeia, the opium addict narrator eludes to a few ruby colored drops into his wife’s drink, which brings upon her death. It’s assumed this is laudanum, as the telling part is that Poe set this story in England.

Incidentally, the rumor that Poe was an opium addict is unlikely to be true. That’s not to say he never had laudanum, it was universal for certain common maladies of the day. The rumor gets its fuel from Ligeia and other opium references in his stories, and the common belief that writers are auto biographical in their work. Which with Poe in particular, wasn’t always true.

There were plenty of people who were experimenting with Laudanum and art. Wilkie Collins, who knew a thing or two about horror took it for gout and rheumatism, and used it in the plot of The Moonstone.

Elizabeth Barret Browning was up to 40 drops a day when she began corresponding with her future husband, Robert Browning, after starting on the drug following an injury at the age of fifteen. It’s believed that the drug contributed to her frail health for the rest of her life.

The example most often pointed to for laudanum use in art is Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Kubla Khan. The poem, written after waking from an opium induced dream is indeed visionary. But those visions turned to nightmares brought on later by Coleridge’s addiction.

From Uncle Tom’s Cabin, where Cassy uses laudanum to kill a child, to The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Dickens, which features the nefarious Uncle Jasper who swills the stuff, the drug became mainstream.

In horror novels, it plays a part in both Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

In a sense, Laudanum helped inspire both. Dracula was influenced by an earlier work, The Vampyre by John Polidori. Polidori was staying with Lord Byron, another noted laudanum consumer, at Byron’s villa in Switzerland. Byron was in exile for among other things, a rumored incestuous relationship with his half sister. A competition conceived one evening during a storm, to see who could write the best horror story led to Polidori’s book, expanded upon by an idea originally proposed by Byron. Perhaps as a doctor, Polidori’s main role was as supplier, we’ll never know. But his lasting work was The Vampyr.

The only other story to come out of that evening, was Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, whose protagonist Victor takes laudanum to calm his nerves and sleep.

Mary Shelley’s husband, Percy was there and came up with only a fragment of a tale, poetry being his thing. His influence is keenly felt on his wife’s book though, as the genesis of the idea came from a conversation between him and Polidori. Percy kept a flask with laudanum, and by all accounts, it did seem to free up his creativity early on. But it took its toll, mentally and eventually physically. Byron’s daughter also became an addict.

I’ve never taken laudanum myself. It really first came to my attention from the Ken Russell film Gothic, a fictional (we hope) account of that night in Switzerland with Byron, Shelley and the rest. It’s filmed from the point of view of someone indulging right along with the poets, and does an admirable job of making the viewer feel it. How accurate it is I don’t know, but it pretty much warned me against it. I like strange, but I have my limits.

So is there a takeaway to these anecdotes? If so it’s this. Laudanum was made for occasional use, not prolonged use. It did have valid medical benefits. But those benefits were negated when it because a habit.

Some writers and artists did find a creative spark in laudanum, but if it became a regular habit, it stopped being useful and caused other problems. And if left unchecked, quite often misery and death.

From Wikipedia we learn that M. H. Abrams, whose most influential work to any American undergraduate was overseeing the Norton Anthology of English Literature, weighed in on the subject. He believed in what he called the mirror and the lamp. In short, he believed that the reader during the Romantic era saw literature as a mirror on their society. He believed the writers saw what they were doing as bringing out their inner soul to illuminate the world, and that the drugs helped access a place inside them that couldn’t be reached any other way.

He saw their opium use as a tool that freed their inner self and let it come pouring out in verse. But he also saw the dark side, Of Percy Bysshe Shelley, he wrote “The tragedy of Shelley’s short life was that intending always the best, he brought disaster and suffering upon himself and those he loved.”

Also from Wikipedia, Elisabeth Schneider counters that the euphoria produced by opium “merely frees the creativity naturally found within the poet.”

Either way, it had the desired effect, at least for a while. In our zero tolerance was on drugs, saying recreational drugs use has benefits is akin to farting in church. But it’s true, and our kids aren’t stupid enough not to realize it. They see it in popular culture all the time, in some of the most influential people of their age. And they see them die, and hopefully make up their own mind, not just react to slogans.

