With the blackberry picking season upon us, there can be few of us that haven’t at least once plucked a wild blackberry or two from a local hedgerow. The briar or bramble, and its countless other colloquial names, many of which are now lost to our tongue, are perhaps a sign of endearment toward the bountiful blackberry bush. There is evidence that its value runs deep into to our ancient history, and for me the bramble has become emblematic of a defiant English countryside. It is steeped in folklore and has an almost spiritual place in our rural literature.  It is a plant for all seasons and no other captures a naturalist’s attention like the humble bramble, for it is essential throughout the year to a bewildering array of wildlife.  

Although I may hold the bramble dear to my heart, many consider it a nuisance weed. Its hardiness gives it a tendency to grow in neglected places, the garden of a run-down urban terrace, an abandoned allotment or cradling a seldom used shed; wherever it crops up, its stubborn roots and prickly thorns make it a tough character to control.  

When allowed to thrive it forms dense patches, and being semi-evergreen provides food and shelter for virtually every hedgerow inhabitant.  Growing on a bank, rabbits will conceal their burrow entrance deep in its entanglement. Their sworn enemy, the fox, feels safer with its den beneath the shade of the bramble. In tall grass a knot of briar will see the bank vole and wood mice prosper, hidden from the sharp eye of a kestrel, but of course weasels and stoats can fold their elongated bodies through its labyrinth in pursuit of rodent prey. Adders bask at its edge, ready to slip silently into its shadows. The harvest mouse, banished from wheatfields by modern farming, weaves its tennis ball size nest deep within its bristles.   

The wren, the whitethroat and the blackcap, along with a dozen other species of bird will build nests among its dense thorny embrace; finding both protection and a ready supply of insects close by. For many insects, brambles are irresistible and critical to their life. Several types of moth rely on bramble leaves for their caterpillars, the emperor moth, peach blossom moth and garden tiger being the most notable, with the grizzled skipper butterfly also favouring bramble leaves for their egg laying.   

If you look closely at the leaves they are often nibbled, stained or have the tell-tale signs of a leaf miners’ tunnels scrawling across them, for the bramble must survive constant insect attacks. Despite this, the plant will still provide nectar rich pinky-white flowers throughout the summer, and these are a draw to bees, butterflies, and numerous other insects. On a sunny summer’s day, an hour spent staring at a flowery bramble patch is an entomologist’s dream.   

We too have relied on brambles throughout the centuries; it was used as barriers and fencing in the way we use barbed wire now. The leaves were recommended for various ailments and conditions from inducing childbirth to curing arthritis, and in medieval-times brambles were encouraged to grow over new graves, either to keep evil spirits out or more probably the dead in. And, of course, the bramble is the provider of blackberries and there is barely a creature in the countryside that doesn’t saviour the succulent clusters of its fruity drupelets. The Celts believed the plant to be a deity, for as the berries colour changed from white to red and then black, it represented the three aspects of their goddess: maiden, mother and old crone, and they would thank her through an elaborate ceremony for the gifts she provides. Blackberrying through August and September is the one act of foraging that many of us still undertake. Returning home with a basket of blackberries and a collection of thin scars from thorny scratches is, in some small way, evidence of our ancient struggle to reap sustenance and reward from nature; a thin thread to our hunter / gatherer past.      

At this time of year brambles are sending out long green tendrils, fresh with thorns. One can almost see them growing, and a once wide woodland path can become seemingly impassable in no time. Richard Mabey in his ‘Flora Britannica’ stated that in Norfolk: ‘The long, arch stems of brambles were often known as ‘lawyers’ because of the trouble you have escaping if you happen to fall into their clutches’. Mabey also recounts that in Norfolk Wildlife Trust’s reserve at Honeypot Wood a particularly large and vicious bramble by the name of ‘Boadicea’ resides. Although in woodland conservation a good cover of brambles is welcome, as it can be a useful guard against the overgrazing by deer of young saplings and the stools of newly coppiced hazel.   

So as the berries ripen, and like generations before us, say a little thank-you as you pick them for your pie. But beware, old Norfolk folklore decrees that one never picks blackberries after the tenth of October, for thereafter the devil urinates upon them. This does make some sense as the sweet juicy berries of late summer can turn decidedly bitter by early autumn. Although, on a serious note, be mindful of your local wildlife and take the minimum you need as a great many creatures rely on this ‘crop from the briar’.