by James White
20th March 2026

S pring has surprised me with its arrival.

In the midst of torrential rain, freezing nights, keeping the fire on most of the day, and all the chores of just trying to survive the end of winter, I suddenly noticed the fresh green tips of Nettles, charcoal black buds on the Ash, new growth from the potted Mugwort rootstocks, leaves on the Hawthorn.

There are even tiny flower buds on the Big Old Elder in the south-facing hedge at the top of the field. This one is always weeks earlier in flowering than any others in the area; I’m never sure if this is just because of its position, in a sheltered spot facing the sun. Its clusters of flowers are a little more compact than in many other Elders I’m used to, and I’ve wondered if the early flowering is a trait of it’s being a local variation or subspecies. Either way the early flowers will be a welcome treat for the wild bees, other pollinators, and myself if I find the time to make some wine.

Trailing through the meadow beneath this Elder, the Ground Ivy has started to rise and flower, earlier than usual? Its dark green, purple-edged growing tips climb out of the turf, opening tiny violet-lipped flowers. Ground Ivy is indigenous to the land where I live, but I couldn’t find any in what was overgrazed old pasture. I collected and transplanted them from wherever I could find, often planting them with other larger herbs, as ground cover to keep the couch-grass and docks at arm’s length.

It’s one of the herbs that responds fairly well to a quite hands-off approach to growing, finding its niche in shaded places, amongst tough grasses that would out-compete other reasonably resilient plants. It was once much valued as a medicine, treating many complaints of the mouth, throat, chest, ears, digestive system, kidneys, yet seems to have fallen out of favour in today’s materia medica. But I love it, and have found it extremely helpful in shifting the damp coughs of life in a trailer or bender in the winters of these lands.

I’ve picked a handful of the best fragrant flowering tips, to make a simple cold infusion in a glass of water on the windowsill.

Ground Ivy in flower. Photo by James White.

 I’m late, as usual, with many of the tasks of growing. The new growth from last year’s pots of propagated perennial herbs – Elecampane, Valerian, Bergenia, Mugwort – reminds me that I had intended to find good places to put them in the ground while things still felt dormant.¹

There’s cuttings I would have liked to take, particularly Crampbark and Rosemary. I’d like to plant a fair few Crampbark in the recently-planted hedges here, which would make it easier to harvest a good amount of the bark – invaluable to have on hand for muscle cramps and menstrual pain – without taking too much from any one tree.

I will try not to be disheartened by my lateness. Most of these plants are quite forgiving of being tended at not quite the right time.

I think I even still have time for Crampbark cuttings.²

Artemisia verlotiorum (also known as ‘Chinese Mugwort’) spring regrowth.

I’m always struck, at this time of year, by how few seasons we each really have in which to learn all of the patterns and timings of working with the land, and tending the plants.

My 83 year old neighbour, who I help with some of the heavier work in his garden, is timely to the point of impatience with his sowings and plantings; he grows the biggest onions I’ve ever seen. Often however, he complains that his Leeks have bolted and flowered after midsummer, becoming tough and inedible, because he’s sown them far too early.

My lateness with garden tasks is often the butt of his jokes with me, but I like to remind him that he’s had more than twice as long as me, working on the same land as his parents and grandparents, to figure out how it all works.

And anyway, I’ve still got time this spring for some sowings.

Elecampane  rootstock resprouting amongst autumnal debris.

A few of the things I intend to grow this year:

Lemonbalm – which I’d always wrongly thought wouldn’t grow from seed.

Oregano – which I probably have enough of growing here already, but is my most used cooking herb, and often overlooked for it’s medicinal value.

Betony – another herb once prized as a panacea. It does grow wild around this Island, but I’ve hardly ever found it.

And somewhat experimentally, I’m trying Tulsi again this year. I’ve been growing it as a tender annual for maybe the last four years, saving seed each year, after being given a few seedlings by my old friend Ram at a summer gathering. It really needs light and warmth (both in short supply for much of the year where I live), and despite my efforts at trying to keep it alive on a windowsill through the winter, it seems to just give up after weeks of darkness and cold (I can empathise).

Tulsi, Tulasi Devi, (Ocimum tenuiflorum), has been cultivated in South Asia and the Himalayas for thousands of years. It is highly valued in Ayurveda for its many medicinal properties, and is considered a living manifestation of Divinity, grown with care and reverence in places of worship and homes. I feel a little torn here: I know I’m not able to give this plant the growing environment it needs to flourish into a venerable woody perennial (free of frost and dark winters, it can live for decades), and I’m not working with it in the spiritual tradition that it originates in. But finding personal connection with plants and saving seeds is also important, and doing my best to grow it where I live also feels like a step away from importing the medicines of warmer and brighter climates cheaply and extractively. 

I sprinkle the tiny black seeds into a tray of compost from which I’ve just sieved out the worst lumps. I’m starting them off in the microclimate of the polytunnel, along with early sowings of other summer crops. The clear plastic structure provides shelter from the worst of the weather, but even there it’s not safe from late frosts, which can continue even into June where I live, between the sea and the mountains. So the tray gets a piece of Garden Fleece draped over it like a tent, keeping an extra layer of humidity and warmth around the germinating seeds. I hope its enough.³

A tray of Tulsi seeds wrapped for warmth and protection.

The seasons, and the transitions between them, feel ever more unstable and unpredictable.

There was over a month’s difference in the last frost here between 2024 and 2025. In the former, I lost most of the crop of squash plants in the communal veg garden to an unexpected frost well into June. I approached the next season cautiously, delaying my planting out until almost summer solstice, but there wasn’t another frost after the middle of April.

I’ve had very little success transplanting Tulsi outdoors; even in the height of summer it seems to take the cooler evenings quite badly, weakening and becoming feed for the (many, voracious) slugs. 

So for now I’ll continue to grow it in a small bed in the polytunnel, once the seedlings have filled out enough to handle. It really is worth all this hassle. The Tulsi teabags I’ve found in the shop bear almost no resemblance to the fresh herb, or the same carefully dried and stored in a well sealed jar. It smells divine. Combining menthol, licorice, cinammon, vanilla; both warming and cooling, sweet and uplifting, it is a fine tea all by itself.

2.​ Taking cuttings of woody perennials like Crampbark is best done when the plant is dormant over winter, generally between November and March. With a sharp knife or secateurs, cut healthy sections of the most recent season’s growth, cutting to a node or bud. Trim off most of the leaves if there are any, and stick them up to their necks in a pot of soil+compost mix. Keep them damp and sheltered, and they should root within a few months.

3.​ Similar or even better protection can be offered to tender seedlings on a warm windowsill, with fine cloth or a polythene bag taking the place of the Garden Fleece tent. If the unseasonably warm weather fails, I may yet move this seed tray onto the (very crowded) windowsill of the communal kitchen.

James White is a subsistence farmer and hedge herbalist living in a co-operative smallholding. He grows herbs and makes remedies to share within his community.