I’m reminded of Louis Armstrong who was an avid marijuana smoker in his youth. From reading about him I learned that in fact, marijuana slows down your perception of time, which is beneficial when you’re trying to cram sixty four notes in two seconds. The story was the same with him. The benefits he got from the drug were outweighed when he got busted in an era much more prohibitive than today.

In the end, art, be it visual or literary comes from inside. We all have different ways of reaching that place to yank it out. The romantics went deeper than we do in our art today, and perhaps it took a bit of nature’s wonder to set it free.

Monkshood: A deadly poison and essential ingredient in witch’s flying ointments comes back in the witch’s garden

A Witch's Garden Grimoire, Journal, Plants for A Witch's Garden & Moon Garden, Witch's Garden, Witchcraft and Magick

This was the second year I’ve had Monkshood in my witch’s garden. I tried growing it from seed with no luck. I have little patience for slow germinating seeds. But I found a source for live plants and ordered a couple. Both survived and even bloomed, unusual for Monkshood in its first year. It was the last bloom of Autumn in the witch’s garden.

This year they came back, after a pretty cold winter. With more than twice as many blooms.

Monkshood (Aconitum napellus) is a perennial wildflower, found in mountainous and temperate regions of western and central Europe, as well as parts of Asia. It grows about three foot tall (one meter), has dark green palmate leaves and produces spiky clusters of hood like flowers, ranging in color from dark to purple to blue.

It’s often confused with its yellow cousin, Wolfsbane (Aconitum lycocotonum), another Aconite, with most people seeming to believe they are the same plant. Equally lethal, Wolfsbane contains a different kind of poison and blooms earlier in the season, compared to Monkshood which blooms in late summer/autumn.

It’s one of, if not the most poisonous plants in the witch’s garden, along with Belladonna or Deadly Nightshade, another aconite.

Monkshood in the witch's garden, Halloween 2019 — Monkshood in the witch’s garden. A second year plant, it grew to about three foot tall, with considerably more blooms than the first year. Halloween, 2019

Growing Monkshood

Monkshood is particularly difficult to start. It’s slow to germinate if you can get the seeds to germinate at all. The cold strata method works best, though you can try sewing them into pots on the winter solstice. It usually takes a couple of years for the plant to bloom, unless propagating by root division. It can also take up to three years for it to reach its full height.

Monkshood grows in zones 3-7, so it’s fairly hardy once started. In the winter it will die down to ground level. A good portion of cow manure is also helpful. In essence you want to develop a rich, slightly moist soil, similar to a forest floor. You don’t have to worry about deer with Monkshood, but some caterpillars find it tasty. You want a location that drains well, as it hates standing in water.

It also hates being transplanted, hence the need to plant it in the right spot the first time. A slightly shaded, sheltered spot away from garden traffic is ideal, as you don’t want to even brush up against this plant. You also don’t want to grow it near any plants you might ingest later, for fear of contamination or accidentally eating a bit of Monkshood. If you do you will likely die and it won’t be pleasant. There is no chemical antidote to Monkshood poisoning.

How Monkshood kills

Monkshood isn’t a subtle poison. The taste is bitter, very bitter. It burns in the mouth before numbness sets in, making speech difficult. It’s an agonizing death, very painful, provoking both anxiety which raises the heart rate and lowers the blood pressure, and also causes increasing paralysis. The victim stays conscious till the end, which is usually from heart failure.

The length of time varies from about an hour to a bit longer, depending on how much poison is ingested and how long it stays in the stomach. A small amount might cause no more than a numb face and mouth and upset tummy. Less than a half teaspoon of tincture has been known to kill. A full teaspoon makes death almost a certainty.

Coming into contact with the leaves or other parts of the plant can lead to dermatitis, dizziness and nausea. If it reaches an open wound, even contact can cause death.

It goes without saying that you should always wear gloves when handling the plant, and dispose of them immediately after.

A history of Monkshood

There’s a story from Homer, later embellished by Ovid that Hecate created Monkshood from the saliva of Cerberus, the three headed hound which guards the entrance to Hades. Some sources place this legend at a now abandoned village in Turkey named Akonai, where there is a cave which is believed to have been the entrance to Hades.

Another legend has the story taking place near Mount Akonitos in Asia Minor. The common denominator in Monkshood myths is its use as a poison. Medea, a Scythian sorceress tried to use it on Theseus. Aconite is the poison Athena used to change Arachne to a spider when she dared outspin the goddess. Arrow heads were smeared with the poison to make them doubly fatal. In some cases the shafts were coated as well so anyone pulling the arrow from the body would be poisoned as well. The Romans used to poison their enemies food and water supply and even Claudius, the emperor fell to aconite poisoning.

