Secrets of the Blackthorn Tree

Blackthorn has always had something of a reputation. Perhaps it is the thorns, perhaps the dark branches and startling white blossom, or perhaps people have simply learned that a hedge capable of stopping a determined cow deserves a certain amount of respect. Whatever the reason, folklore has rarely allowed Blackthorn to be merely a tree. It has become a boundary, a warning, a weapon, a protector and, occasionally, the place where perfectly sensible people begin telling wonderfully improbable stories.

Even in the landscape, Blackthorn seems determined to live up to its character. It spreads through suckers to create dense thickets, while its roots help bind the soil beneath it. On banks and disturbed ground it can quite literally hold its ground, even as the earth around it changes. There is something wonderfully Blackthorn about that stubbornness: when circumstances become difficult, its first response is apparently to grow more Blackthorn.

Then there is the curious relationship between Blackthorn and Hawthorn. Both produce white blossom and both carry formidable thorns, yet their characters could hardly feel more different. Hawthorn belongs to the exuberance of spring and the approach of summer; Blackthorn flowers much earlier, sometimes while winter still has the countryside firmly in its grasp. Its white flowers appear against almost black branches before the leaves have properly arrived. One brings light into the growing year; the other seems to produce light directly from darkness. It is easy to understand why folklore and later spiritual traditions have found opposites, companions and counterparts within these two thorn trees.

Blackthorn also makes a remarkably good stick. Its dense, hard wood became associated particularly with Irish walking sticks and the shillelagh, although the distinction between walking companion and cudgel could occasionally depend upon how the evening was progressing. A good Blackthorn stick could support its owner on the road, establish a boundary when required and, in less peaceful circumstances, make that boundary abundantly clear. Protection and threat occupy the same piece of wood — another contradiction Blackthorn seems perfectly comfortable carrying.

Its darker associations gave Blackthorn a place beside witches, hags and the unexplained terrors of the night. One particularly fascinating survival is the figure of the Old Hag, once used to explain the frightening experience of waking in the night conscious but unable to move, sometimes with the sensation that somebody or something is sitting upon the chest. Today we recognise this experience as sleep paralysis, but before physiology supplied an explanation, folklore supplied a visitor. The Hag came in through the darkness and sat down. Scientifically unnecessary perhaps, but undeniably more memorable.

Blackthorn also has a romantic side, although even its romances tend to come with conditions attached. This is where the Seal and the Selkie find an unexpected correspondence. In the folklore of northern Atlantic communities, the selkie crosses the boundary between sea and shore, shedding its sealskin to assume human form. Selkie stories can be achingly beautiful tales of love, longing and belonging to two worlds, but they frequently contain a warning. Possession is not love, betrayal has consequences, and someone whose freedom has been stolen may eventually reclaim it. The story is soft until it isn’t. Like Blackthorn blossom among the thorns, beauty does not mean defencelessness.

Even the fruit carries a little of this temperament. A ripe sloe may look temptingly like a small plum, but biting enthusiastically into one is an excellent way of discovering the meaning of astringency. Tradition learned patience instead. Sloes were gathered for preserves, wines and liqueurs, and the familiar custom of waiting until after the first frost reflects the belief that cold improves the fruit. Modern freezers may have taken some of the jeopardy out of waiting for Jack Frost, but the old relationship remains: Blackthorn offers its sweetness reluctantly. You have to know what to do with it.

This mixture of attraction and warning runs throughout Blackthorn folklore. The hedge shelters birds while preventing passage. The thorn protects while it wounds. The blossom promises spring while winter remains nearby. The stick supports the traveller but can become a cudgel. The selkie offers romance but refuses ownership. Even the Old Hag eventually gives way to an explanation in the morning light.

Perhaps that is why Blackthorn has gathered so many contradictory stories around itself. It doesn’t fit comfortably into ideas of fortunate or unfortunate, light or dark, benevolent or threatening. Blackthorn simply has boundaries. Treat them with respect and there is blossom, fruit, shelter, romance and protection within them.

Ignore them, and somewhere amongst all that poetry there is still a thorn waiting to remind you.