‘Er indoors says, “I’ll just prune these red suckers” and I almost don’t hear her.
“Pardon?”
“I said” she pauses, “I said, I’ll just prune these red suckers”, this said pointing the secateurs in the direction of one of my climbing roses.
I look horrified and splutter “Suckers?”
“Yes, those red shoots.”
“They’re not suckers” I try to explain as patiently as possible, “they’re new shoots. See if you look carefully, you can just see the buds emerging.”
Phew, another lucky escape.
‘Er indoors is lethal with secateurs and you have to watch her. Many is the time she has “trimmed” the clematis or ivy to such an extent that it loses its grip on the wall and falls flat on the lawn like a deflated green dinghy.
We have left la vie en rose of our French holiday home behind and are back in England trying to remedy the neglect in the garden but I can still faintly hear Édith Piaf singing somewhere in the back of my mind:

“Des yeux qui font baiser les miens,
Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche,
Voila le portrait sans retouche
De l’homme auquel j’appartiens

Quand il me prend dans ses bras
Il me parle tout bas,
Je vois la vie en rose.”

Édith was raised in a town called Bernay, close to our holiday home. She was left with her grandmother, raised in a house that operated as the town brothel. The house is still standing there today, near the Lidl supermarket, although I guess it does not operate on the same basis.
A dull thud on the grass wakes me from my reverie. An apple, intent on proving Newton’s law of gravity, has landed on the lawn and is added to the growing pile of fruit. We have done well this year with the apples and the plums. My tummy groans to testify the thought and complains about the quantity of plums I have greedily consumed. Time to go and walk it off. It’s been a while since I searced for the Towton Rose so let’s kill two birds with one stone.
Surprisingly, ‘Er indoors wants to accompany me. She does not normally approve of my daft quests but she has relented this time and laughs as she reaches for the “off” button of the CD player in the truck. I like to have classical music blaring out and she likes silence. Well not silence really as she likes to give me my marching orders for the week whilst she has my undivided attention.
There is a fork in the road at Scarthingwell I have not explored yet and I’m keen to see if it yields any of the terrain where Rosa spinosissima might flourish. We engage four wheel drive whilst we negotiate the short bumpy distance to a spot where we can safely park and ‘Er indoors remarks that it’s like being on safari again as the big wheels of the truck tackle the deep ruts in the road. No lions or rhinos here though, just a black and white Staffordshire bull terrier whose idea of ferocity is to lay on his back while you tickle his tummy.
“A great guard dog I’ve got there” says his owner with a wry smile.
Down the lane a bit and there is a bridge astride an impossibly deep ditch. The ditch must be over a hundred years old and its sides would afford the dry conditions that the rose would like but after half an hour’s searching we concede it’s not there. Plenty of Rosa canina and Rosa arvensis though so the slopes are conducive to at least some species.
Next, a large field resplendent with grasses and wild flowers. The grass is so tall that walking through it is quite difficult but I am keen to see whether this field has ever been ploughed. If it hasn’t then there is half a chance the rose might be on the fringes there. Half way across the field I can feel the tell-tale sign of ploughed ridges under my feet. This land is “set-aside”. The farmer will have been given a grant to let it lay fallow. No chance of finding the rose here.
I am beginning to wonder if Rosa spinosissima ever grew in this region. I have been all over the main battlefield and have searched in increasingly wider circles in the surrounding area without coming close to a specimen. All the field evidence that has been produced (four samples) have been Rosa mundi, and all the old descriptions of the Towton or Battle Rose have been confusing to say the least. Maybe I have already found the rose and it is the Rosa mundi? I’ll save that thought for later.
The effort was not entirely wasted as the hedgerows were bursting with sloes. I just love the dusky blue colour of a ripe sloe. We pick them to make sloe gin. I already have 3 bottles fermenting down in the cellar made from sloes collected from Normandy. The recipe is easy. All you need do is sterilise a bottle. Wash the sloes, ensuring that the sloes have been de-stalked. Prick the fruit with a pin. Fill the bottle a third full with sloes. Add a wine goblet full of sugar. Top it up with gin – any cheap supermarket gin will do. You then agitate it, once a day for a week to make sure that the sugar is absorbed. After that the gin will have changed into a soft pink colour and its ready to store in a cool dark place. The longer you leave it, the better it will be. If you are desperate, then I reckon that after 6 months it will be ok to drink. You just decant it into another sterilised bottle, straining it through a muslin cloth. Put the berries out in the garden for the birds and, you will see drunken robins and thrushes wobbling about on your lawn.
There is no better drink to have at the end of a cold winter’s evening. The pink liquor effuses the bounty of the hedgerows and makes you feel all mellow and sleepy.
I’m looking forward to tasting last year’s supply any time soon.