It was still making appearances in literature when Shakespeare referred to an aconite blade in Hamlet.

A more creative technique for poisoning with Monkshood was carried out by Calpurnius Bestia, who would smear his finger with an extract made from the roots which he would then use to touch his wive’s genitalia, which absorbed the poison and led to their deaths.

Witches Broom and Monkshood — Monkshood can be one of the essential ingredients of the witch’s flying potion of the middle ages. It was thought to be rubbed on the broom handle, and the nudity of the rider allowed it to be absorbed into the body. Woodcut by Hans Baldung, 1508

Monkshood and the witch’s broom

Monkshood is perhaps best known as one of the ingredients in the medieval witch’s flying potion. You ever wonder why witch’s were thought to ride brooms? It goes back to Calpurnius Bestia and his technique for poisoning.

The flying potion is on paper at least a potent cocktail which should prove fatal, and would certainly if digested. It often consisted of any combination of Belladonna, Henbane, Datura, Mandrake, Hemlock and Monkshood or Wolfsbane, held together in an entirely disgusting paste made from the fat of dead babies dug up from the local churchyard, or procured through more devious means.

The witch was believed to lather herself up with it, which would have produced an intense buzz as it would certainly work its way through the pores. But perhaps the alternate technique would be to coat the broom handle, then place it between her legs, ala Calpurnius. That would make it work even more effectively and quickly, though would at least lead to a truly nasty rash down there.

Some believe it also contained opium poppy. It’s long been debated whether this potion made the witch truly fly, or just believe she was flying. Since we all know there were no such things as witches and they certainly couldn’t fly – right? – then it had to be merely in the head. The noted occultist and historian Carl Kiesewetter tried to replicate the potion himself in 1895, but didn’t survive to tell what he found out on this point.

Bartolommeo Spina, a dominican of Pisa wrote in 1525 of a man who came home to find his wife, naked and unconscious in the pigsty, her vagina exposed and red. Recognizing that his wife was a witch, he almost killed her on the spot. But he allowed her to regain consciousness to find she had smeared the pig with the ointment and rode it on her journey.

Difference between wolfsbane and monkshood — Wolfsbane is a cousin to Monkshood, and though it contain aconite, its a slightly different variant. It also blooms earlier in the season and is more of wildflower, less likely to be found in cultivated gardens.

The difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane

For most practical purposes, Monkshood can be replaced by its close relative, Wolfsbane. Both are equally lethal, though a slightly different form of Aconite. While Monkshood was known to be grown in medieval monastery gardens, and is in fact still a somewhat popular garden plant, Wolfsbane is more known as a wildflower. With yellow blooms rather than purple, and an earlier blooming time, it also has one quality according to legend that Monkshood doesn’t share.

Wolfsbane was believed to have been used to ward off werewolves, and in some cases act as a cure.

For its common usage, and where Wolfsbane likely got its name, Monkshood works equally as well. Wolves, panthers and other wild and dangerous creatures were often dispatched with the poison from the plant, either through baiting them with tainted meat, or shooting them with aconite coated arrows. It was even believed that rabies might be caused by dogs and other critters accidentally ingesting the plant.

Monkshood in the witch's garden — Monkshood growing in the witch’s garden, October, 2018. Blooming in the first year shouldn’t always be expected, particularly if growing from seed. This plant was purchased live, and though they can reach three foot, in the first year this barely topped a foot.

A warning

Monkshood is a lovely flower for the witch’s garden. It provides a late burst of color prior to winter, but it shouldn’t be grown without intent and consciousness. Too many people have died, and continue to die stupid because of mishandling. It can be grown safely, tucked away in a corner of the garden, locked away from little people who like to pick flowers. Be cautious because Monkshood doesn’t give you a second chance.

Monkshood, from the Witch’s Garden. A tidy little poison and essential ingredient for a witch’s flying potion.

Celebrating the Cowslip on May Day morning in the witch’s garden

A Witch's Garden Grimoire, Journal, Plants for A Witch's Garden & Moon Garden, What's blooming in the Witch's Garden?, Witch's Garden, Witch's Garden Feature

Cowslip is a staple of British folklore, herbalism and literature …

And I serve the Fairy Queen
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be.
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours;
In those freckles live their savours.
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.

