Two years ago on my tiny allotment I sowed a few seeds. I did not expect it to show any signs of growth here in a rather damp North Cornwall. However, look at this. There are several plants, possibly too close together now they're at full height. Clary sage (Salvia sclarea) is a fragrant herb native to the Mediterranean region, prized for centuries for its aromatic leaves and delicate purple-blue flowers. Unlike common culinary sage, clary sage is best known for its essential

For more than eleven years, there has been no television in our home. No flickering screen, no endless stream of headlines, dramas, or manufactured excitement. Instead, our entertainment arrives on wings. Each morning and evening, the little copse becomes a living theatre, its performers neither scripted nor rehearsed. The stars of the show are the chaffinches, goldfinches, and tree sparrows, great tips, blue tits and George and Mildred, the blackbirds, they're all busy with

A sneak peak of my first feature for The Flower Farmer magazine. I'm absolutely thrilled with how the editor has used my photography too, so talented, especially this image I took a few years ago. #theflowerfarmermagazine #featurewriter #theenglishherbalist

The first lanterns were already lit when I stepped into the clearing. For over twenty-five years, I had walked this same winding path through the ancient Norfolk woodland—past the hawthorn that always bloomed early, over the roots that rose like old bones from the earth. The grove had grown with me, or perhaps I'd grown into it. That evening, in 2022 though, it felt especially alive. Beltane. The air carried that unmistakable promise—warm soil, blossoms opening, something anc

Dawn arrived here jn North Cornwall without announcement, just a soft thinning of the dark. I woke to the quiet weight of it—the kind of stillness that belongs only to the first of May. Beltane. Even the air seemed to be holding its breath. From the open window of our tiny off-grid home, the morning slipped in cool and clean, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and wood- smoke from last night’s fire. The small copse beside us stood half in shadow, half gilded by the low su

Morning came softly, as if the land itself has decided not to rush. In North Cornwall, May has awakened overnight. Yesterday’s torrential rain—wild, insistent, drumming against roof and window—has washed the world clean, and now everything seems to breathe again. The thunder replaced by morning birdsong. The air through the open window is cool and bright, edged with the scent of damp earth and salt carried faintly from the distant sea. Swallows trace swift arcs across the pal

The path to Stannon Stone Circle is quiet in that particular way Bodmin Moor knows so well—where even your own footsteps feel like an interruption. The grass tufts bend low, whispering across the earth, and the air holds that charged stillness that comes before rain. Out beyond the circle, Roughtor stands dark against the horizon. I watch as the sky above it thickens with grey clouds rolling slowly forward like something ancient waking up. It doesn’t feel ominous—just inevita

They queue in the chemist curls between shelves of cough syrup and discounted vitamins like a slow-moving confession. Nobody speaks above their inner murmur. Even the automatic doors seem tired of opening. A woman near the front clutches bottled water and 'natural' sleep tablets. She keeps checking her phone, waiting for a headline to tell her how afraid she ought to be today. Behind her stands a man in work boots reading the maximum dosage on a packet of antacids with the co

In the back of the old clay lump farm cottage in Norfolk, the barn door still stuck in damp weather, just as it always had. I leaned my shoulder into it until it gave with a sigh of swollen wood and rusted hinges. Inside hung the tools of three generations: ash-handled spades blackened with age, a Dutch hoe with its blade worn thin as paper, and my Great-grandfather’s fork, one tine bent slightly inward after striking buried stone sometime before the first war. I lifted the f

A few days ago I had the pleasure to teach a private group of horse carers. How horses respond to healing energy is what amazes those who share their lives with equine souls. Behaviour, body language, kinship, spirituality. Horses have a reputation for being unusually sensitive—physically, emotionally, and even socially—and that’s a big reason why so many owners are struck by how they respond during calm, focused “healing” interactions whether that's framed as energy work, qu

Morning came softly, as if the land itself has decided not to rush. In North Cornwall, May has awakened overnight. Yesterday’s torrential rain—wild, insistent, drumming against roof and window—has washed the world clean, and now everything seems to breathe again. The thunder replaced by morning birdsong. The air through the open window is cool and bright, edged with the scent of damp earth and salt carried faintly from the distant sea. Swallows trace swift arcs across the pal

The morning broke soft and silver over Padstow, the kind of light that feels like a gift. By the time the first notes of song drifted through the narrow streets, the town was already awake—windows open, doors ajar, laughter spilling out to meet the day. They came from everywhere. Locals in white, sashes bright blue or red, flowers pinned and hats adorned, their faces lit with a knowing joy. Visitors too—some curious, some reverent, some simply swept along—drawn into something

The first swallow arrived on a morning that still carried a memory of frost - 17th April. It skimmed low over the hedgerows, a dark flicker against the pale sky, as if testing whether the world below was ready to receive it again. The farm lay quiet beneath—stone walls breathing out the cold of winter, the barn doors half-open like a yawn not yet finished. Nothing announced the change outright. It came in soft permissions. By the time the swallow circled back, the signs had b

In a rural hamlet, in a little barn kitchen surrounded by birdsong, the scent of springtime blossom and the sound of rustling meadow grasses here on the North Cornwall coastal, I formulate and produce a wide variety of salves, balms, tinctures, glycerites, infusions, decoctions and tea. Over the past few weeks I've prepared a variety of items which will replenish my herbal medicine clinic. Photograph: St John's Wort, Meadowsweet, Turmeric and Black Pepper Pain Relief Balm - s

In a quiet Cornish meadow, where the sea mist drifted inland like a wandering spirit, herb stitchwort bloomed in pale starbursts. My Great Aunt Jess called it “thread-keeper,” for it was said the plant could mend more than torn cloth. As a child, my Cornish Aunt told me this story; Long ago, a fisherman’s daughter found a sprig of stitchwort growing through a split in her father’s old net. That night, she dreamed of a soft-voiced woman who whispered, "What is broken may be bo

Winter sun – Seasonal Affective Disorder. A few years ago we returned home early from a holiday in the East Devon. It was our first holiday in 8 years and we’d been really looking forward to it. We started with 3 days in Somerset, visiting the obligatory town of Glastonbury, followed by the rest of our holiday near Ottery St Mary, Devon. We were staying in a little cottage ten miles from the coast. We adore autumn and back then we had a triple coated dog who struggled with th

Calendula officinalis like most medicinal herbs, is a plant with many benefits. It is used internally to promote lymphatic flow, support...