If I wait long enough and stand as still as a statue, the tiny wood mouse creeps out to steal the chicken’s feed when I scatter it around the chicken run. Darting from one place of cover to another, he ventures further and further until he reaches the food, stuffs it in his cheeks and dives back into the undergrowth beyond the mesh fencing. I can tell it’s the same one as he has a bright ginger streak on his back and that’s what I call him. “Morning, Ginger”, I say in a whisper as he goes about his daily duty.
Not so this morning though, as I can tell something is not quite right before I even get to the chicken’s enclosure – there is a tiny bit of a commotion going on, judging by the clucking. Normally the chicks make a noise like a rusty old squeaking bike but this is a noise of distress.
Between the mesh fencing and the hedge, in the deep undergrowth, I see that one of the bantam chicks has managed to get free but he is not happy about it and wants me to be reunited with his Mum. I’m not sure whether, he’s somehow managed to get under the fence or flown out, as he roosts high in the elder tree, but either way he knows he has gone beyond his limits. When he sees me he throws himself at the fence in a desperate attempt to get back with his friends and I am scared that he might hurt himself. Any attempts to scoop him up in my protective arms send him deeper into the undergrowth, no doubt to the annoyance of Ginger the mouse.
Not a lot to do about it but have some patience. Bide my time while the opportunity is right. Once I am out of site, he perambulates around the fence perimeter with his clucking Mum and brother shadowing his every move. When he’s on the near side, I see my chance. There is no cover here and with a quick run I can grab him before he makes the other side. Stealing like a cat, I make my way around the potager, then bursting at a sprint through the rhubarb I’ve got him and launch him over the fence in a flurry of feathers back into the bosom of his family. His mother gives me a filthy look as if this is all my fault. That’s gratitude for you.
Anyhow, she has two boys so I can’t keep them together for too long as they will fight so I will have to find a home for one of them soon. If anyone can give a good home to a blue bantam cock, just let me know.
As my holiday is nearing its end, I reflect on how privileged we are to own somewhere like this. It’s an idyllic spot at any time of day, in any weather. Last night, at dusk, I was fascinated by the areal combat of the bats as they swoop around to feed on the moths. There were so many bats it was like watching a Battle of Britain dog fight. Earlier in the day I was impressed by the carpet of butterflies that rise every time I walk past the herb garden, where they busily feed on the flowers of mint and oregano.

My friend came to stay with us for a few days, en-route to southern France. His children, Fyodor, Nikkita and Daksha had a wonderful time playing hide and seek in the garden and walking in the woods, casting poo-sticks in the stately river Charentonne and then disturbing its tranquil flow by throwing progressively larger stones until the exploding droplets of water drenched us all. This place was meant for children and I can still hear their laughter ringing out now, days after they have gone.
Back to work on Monday. It seems ages since we arrived but all good things must come to an end as someone once said – bloomin’ spoilsport, whoever he was So, like the little bantam, I’ve had my moment of freedom but I think I can safely say that I enjoyed my Great Escape better than he did his.