William Shakespeare, A Midsummer’s Night Dream

My mother was a real countrywoman … She spent much of her childhood at Yetminster, near Sherborne, in Dorset, where there were wonderful old meadows full of cowslips and granfer-griggles (early purple orchids). We often went there when I was a child because we could reach it by train. One tradition I enjoyed, when cowslips were in bloom, was making tisty tosties. We made balls of cowslip flowers by cutting off their heads and tying them together with wool, so that the end of their stems were in the centre. We then hung a dozen or so tisty tosties on a stick and carried them home. I recall chanting ‘Tisty tosty, tell me true, who shall I be married to?’

Orpington, Kent, February 2009, Plant Lore Archive

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It’s May Day, Beltane if you will, and I have Cowslip on my mind. I remember a piece of folklore, that if a suitor gives his love a sprig on May Day, they will be married before year’s end. In a ceremony with Cowslip strewn on the the church path of course.

Gertrude Jekyll, writing in the early 20th century recounts that children made balls of Cowslips, called a tissty-tosstie to “Bring in the May.”

One of the first flowers of spring, blooming from April into May, the sunshine yellow flowers of the cowslip are dotted with orange and are quite sweet smelling. Native to Europe as well as Asia, Cowslips can be found in meadows, clear, grassy areas and river banks as they love the sun. But they grow as well in shady areas like woods and forests.

A perennial, Cowslip flowers form a clustered bloom above a rosette of leaves on a single stalk. In Wales, long stalks are thought to portend a wet summer, whereas a shorter stem means a dry summer.

A close cousin to the primrose, it’s sometime difficult to differentiate between the two in early literature and herbals, as the names were often used interchangeably. Sometimes the two form a hybrid, the curiously named oxlip.

Cowslip springs from Old English – cu-sloppe, referring to a pile of cow dung, from which the plant often grows.

To the Christian, the Cowslip grew from the ground when St. Peter once dropped the keys to the pearly gates of heaven. This accounts for some of Cowslip’s alternative names, such as St. Peter’s Keys, Key Flower, Bunch of Keys and Keys of Heaven, which are often found in early herbals.

Cowslips are called Tisty-Tosty in the British county of Devon, and Paigles in other areas of Britain. In Lincolnshire they’re known as Milk Maidens, while in other counties they go by the name of Palsywort.

In Dorset they go by a more traditional name – Fairycup, which reflects the earlier belief that fairies use the umbrella shaped flowers for shelter during the rain.

“That they do dwell within the cowslip hollow is truth for I have seen them fly out in intoxicated abandon.”
Edmund Canterbell

The key motif pops up again in fairy lore, where it’s thought that they can be used to spring the locks that protect their treasure.

Where the bee sucks, there suck I,
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry;
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
From The Tempest by William Shakespeare

One of the more famous characters associated with Cowslips is Ariel, from Shakespeare’s seventeenth century play The Tempest.

Cowslips go hand in hand with May Day or Beltane festivities, often used as garlands for maypoles. Chaucer names Cowslips as one of the flowers sought after for May Day in his poem The Court of Love, naming it there as a Primrose.

They were still being used in the nineteenth century as a key ingredient in nineteenth century May Day celebrations, as Thomas Hardy wrote in Return of the Native of having the good luck “to live in a cowslip country.”

They were also used in Britain for the making of wine.

The roots, leaves and flowers of Cowslip had many uses in folk remedies, as herbals both ancient and current point out.

From The Cloisters Museum and Gardens’ website, we learn that “in the fifteenth-century herbal Hortus Sanitatis, cowslips were warming and drying in action, and were good for headache and catarrh. Oil of primrose rejuvenated the elderly and alleviated sufferings associated with the pains and cold of winter. When given in wine or dropped in the ears, this oil was good for palsy, and restored the faculties of those paralyzed by apoplexy. The nodding flower heads of the cowslip were a sign of its usefulness against trembling of the limbs, as the freckled throats of the flowers were an indication of its efficacy in removing spots and pimples from the skin.”

The renowned British botanist Nicholas Culpepper wrote in the seventeenth century that an ointment created from Cowslip would increase a woman’s beauty. It was also used as a skin cleanser, to cure blemishes and open the skin’s pores.

