Thistle is the stuff of legend

The Spear thistle is regarded as the true Scottish thistle. It has been our national emblem and the embodiment of our nationhood for more than seven centuries, appearing on early coinage and in our heraldry. And it is the symbolic representation of the Order of the Thistle, the senior order of chivalry in Scotland.

The tall, handsome plant has eye-catching purple flowers and leaves tipped with vicious spines which are painful to brush against. They flourish in the field margins where they are starting to flower and they are one of the few plants I give a wide berth when out walking with Inka.

According to legend, under cover of darkness a band of invading Vikings were creeping up with evil intent on a sleeping Scottish encampment. One of the Norsemen stepped on a Spear thistle with his bare feet. His howls of pain alerted the sleepy sentries who wakened their comrades and the Scots fell on their would-be attackers, completely routing them.

In celebration of their escape from violent death the Spear thistle was adopted as our national emblem. But is this really how it happened? – who knows. The great thing about traditions is there’s nobody around to contradict them.

England has the rose, Ireland the shamrock, Wales the daffodil. Does the thistle represent the way we Scots see ourselves – proud and prickly, fiery and defiant – fearless in the face of attacks by an aggressor?

Mary McMurtrie in her Scottish Wild Flowers lists Milk, Melancholy – so-called because in the Middle Ages it was used to treat “all diseases of melancholy”, and Welted thistles – in all nine species, all purple-headed except Carline thistles which are yellow and named, supposedly, after the Emperor Charlemagne.

So what brought on this unsolicited botany lesson? Out with Inka I’m seeing Spear thistles and cluster-headed Creeping thistles growing along the track behind the village. I watched a bumble bee working steadily from flower to flower of a Creeping thistle feeding on nectar, supping it up through its long retractable proboscis. It paid no attention to me until I moved and my shadow fell over it and it flew off.

There are around 20 species of bumble bee and I have to confess to being quite ignorant about them. I just call any bumble bee crossing my path by their familiar north-east nickname – foggie bummer. Stout, cosy foggie bummers are feeding heavily on clover too and we’ve had plenty coming to the garden to feed on geraniums and a ceanothus which both have blue flowers, supposed to be a great attraction to bees. What’s surprising is that I’ve seen hardly any honey bees, and I know that there are hives locally. And I’d like to see more butterflies.

It’s a good year for wild flowers. Ox-eye daisies are carpeting some of the fields of oil seed rape. The rape’s yellow blossom has died away and the seed pods are forming and the big, white ox-eye flower heads contrast vividly with the deep green of the rape. Stately pink and white foxgloves add colour to the roadside verges and the woodland margins. Out last thing with Inka the air is filled with the spicy, aromatic scent of honeysuckle growing in the hedges. Regular readers know it’s my most romantic scent and I take bunches of the flowers home to the Doyenne.

I just about trod on the tail feathers of a mallard duck which exploded out of tall grass at the edge of a field. Once I’d recovered my wits I watched her fly in a wide circle round the field, calling softly. I reckon I’d disturbed her when I went into the field and she had walked ahead of me in the tall undergrowth.

A common deception trick to protect ducklings is to feign an injured wing and flap off in front of a predator, quacking loudly. Once she’s drawn the predator away, the duck flies off while her ducklings remain concealed.

The north-east is renowned for the quality of its raspberries. It’s to do with the soil and the climate and I’m told only Czechoslovakia can match the conditions and grow comparable fruit.

A favourite breakfast in our household is to cut a Galia melon in two, scoop out the seeds and fill the cavity with raspberries.

The contrast between the sweetness of the melon and the sharp zing of the rasps is sinfully delicious.

Truly an offering fit for – well, a Doyenne. Isn’t it lucky melons come in two halves.

“The great thing about traditions is there’s nobody around to contradict them

Our national emblem, the Spear thistle, could be an indicator of how we see ourselves – proud and prickly, fiery and defiant.