I should have known I was headed for trouble when I went to feed the chickens – always the first job when we decamp for holiday on the farm. Whilst I was throwing stale pitta bread crumbs for my chooks, two fat voles emerged from the ivy, bold as you please and helped themselves to the chicken feed in the trough. Scolded by me, they made a temporary retreat, only to return again to grab a morsel of bread.
So, maybe this was a premonition of what was to come later when I sat down for a well earned mug of Yorkshire tea (special variety to accommodate hard French water).
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tiny critter emerge from under the front door post and set off with purposeful intent, scuttering across the tiled floor for the dining room. His gait (I think it was a he) reminded me of a marine commando, squeezing under the barbed wire and crawling on all fours to avoid the gun barrage.
A well aimed shoe (I suppose this was mortar fire to him), made him change his direction and dive for safety under the umbrella stand.
All this cussing and commotion attracted the attention of ‘Er Indoors, who does not have a good track record with shrews, as you will later see. Pulling faces worthy of Dame Edna Everage, she listened to my plan for a trouble free eviction of our unwanted visitor.
Open the front door to give a wide target for egress, lift the brolly stand and the critter would make its way outside. ‘Er indoors was to stand guard with a dastardly WWI bayonet in case it got through my defences. More grimacing and downturned corners of the mouth.
My plan worked though. Simple. A bit of DIY with some flint and woodfiller and the point of enemy ingress was sealed. ‘Er indoors was not happy though and with a hangdog expression, I set some traps on the front doorstep, just in case he had not got the message.
We have had our fair share of unwanted guests – rats in the henhouse, a bat in the A’letage and a dormouse in the P’tit Maison. Not your cute Alice in Wonderland dormouse but a gurt big creature the size of a rat, with a long nose, a white belly and hob-nail boots judging by the amount of stuff he knocked off the shelves and the rafters.
Shrews though, they are the nemesis of ‘Er Indoors as I said before. Here is a little ditty I penned about an encounter one Christmas. It’s hardly Wordsworth – more like Pam Ayers, but it always makes our family smile.

A fine lady, her husband and youngest son,
Went to spend Christmas at Broglie, on the Charentonne.
The house was called La Chaumiere
Away from the city and drizzly night air.

The spot was indeed in la France Profonde,
The grass stood to attention on the frozen ground.
But no fear, for very soon a fire was lit
And roared to life after blowing a bit.

Quite soon the lady, her name was Sue
Desperately needed to call on the loo.
For wine, in good measure she had quaffed
While her attendants stood waiting with their caps doffed.

But while on the throne our intrepid Sue
Encountered, face-to-face, a tiny Shrew.
“Waaah she bellowed I’ve seen a mouse
Get the ruddy thing outa me ‘ouse”.

With trousers round her ankles flapping
She bolted from the loo and caught her attendants laughing.
“I’m in need of a ‘ero” she screamed and she bellowed
“And all I find is tha two useless fellows”.

Alas the poor shrew took fright and ran home to his Mum with,
“The people in that house, it’s a right carry on!
One of them screaming while doing ablutions
And definitely in need of some good elocution.”

Made amends by picking first of the season brussel sprouts to accompany her chicken dinner. Thoughts of the shrew are gone now and all is well with the world