The sedative properties of Cowslip are well known, and tea made from the flowers help to cure nervous tension and anxiety. As the effects are relatively mild, it was thought to be safe for children, and help rambunctious kids sleep.

The roots loosen mucus and phlegm and were often used for cold symptoms, as well as the flu.

Cowslip was also used to reduce inflammation from early times. John Gerard wrote in 1633 that
“Cowslips are commended against the paine of the joints called the Gout, and the slacknesse of the sinews, which is the palsie”, as well as for other ailments such as kidney and bladder stones!

“Primrose (hymelsloszel) is hot. All its vital energy is from the sharpness of the sun. Now, certain plants are strengthened by the sun, others by the moon, and certain others by the sun and moon together. But this plant takes its strength especially from the power of the sun, whence it checks melancholy. When melancholy rises in a person, it makes him sad and agitated in his moods. It makes him pour forth words against God. Airy spirits notice this, and rush to him, and by their persuasion turn him toward insanity. This person should place primrose on his flesh, near his heart, until it warms him up. The airy spirits dread the primrose’s sun-given power and will cease their torment.”
Hildegard of Bingen, Physica

Cowslip also finds its way into the kitchen. The Noble Boke Of Cookry names a soup recipe consisting of primerole and ground almonds. Also the flowerbuds were eaten in salads, and the young leaves boiled as a potherb.

With the prominent role of Cowslip over time, it’s no wonder that this lovely plant is now on the decline. Perhaps it’s the fading of ancient traditions which will allow this versatile plant in the witch’s garden to make a comeback.

The Tuft of Cowslips, Albrecht Duhrer, 1526, The National Gallery of Art

From the witch’s garden, Meadowsweet, a love potion as well as a balm for aching hearts

A Witch's Garden Grimoire, February - A celebration of love, Pagans, Heathens and Witchcraft, Plants for A Witch's Garden & Moon Garden

A field of Meadowsweet, Barton Country Farm, Bradford on Avon, Wiltshire.

Top: Meadowsweet, right, growing along a path by the river Avon, Barton Country Farm, Bradford on Avon, Wiltshire.

When we think of plants, love and folklore, we tend to think of love potions, which we’re all familiar with through fiction, or even opera such as Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde, or the marvelously named The Elixir of Love by Donizetti. We expect fictional magic, rather than natural magic which is much more subtle. A plant, or a potion can’t immediately and totally bend a person’s will to us for all time. But it can give us a dose of belief, something to focus our intent on, build hope, and perhaps a bit of earth magic along the way.

But it’s my guess that for a real love potion to work, it has to have the essential ingredient, which is of course love. And it works best when its already present in both hearts.

But do a search for Meadowsweet online and you’ll find countless love potions where it’s listed as a primary ingredient, because it does cut across various strands of folklore from different cultures. According to the National Records of Scotland, Meadowsweet was used in a bath to temper the rage of the Irish warrior Cuchulainn. It’s also said that it got its lovely fragrance from the Irish goddess Aine.

Also known as Bridewort, Meadwort or its scientific name, Filipendula ulmaria, it blooms in summer, from June to late August in Britain, along stream or river banks, in ditches and damp woods and meadows. With tuftlike, creamy white flowers on stems two to three foot tall, time bedecked with fern like leaves, the gentlest of breezes sends it swaying, their soft, almond-like scent wafting delicately.

As such it was a favorite for strewing along the floors to color the scent of a room, counting among its devotees Queen Elizabeth I, who proclaimed it her favorite over all the herbs in her chambers.

16th century herbalist, John Gerard wrote “The leaves and floures of Meadowsweet farre excelle all other strowing herbs for to decke up houses, to strawe in chambers, halls and banqueting-houses in the summer-time, for the smell thereof makes the heart merrie and joyful and delighteth the senses.”

Chaucer called it Meadwort and listed it as one of 50 ingredients in the drink Save, described in The Knight’s Tale, and in fact it’s still used in many meads and herbal beers, going as far back as the bronze age.

To the Druids, it was one of the three most sacred plants, along with water-mint, and vervain. It’s been found in bronze age graves in Wales and Scotland. In fact, Welsh mythology has a tale of a woman named Blodeuwedd or Flower Face, created from oak blossoms oak Blossoms, Broom and Meadowsweet.

