Shooting Times & Country Magazine
Over hill from north to south
The humble juniper faces much adversity, and John Wright is one of its strongest advocates
Ihave a great fondness for the juniper; the seemingly random shapes they present, the pretty but unexpectedly vicious needles, their glorious berries and the sheer joy of finding one at all. I shall be honest with you. I forage as much as I can, but juniper berries are a trial. Very few grow wild in Dorset, and those that do are morally out of bounds as the tree itself is having a difficult time throughout Britain, especially in the south.
I have picked them only twice — once in Scotland where they are much more abundant, and once in Denmark. I had travelled to Scotland solely to find some juniper, plus a few other berries found most easily in the north. Online locators of species such as the National Biodiversity Network had yet to be created, so I just had to wander around in likely habitats, guided by hope alone. Forlorn hope, as it transpired.
However, after a casual look at my map to plan my excursion for the next day, I spotted a place called ‘Juniper Wood’. This sounded rather promising, and it duly delivered the goods. The berries were sparse on the 50 or so trees that I saw, but there were enough for a little experimentation and some photographs. It is worth noting that about half of the juniper trees you find stand no chance of producing berries, as they are male. The upshot of all this is that, apart from these few berries, all those I have used over the years have been bought.
Warning to the wise
A small word of warning is in order. The most likely place for people to see a juniper is in a garden. While many are cultivars of our native juniper, Juniperus communis, and will be safe and pleasant to use, some will be a different species. Only a few of the 70 juniper species worldwide are palatable, with the rest being either very bitter or poisonous.
Juniper is one of only three native coniferous trees, the others being Scots pine and the yew. It is also likely to be one of Britain’s earliest settlers as it is a pioneer species that can tolerate low temperatures, and would have found the bare ground left by the retreating ice an inviting habitat. While it may once have been found everywhere, its current distribution in Britain is difficult to explain as it is very patchy. It is fairly common in Scotland; in Wales, most are in the far north. In England, it is a tree of the far northern uplands and,
almost incredibly, of the chalk hills of the south. Quite why it likes both the acid conditions of the uplands and the alkaline conditions of the chalk is a mystery. Presumably it is not fussy about soil ph, and other considerations, such as simply being left in peace, may be at play.
The fortunes of the southern chalk juniper go up and down, with the last ‘up’ being the terrible epidemic of myxomatosis in the 1950s. The rabbits had taken to eating every young juniper the moment it popped out of the ground, leaving a sad, senescent population. Rabbit numbers have now largely recovered, and browsing is only one of the trials the juniper must face yet again.
Not that it does itself any favours, as around 96% of the seeds that are produced are not viable, and some communities of juniper consist entirely of ageing, single-sex and distant enclaves that are clearly incapable of reproduction. Measures such as growing in them in pots and planting them in fenced and tended areas have been taken by those who care about the juniper.
I live near a splendid chalk downland nature reserve, and plan to ask Natural England if I can plant a few J communis in the cleared scrubby areas. Should they thrive, there would be a chance that a few species that will only grow on or with juniper might appear. These may be any of the 50 or so invertebrates reported to have some association with the tree, with those that bear ‘juniper’ in their name (Thrips juniperinus and the shield bug, Pitedia juniperina, for example) likely to be closely or entirely associated with the tree. There are also 20 types of ‘micro-fungi’ (bits on twigs) that grow on junipers, and a handful of toadstools with a mycorrhizal association. Failing any of these, at least I would have a forageable supply of berries.
Juniper berries are actually tiny, resinous cones. They take about 18 months to form, and can often be found in the winter. The ones I picked in Denmark were green, but their flavour was good and strong. Their remarkable flavour is the defining ingredient in gin — this is illegal to make without a licence despite Joe Public having paid duty on the vodka from which it is made. I presume this is to prevent people from blowing up their houses during distillation.
“About half of the juniper trees you find stand no chance of producing berries”
Fortunately, there is much else that can be done with them, and with the rest of the tree. An essay by the terminally ligatured M Alopaeus, published in the Transactions of the Economical Society of Petersburgh in 1801, describes no less than 14 uses.
An array of uses
Most are such things as the extraction of juniper oil to rub on aching limbs, and fumigating houses by burning the foliage, but a couple are comestible. These include a tea made from the berries and also a beer. I suspect a strong constitution would be needed to drink the beer and, unless you own a large juniper woodland, would set you back a small fortune for the berries as 16kg would be required to brew the beverage.
More sensibly, perhaps, I have made juniper toffee, which is splendid stuff, and juniper ice cream, which is nice if you really like the flavour of juniper. A syrupy liqueur can be made by boiling the berries in a sugar syrup for a few minutes, then bottling it with brandy. Finally, and most appropriately within these honoured pages, it is truly excellent with game, most commonly in a sauce.