Roses have long been an iconic symbol. All medieval and later literature is full of the beauty and fragrance of the rose and the legend of white roses spotted with blood is not limited to the Towton Rose. An old Hellenic legend declares that the rose was originally white, till Eros, dancing among the gods, upset a goblet of nectar upon Venus’ flower, which thereupon became red. Christian legend, on the other hand, would have it that the Crown of Thorns was woven of the Briar-Rose, and how the drops that fell from the thorns became blood-hued blooms.
In medieval times the most common cultivar was Rosa Gallica, or the Apothecaries rose. Its red colour (deep pink) represented the blood of early Christian martyrs. The fragrant petals of this rose were dried and rolled into beads and strung into what became the rosary, from which the rosary got its name.
Sweet smelling roses were certainly highly prized. Shakespeare wrote:
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer’s breath their maskèd buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show.
The canker blooms he refers to are Rosa Canina, the common hedgerow rose which has little or no scent and is derided as being showy. Scented roses, on the other hand, were of value because they were used in ceremonies for their sweet odour and for making rosewater. More interestingly, they were used at funerals with other plant material like box leaves, to line coffins. This has been verified by analysing pollen remains in graves. Mourners would throw roses and rose petals into the grave. Following this act, an old saying goes “and Death will at once be hungry for more of the rose-thrower.”
So, from the medieval perspective, the proliferation of roses on the site of Britain’s bloodiest battle cannot have gone amiss. Peter Boyd, the worldwide expert on Rosa spinosissima, said to be the Towton Rose, is of the opinion that it would be sweet scented. The fact that roses were symbolic, had valuable commercial properties and were used for funerary purposes is indeed tantalising and leads to some justifiable speculation.
We know that there was a garden, with a viewing mound no less, at the medieval village of Lead. The chantry and later chapel at Towton would quite possibly have a garden – there are accounts in 1460 of a chantry at Bridport, submitting expenses for a “scythe to cut the weeds in the orchard, and the penny paid for mending the wheel-barrow.” So, we have the possibility of there being both cultivated roses and scented wild roses at Towton and Saxton, which would have been of great value to the monks.
As we all know from Edward IV’s attainder list, some important families lost their loved ones at Towton and this in age when religion was foremost in the mind. Detailed attention was given to observing funerary rites – wills were not made solely to bequeath wealth but also to dictate how the funeral and remembrance services should be conducted. Imagine the wrench when someone is killed in battle and thrown into an unmarked mass grave, when he had previously planned and paid 40 shillings or more for candles, mourners, incense and such for his burial ceremony. What would happen to his soul? Surely it would spend longer in purgatory if these rites had not been conducted. One can imagine grieving relatives visiting Towton in an effort to learn of the final resting place of their loved ones. Even if they could not determine precisely where they had fallen, they would still want to have masses said for them, have their names read out on the bederoll and perhaps plant roses to commemorate the passing of their life on this earth.
In later years, Robert Herrick, born in 1591, wrote a poem called The Funeral Rites of the Rose.
THE rose was sick, and smiling died;
And, being to be sanctified,
About the bed there sighing stood
The sweet and flowery sisterhood.
Some hung the head, while some did bring,
To wash her, water from the spring.
Some laid her forth, while other wept,
But all a solemn fast there kept.
The holy sisters, some among,
The sacred dirge and trentall sung.
But ah ! what sweet smelly everywhere,
As heaven had spent all perfumed there.
At last, when prayers for the dead
And rites were all accomplished,
They, weeping, spread a lawny loom
And clos’d her up, as in a tomb.
So given this background, it was interesting to discover as a result of the Radio York appeal, that of all the roses we have identified as being removed from the battlefield, these were the same species – the Rosa Mundi. There is the possibility, of course, that they were planted there as a hoax. We know that enterprising Saxton villagers sold souvenir rose plants for half a crown at the turn of the last century. This does not necessarily explain why these Rosa Mundi’s were still found there in the 1940’s. This is a striking rose with beautiful colouring and a heady perfume – you would not plant it out in the middle of as field for fear of someone taking it, if you were so commercially minded. The writer, a romantic soul at heart, prefers to think of them being planted out by generations of descendants of those fallen on the field. It is surely no coincidence that the Rosa Mundi is also known as the York & Lancaster rose and it is bred from that most ancient of roses, Rosa Gallica. Perhaps even more tantalising is the fact that Rosa Mundi was named after the Fair Rosamund, an ancestor of John Clifford who died so spectacularly at Dintingdale. If you ever get the chance to visit the private garden at Skipton Castle there are no prizes for guessing what variety of roses are planted out in the old walled garden there.
The search for the legendary Towton rose, or the Battle rose still continues and I am ever hopeful that the leads will keep coming in. Most of the reference material I can find for the Towton Rose is of the Victorian period but we cannot rule out the possibility of earlier documents being found and, if anyone has anything to add to the archives, either anecdotal or factual, I would certainly be glad to hear from you.

The horse flies know when I’m coming. They lay in wait to dive bomb me like Nazi Stukas with oily spark plugs, neeeeeeooowwwaaam, spiralling downwards from the deep azure sky to plant themselves around my collar line, my arms, my legs or any bit that’s exposed that will afford them a good meal. There are hardly any rose blooms left to be seen, that’s why I posted the picture of the roses, climbing the lavender tree at the side of my French retreat. It doesn’t matter though, as I can tell whether I have found Rosa Spinosissima, the legendary Towton Rose, just by looking at the stems and the heps (hips). For those of you that have not read my previous blogs, I am on a quest to find the legendary Towton Rose. The one that is meant to only grow in places where the blood of those fallen in battle has enriched the soil.
I am beginning to wonder whether the Rosa Mundis we found from the battle site, might be the ones that ancient records refer to, and have to keep re-visiting them to verify descriptions. Certainly sweet smelling roses like the Rosa Mundi were highly prized in the late medieval and Tudor periods.
Shakespeare wrote:
O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer’s breath their maskèd buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo’d, and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, my verse distills your truth.
The canker blooms he refers to are the common dog rose of the hedgerow, which have little or no scent, and are therefore of little merit. I have been researching this and scented roses were valued because their petals were used to make rosewater and scattered at special occasions, including funerals, to emit a more pleasant odour than was usually present around the unwashed bodies of the days of yore.
So, that could potentially be another reason why the heavenly scented Rosa Mundis were found around the area, we know there was a garden, with a viewing mound if you please, at the site of Lead church and as I’ve said before there was a chantry in the vicinity of Towton Hall.
According to the expert though, wild Rosa spinosissima is not without a pleasant scent, so I can see these rose petals being put to good use in those days.
All of this is as nothing to the horse flies who torment me endlessly as I wearily trudge the ancient pathways. I shall have to include a fly whisk as part of my accoutrements, as I continue this noble quest.