It’s long been known as a pain reliever, and was the original plant used to create aspirin. Tea made from the blossoms has been used for ages to treat coughs and colds, and is quite tasty. It’s also been used in jams and jellies, as well as a spice for a delicate, almond like flavor which reflects its scent.

But it’s the combination of beauty and fragrance which made it so attractive to lovers. Under the name of Bridewort, it was used to strew the aisles of churches, for garlands and bridal wreaths, the culmination of courtship, which unfortunately in my case, turned out that summer afternoon to be the wrong type of culmination. Such is the way of love though, where one may see the love they possess as their salvation, while the object of their desire may see it as a curse.

Such is the way of a love spell after all, which have a way of producing unintentional effects as often as not.

A last look around the moon garden and the witch’s garden before the autumn’s chill does its work

A Witch's Garden Grimoire, What's blooming in the Witch's Garden?, Witch's Garden Feature

Top: The last rose of the season

It’s time again, to start putting away the garden for winter, and time to see how things turned out.

The herbs are inside now, except for a Patchouli plant which mostly died, but in the drought we’ve been going through, unexpectedly came back. The others are looking a bit scraggly, but with a bit of care and a good trim, they should be alright.

I haven’t pulled up the Valerian yet. To be honest, I never did use the root I pulled from last year, and I’m curious to see if I can keep one alive over the winter outside. And they do smell when you hang them to dry. Last year when it was hanging in the kitchen I was forever checking myself to see if I was the source of the wet dog stench, only to remember it was still hanging up.

The Echinacea plants are finished finally. They were quite robust the last few months. One grew to about four foot tall and during the hottest part of September, grew into the patio where it could get some shade. I trimmed the dead heads off which were almost coal black, and they make nice arrangements in the plethora of blue vases I have on hand. Dead things make great decorations.

Early Halloween decorations

I did manage a good pint of St. John’s Wort this year, which isn’t bad considering only a few shoots remained after last year, where they’d unexpectedly spread into one of the garden beds. If they choose to, I’ll let them have the whole bed next year.

The new holly bush is staring to put out berries. The lady at the nursery who sold it to me looked like I had two heads when I wanted one with berries. She tried to convince me that the new ones, without berries were so much better. It’s obvious she has no druid in her.

I still haven’t given up on creating a hedge row from Copper Beeches. I only found one nursery who would even try to get them. The fellow there asked to repeat myself, and I asked if he’d never heard of using it for a hedge. He said indeed he had, but not once since he’d lived in the midwest had anyone asked. Nor had anyone taken his suggestion to use them, so he was curious to find out where I came up with the idea. Unfortunately, they went out of business before he could place the order. And they were going to be pricey, about $150 each to be large enough to be planted on six foot centers.

The last blooming of the Brugmansia in the moon garden

I might still do it somehow, if I decide to stay here. I like the idea of enclosing the yard and blocking the world and becoming a hermit. On six foot centers he said about five years should fill it in nicely.

I had hoped not to be here next year, but fate is a fickle thing. It pulled me here and keeps me bound to the place. Some day I hope to be free of it, but to tell you the truth, at the moment there’s nowhere to go. So I’m settling in for a long winter.

The Brugmansia I thought was going to bloom once more. But the night time temperatures turned to chilly, and the new growth stopped. A jolt of plant food might have helped, but it looked as weary as I did. It managed to bloom every month, the blooms spreading out over a week.

The night blooming Jasmine kept it up all summer. Last year was its first year here, and it only bloomed when I bought it, and at the end of the summer. This year it kept the house smelling nice till late September. I kept the bedroom door open most of the time, as well as the front door, and the scent would fill up the front part of the house. I saved a fortune on incense.

I have to study up on wintering both Jessamine and Brugmansia. Last winter I took them into a darkish room and let the leaves drop. They snapped back when I brought them into the light this spring, with the exception of a few of the Brugmansia branches. I had trimmed both plants back, but not really a severe trim. Mainly to get them through the doors. The Brugmansia had small blooms as it does now, and I had half hoped it would bloom indoors. It just laughed at me and dropped its leaves.

But another season in their containers and they could end up root bound. So this is something to research. And in my stupidity, I lined the Jessamine container with a few inches of gravel. I do not relish the idea of pulling it into the house again. Especially as I was thinking of taking them to the basement. A higher chance of a fungus perhaps. But the two of them take up a good sized room.

