I find the magic of the Hawthorn at the peak of spring. But, then, it’s May, when the branches of these trees explode into frothy cream, scattering constellations of blooms across the landscape.
I’m stepping into an English fairy tale, just a breath away from the hustle and bustle, drawn into an enchanting dance with nature.
There’s an electrifying energy in the fields, a rhythmic hum, as bees dance their jubilant ballet around the blossoms.
The green around me sparkles as early morning dew clings to the blades of grass. My fingers meet the papery petals of the Hawthorn flower, a sensation as delicate as the first fall of snow.
As I gather Hawthorn flowers for syrup, I become an alchemist. I’m spinning a narrative, continuing an age-old tradition.
The process fills me with a rustic connection to the earth, a tactile joy that my modern, urban life often lacks.
The fragrance of the flowers is mesmerizing. It hints at the syrup’s flavour: a promise of tart sweetness, with whispers of the ripe red berries they’ll soon become.
This alluring scent invites me to linger, savour, and rejoice in the primal art of gathering.
Making hawthorn syrup isn’t merely about the end product. It’s about the journey: the soft sunlight filtering through the branches, the quiet punctuated by birds chirping, and my heart beating in sync with the rhythm of the old, wise Earth.
It’s a celebration, my hands cheerfully dancing around the tree, carefully plucking flowers.
The thrill isn’t in the syrup alone, but in the process itself.
The weaving of nature into my everyday routine; the escape, however fleeting, from emails, screens, the never-ending scroll.
I discover a vitality in this simplicity—a connection that nurtures my soul.
So, I say yes to the delight of gathering Hawthorn flowers. I reconnect with nature, tradition, and most importantly, myself.
The Hawthorn tree waits, its branches heavy with my next adventure.
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