These were the words sang by the choir at St. Oswald’s church in Kirk Sandall yesterday.  St.Oswald’s does not operate as the community church in this sleepy Yorkshire hamlet anymore – it is now far from the beaten path of the modern village but stubbornly serves as an outpost and a reminder of what we have all but lost.
Luckily, there are a few public-spirited people that dedicate their time to preserving this beautiful old medieval church, and organise open days like the one I was invited to yesterday.
As part of their open day attraction, Towton Battlefield Society were asked to come along and participate. Our re-enactors provided some colour, Neil “the medieval surgeon” had his gruesome table of instruments and pots of unguents to cure all ills, on display and I had a table promoting The Shepherd Lord, with my YouTube trailer.
We had a busy old time of it and I sold quite a few books but the highlight of the day, for me at least, was when the choir came along and sang some medieval madrigals.
As you can divine by this Blog, The Silver Swan was the piece that captured my imagination. Here we were in this beautiful church, patronised for generations by the Rokeby family, venerated by the old villagers that had buried their dead there and someone had decided to breathe some life back into this majestic old fellow of a building by singing this heavenly music – more geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.
How apposite, I thought, a beautiful church passed by because we are time-starved in this modern bustling world where we hang on to the words and actions of Girls Aloud, Wayne “Gobby” Rooney, Simon Cowell, the entire cast of East Enders and the foul-mouthed audience of the Jeremy Kyle show, in preference to our rich history, tapestried with heavenly music, breathtakingly beautiful architecture and one or two dedicated people who refuse to give in to the naysayers.
Apparently, Orlando Gibbons was making a protest about the demise of the Elizabethan madrigal with this song. Regular visitors to my Blog know I like to impart the odd pearls of wisdom on these pages, so here you go. (I’ll do my Michael Caine impression here). Did you know that the origin of the expression swansong comes from this? The mute swan was supposed to have been silent all of its life until, in the throes of death, it emitted one last but beautiful song. Obviously, a great inspiration for Orlando Gibbons Esquire. Not a lot of people know that

I was delighted to receive an invitation from a follower of my Blog to see him compete on the BBC’s Mastermind contest, hosted by John Humphrys. I am a big fan of Mr. Humphrys. For those of you that are not familiar with the show, it is the UK’s most high-brow quizz show – a bit like Millionaire for grown-ups. He comes across as quite an irascible character on the Today programme, but on the evening in question he was the epitomy of charm with the Manchester Studio audience.
His opening gambit was “I like doing these shows. Normally, I have to interview politicians who will do all they can to evade answering a simple question whereas tonight, the contestants will eagerly try and answer the most difficult questions we can think up!”
My host had arranged good seats for me and my wife right behind John Humphrys and I could clearly see my hands come into view on the monitor, everytime we applauded a contestant – fame for 15 minutes, indeed.
John was the consummate professional and got through the first round of specialist questions on the first take. I was impressed. My host was placed second after this round with a very creditable 16 points.
Whilst we were waiting to get the go-ahead for the second round on general knowledge, Mr. Humphrys entertained us with his store cupboard of stories, bloomers and gaffes from encounters with our politicians. My favouite was his rendition of John Prescott on his return home after an extended tour of arduous political duties overeas. “I’ve enjoyed me trip but just let me say how glad I am to be back on terracotta” announced Prezza (sorry, I suppose I should now say Lord Prescott).
My host got up to sit in the infamous chair for the second round but was stopped in his tracks as the heavens opened and dumped a torrent of rain on the studio roof which leaked through like a small waterfall onto camera 3. There was consternation for half an hour or so while the crew mopped up the leak and the poor contestant was left there in limbo. It must have been like being asked to take a penalty at the World Cup, then being stood down while the referee and linesman go off to eat what’s left of the half-time oranges.
Then, we’re on with the show. Mr Humphrys takes on the style of Peter O’Sullivan the racing commentator and peppers rapid-fire questions at my host “WhichofTolstoy’sheroine’sthrewherselfunderatrain - Anna Karenina; What’sthelengthofacricketpitch – 22 yards; WhichmonarchsucceededHenryVIII – Edward VI” and so on.
Bimey, I’ve seen it on TV a hundred times but I did not appreciate how pressurised the contestants are, sat there under the spotlight in the nation’s most notorious chair. They really have to get in the zone to focus on answering the questions.
My host finished a very credible third – there was not much in it between all the contestants. I would like to repeat my thanks on this Blog for a great evening.