Moon Flowers blooming in twilight

The big surprise was the Moon Flowers and Scarlet Runner Beans I planted on trellises going up the front porch. The red flowers on the beans were a nice lead-in while the Moon Flowers filled in with leaves. Once the moon flowers started blooming I would have ten to fifteen a night, so for the first time really, sitting outside felt like a real moon garden. Or rather smelled like it. They mingled with the Jasmine, the Datura and an occasional whiff from the Brugmansia. They may all be poisons, but the smell of death turns out to be very intoxicating. And the moths were huge.

An unexpected benefit of the Moon Flowers on the porch was it blocked much of the late day sun, as the porch is on the west side of the house. As it warmed back up in September, that was a good thing. I believe it kept the temperature in here about five degrees cooler. With no air conditioning and temperatures in the nineties, five degrees makes all the difference in the world.

The Datura bloomed themselves to death. In place of blooms I now have all kinds of prickly seed pods, which I’ll gather up for next year. I did order Datura this year, but I’m thinking since I was volunteers last year from dropped seeds, I’ll likely be able to get them to come up this year. Especially if I concentrate the seed pods where I want them to come up.

I compared in-ground planting with containers this year, and the results were similar. Perhaps a few more blooms on the in-ground planting. So if I’ll go that route next year. And perhaps devote the containers to Belladonna, which for the first year in four, did not come back.

Scarlett Runner Beans and Moon Flower vines. The heavy vegetation helped to keep cool in the late summer heat.

The Nicotiana which I ordered from the Grower’s Exchange turned out not to be that at all. Hence the mention of Grower’s Exchange. Normally a good place to order from.

But quite by surprise, I had three volunteer plants spring up in the back, one of which is still sputtering out blossoms.

The Magnolia tree is also covered in buds. But I’d imagine the winter will get to it first. It’s strange. If it wasn’t for frosts, I believe the damned thing would bloom four times a year.

I did sit on the porch long enough to catch sight of a couple of hummingbirds. With nobody spraying the rocks below for weeds, I had several sunflowers spring up from spilled birdseed. Another happy accident. And the roses are in bloom again, better than this summer even.

And of course, I have a healthy crop of weeds. Both of the back gardens have gone feral. The Castor Bean plants by the pool, and the Tansy blocked the view of the mess. I have all winter to clear that out and start again, and perhaps even finally get rid of the rest of the poison ivy.

I’ll probably get rid of the pool eventually. That will let me expand that part of the garden so it’s not so crowded. I’d like to create something with the feel of the wild to it, something that feels more like foraging for witchy plants, and less like specimens.

If I could carry the garden over to the other side, and clean off the patio and repair the screens, then I think I could get a nice Steinbeck feel out there for a writing spot. There’s a desk in the building behind it. All I need is a typewriter, a bottle of rye and a pistol.

I accidentally chopped the watermelon vine with the weed eater.. I came up with one pumpkin. I broke the stem off when I picked it, but it’s a nice one. A Cinderella Pumpkin, like her coach. It’s about all The Mexican Sunflowers did well. The apples did too, though mainly they were on the tree that is so crooked it’s almost laying on the ground. I’d have one a day, and the kids who cut through the yard pretty much cleaned it out. Better that I suppose than picking my poison berries.

One of the Hydrangea bushes is still blooming. I also found one squash today, the ones I planted this summer. It was only two months late, no idea why. I’d never tried to grow squash before. But it got a last minute growth spurt I suppose.

I managed a single pumpkin and a single squash. A cool August and hot September caused late blooming.

I’ve got Castor Bean plants all over the yard it seems. I pulled up countless plants as they came up, but some were pretty unique and I spared them. The leaves this year were huge, three feet wide on some of them, with long shoots of seed pods. The tallest looks to be about ten feet tall. I keep waiting for the police to mistake them for Marijuana and raid the place. I could use the entertainment.

The Castor Beans were all volunteers this year. The stalks grew as thick as a forearm, the leaves sometimes topped three feet.

A Witch's Garden Grimoire

Alchemy in the Witches' garden

A collection of tales, potions and spells from a witches' garden

From healing potions to the dark arts, the articles below make for a great introduction to witch's garden plants ... pick an article below