Dog Days of Summer ~ Foxglove Folklore
Early mornings are best. Nights too, once the sun has set of course, and not always even then. But still, the night sky offers a blessed relief from the sun, in these dog days of summer.
I like to go to the woods not long after sunrise, when the air is still cool and carries the scent of the night, like faded cologne on a lover's neck. It mingles with the wood spice scent of the dry forest floor, and you catch just a hint of it in the gentle breeze or as your feet kick up dust as you make your way along familiar paths.
Even the edges of the woods suffer for lack of rain and the harsh heat of new high temperatures. Further in, where the canopy is thick and even the might of the summer’s sun only penetrates in patches, dappling the ground in pale golden green light. Everything is still lush, but here at the edges, you’d be forgiven for thinking that autumn has come. The trees and shrubs, in a bid to save themselves, relinquish their foliage. It falls to the ground and crisps underfoot. The long grasses that cover this liminal space between roads edge and woods beginning mirror the fields of golden stalks in the farmer’s field opposite, the wheat already harvested, swathes of golden stalks that will soon crisp to brown.
I always like to linger here for a moment, on quiet summer mornings, the kind that, though cool, carry with them the promise of a hot day. In the afternoon, it will be hot for sure, the sun no longer pleasant but harsh, the kind of day where even the air smells hot and dry.
But for now, it’s a perfect summer’s morning. Perhaps it’s a moment of unburdening, of leaving behind the problems of everyday life. The doom and gloom, the rising cost of living and everything else, you’ve heard it all before (and maybe even have the TV droning on in the background as you read this). Perhaps this pause at the woods edge is a moment of letting go, of releasing all of that, even for just a short time. A recognition of sorts, a meeting if you will, of spirit.
Anyway, beneath the boughs, deep in the woods where the vegetation is still lush and the golden green sunlight dapples the ground and glints off my eyelashes, it’s like a different world. A mix of pines, birch, beech and alder. Ferns grow higher than me in places. Flashes of colour stand out, the dusky pink of foxgloves like strands of jewels.
Foxgloves have always held a special charm for me. They have always seemed pure magic and seem to capture the essence of a warm summer’s afternoon. I remember once when I was around six or seven, my school teacher (one of those good ones, you know the kind, the ones you always remember fondly) took our class on a trip to her garden for a teddy bear’s picnic. It doesn’t sound like much, does it? But it was such a novelty, going to a teacher's home, exciting. For me, with my child’s mind, teachers were these special creatures, seemingly all knowing. Who knew they didn’t live at school, that they were full people outside the classroom? And so off we went for our teddy bear’s picnic. I wasn’t disappointed either!
As soon as I entered that garden, it was as though I’d stepped into the pages of The Secret Garden.
It was a hot afternoon in July right before the summer holidays and the garden was a sun trap. It was one of those afternoons where the air feels warm and thick like honey straight from the hive and time seems to lose all sense of meaning, stretching here and pooling there. Hollyhocks and foxglove grew, tall spikes of flowers in pinks, yellows and reds. Bumblebees droned in and out of the flowers. Best of all though was the pond. It was an old-fashioned claw foot bath tub with small white water lilies blooming on the surface. It stood backed by those foxgloves.
I can’t remember much about that afternoon, but the garden stands out in high definition. That claw foot tub pond backed by tall spikes of foxgloves. The honey hued sunlight, thick like syrup. The drone of the bees. Pure magic.
One of my favourite stories about the foxglove tells how they got their name and their spots. The story goes that the fae, wanting to cause a little mischief for the local humans, gave the fox the flowers of the foxglove to wear as gloves for his feet. The gloves would allow the fox to slip quietly into the hen house and take his fill of birds. But there was only one problem, the fox couldn’t put them on! And so the fairies helped, pulling the flowers onto the fox’s feet. The spots you see inside the flowers today are said to be the tiny handprints of the fairies.
This isn’t the only connection between these flowers and the fae. Another story involves the fairies giving the fox the flower to use as a warning. Whenever hunters were abroad, the fox could ring the flower bell to warn others of the danger. And more lore tells that the fairies would hide from mortels by taking shelter in the blooms.
Foxgloves are also linked to magic and witchcraft, particularly of the baneful kind. This is perhaps owing to the deadly nature of the plant and is once believed to have been an active ingredient in mediaeval flying ointment recipes, though of course, modern herbalists and witches do not use the plant. This link with benevolent magic can be seen in Scottish folklore, where the plant was believed to have been hung or strewn around a baby’s cradle to ward off evil and bewitchment.
As with many baneful and poisonous plants, they also have healing qualities, and foxglove is no different, with digitalis being used in modern medicine for treating heart conditions. Perhaps another link to witchcraft or granny magic particularly relates to its use in the past in midwifery and childbirth and also gives cause to another name for the plant, granny’s bonnet. The foxglove is a common cottage garden plant, and perhaps this too can be traced back to its use in early medicine before the poor had access to safe medicines.
I also tend to think of the cottage garden as also being a liminal space, that place where the garden ends and the wild begins. That place where magic lingers, particularly on a summer’s morning or night.
That place where the foxgloves grow.
EMMA KATHRYN
Emma Kathryn, practises traditional British witchcraft, Vodou and Obeah, a mixture representing her heritage. She lives in the sticks with her family where she reads tarot, practises witchcraft and drink copious amounts of coffee.
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