Is it the Scandinavians that thrash themselves with birch twigs after taking a sauna? It’s meant to have some beneficial effect. Well, I have discovered the Anglo-Saxon version just by hunting for the ever elusive Towton Rose. Just walk through the hedgerows and undergrowth, wearing shorts (pith helmet optional) and you will get stung by so many nettles that you will be on a high all day. I’ve looked it up on the Internet and it really does increase the blood circulation and maybe that’s why I am not entirely exhausted after trudging mile after mile in the early hours of the morning. (There were also some very other dodgy posts on the Internet about nettles so don’t go there unless you’re morbidly curious).
One newspaper recently called my escapades an Indiana Jones style quest. I don’t recall Indie getting stung by nettles and clumsily slipping down river banks into claggy mud.
Peter Boyd, the rose expert, had directed me to the Castle Hill Wood area, as early records indicated that Rosa spinosissima was evident there. This meant crossing and re-crossing Cock Beck to get at the limestone slopes that favour the rose. I traversed the slopes scanning the terrain with my field glasses for any likely looking clumps. I clambered up and down the inclines, from Castle Hill right up to the lynchets, to examine every likely looking thicket but on closer inspection they turned out to be Rosa arvensis, Prunus spinossa, blackthorn or thistle. So, not a thing. Not anything that came close. I did find an old horse shoe on the edge of Castle Hill Woods though. That’s where the Lancastrians hid their cavalry for a surprise attack on the Yorkist flank during the Battle of Towton but I doubt that the horseshoe dates from then. I’ll show it to our resident archeologist though, just in case.
So, the search continues. I may be nettle stung, but not deterred.
Hope you liked the title of this piece. It’s from my favourite poem of all times from Christopher Marlowe – the poem I used to good effect in the novel and the trailer for The Shepherd Lord.

“How will I recognise you” I asked anxiously over the phone. I never like rendezvous’ at train stations – there is always margin for error and parking at the short stay car parks is fine, if the trains turn up on time, but they’re invariably late.
“Well people tell me I look rather like Charles Darwin and, during the festive season, small children mistake me for Father Christmas” bellowed the voice on the other end of the line. I was talking to Peter Boyd, the worldwide expert on Rosa spinosissima, lecturer on the great Charles Darwin and environmental archaeologist for King Henry VIII’s flagship, the Marie Rose.
When I met Peter on a grisling damp morning at Manchester Piccadilly train station, he was right. He was instantly recognisable amongst the regular Friday morning commuters. We were soon whizzing our way over the Pennines in my 4 x 4, heading for Towton Dale, chatting away like old acquaintances. The sun greeted us as soon as we left Manchester’s drizzle and crossed the border into God’s Broad Acres. Ideal conditions for hunting for the elusive Towton Rose, the wild Rosa spinosissima.
At the battlefield, we were met by Towton Battlefield Society Secretary, Graham Darbyshire, our best field man on the terrain twixt Saxton and Towton. “A rose between two thorns” exclaimed Peter as I introduced him to Graham “only that phrase is incorrect as a rose does not have thorns – it has prickles”. He then demonstrated the difference by showing us the “woody” thorn on a blackthorn in the hedgerow, already laden with dusky sloes, and the “prickle” of a rose which is not part of the main stem but is an outgrowth of the epidermis. Well, that was a new one on me. We were going to learn a lot that day.
After a brief stop at Dacres Cross, to examine a Rosa spinosissima cultivar that someone had planted there, we turned our attention to the search for the real thing – the wild variety.
Ancient records mention that the rose grew in abundance in a dry valley. It was not immediately obvious where this was, but Graham was able to deduce the exact spot from his ordnance survey, a tiny contour betraying the smallest of dry valleys. I must admit, I would probably have overlooked this, being more familiar with the spectacular dry valleys in the Yorkshire Dales but if this was where the legendary rose grew, it would have special significance for me.
We had found our valley alright, bang in the middle of Bloody Meadow, but also bang in the middle of the field was a great big Limousin bull, eyeing us malevolently. Graham and I exchanged nervous glances but Peter, true British eccentric that he is, waved his rolled umbrella at the beast and strolled nonchalantly past it, bent on finding the rose. This chap said I was eccentric and there he was, wearing his old school tie, bewhiskered like old Father Christmas and carrying a rolled umbrella whilst pootling past a 2 ton bull. I was mightily impressed.
He was pleased with the terrain, proclaiming it ideal conditions for the rose to flourish in, and 100% sure that we had found the right spot, described by the antiquarians. The search for the rose was not going to be easy though and we combed all the slopes, right down to the meandering Cock Beck, where Peter poked and prodded the lush vegetation with his brolly.
“Ooh” he exclaimed “Oh, my word!” I turned sharply at this, only just preventing myself from falling in the brook. Had he actually found the rose?
No, he hadn’t. What he had seen was a damselfly, skitting around the himalayan balsam and bullrushes, its blue, bejewelled body spangling brilliantly in the bright July sunlight.
We searched long and hard that day but did not find the rose. Graham and I were given lessons on distinguishing the field rose from the dog rose by this great man. In the field rose, Rosa arvensis, the pistil stands out really proud from the stamens whereas in the dog rose, Rosa canina, they are not as nearly distinctive.
But Peter agrees with me the rose is out there somewhere, on the slopes of the battlefield. As he puts it “It has got to have survived somewhere, despite the souvenir hunters and the farmers attempts to grub it up. It may just survive as a plain white rose, all the best red and white species having being collected. If you shoot all the elephants with big tusks, then all you can breed from then on, is elephants with small tusks.”
So, on this planet, where we are losing rare species every other day, it is imperative that we find this rose. I will keep on looking. Maybe when the grass dies down it will be easier to spot the purplish black heps (hips) in the autumn. Having met Peter, I know that he will be just as excited as me, when we eventually find it.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.
(Ernest Dowson, 1867 – 1900)
Bit of a melancholy start to this Blog, I know, but during a recent hunt for the elusive Towton Rose, I came across this sight. A field of poppies shimmering and rippling in the breeze, moving like a small rolling ocean. It set me thinking of more recent battles during the first world war and how flowers have now become resonant with war graves. This picture was taken at the Saxton side of the battlefield but the same can be seen in Bloody Meadows at the Towton end. Just think, it is said that the field actually ran red with blood like this, and that’s what is meant to be providing the elusive little rose with its unique colouring. A far-fetched story if we look at it from a scientific perspective but a compelling little legend nonetheless. Did the poor souls who perished at Towton realise that their days of wine and roses were coming to an end when they first manoeuvred on the battlefield that fateful snowy morning?
Anyhow, enough of the glum talk. The weather has been magnificent recently and so dry that great cracks have appeared in the pathways like sinister ley lines. Would a dreadful fate await me if I followed them or would it just mean that my journey would prove to be fruitless? Well, I have not found the rose as yet, despite several 4 a.m. starts, and trudging miles with the morning dew soaking my boots and the nettles stinging my bare legs. I have however, seen some wonderful sights. Majestic old ash trees that line the river banks that must be hundreds of years old, country lanes bursting with cow-parsley, wild oats, vetch, herb robert and comfrey.
Not to mention deer and the startled foxes that bolt into the barley, their bushy tails guiding them like a rudder to safety.
So, the search is still on. If it’s out there, we will find it, even if we have to return next year.

I started with a poem so I shall finish with one. Apologies to any ardent Ricardians reading this but this is an allegorical piece that relates the tale of Henry VII. I will make amends to the Ricardians by giving a mention to the Rose of Raby and the Rose of Rouen in a later Blog.

The Rose of Englande

THROUGHOUT a garden greene and gay,
A seemlye sight itt was to see
How flowers did flourish fresh and gay,
And birds doe sing melodiouslye.
In the midst of a garden there sprange a tree,
Which tree was of a mickle price,
And there vppon sprang the rose soe redd,
The goodlyest that euer sprange on rise.
This rose was faire, fresh to behold,
Springing with many a royall lance;
A crowned king, with a crowne of gold,
Ouer England, Ireland, and of Ffrance.
Then in came a beast men call a bore,
And he rooted this garden vpp and downe;
By the seede of the rose he sett noe store,
But afterwards itt wore the crowne.