In the Safety of the Crown of Thorns

Hawthorn trees are the sacrificial mothers of future woodlands

Oct 15, 2024

white and red flowers in tilt shift lens — Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

After April showers comes the blissful month of May. Blissful as it is the month when the warmth reigns supreme — the cold having finally been overcome1 — and new life erupts with renewed vigour wherever one looks. Wildflowers aplenty — Red Campion, Greater Stitchwort, Cow Parsley — bedeck hedgerows, verges, and old earthen banks, and deep inside these very same hedges, rasping squeals from newly hatched chicks can be heard, providing one takes the time to stop, listen, and wonder.

There is a tree named after this glorious month, though few are aware of the fact. Though you may know it as the Hawthorn, the May Tree is its other, near redundant name. I am yet undecided on which name I prefer, so for the meantime, I will continue to call it the Hawthorn, which is fitting as this apt name divulges two essential features that will be integral to our inquiry into this rather overlooked and under-appreciated tree.

Using a semantic axe to split the name “Hawthorn” in two leaves us with the words haw and thorn. Thorn is simple. This really is a sharp and prickly tree: its branches and twigs well-armed with pointed, modified branches (thorns) ready and waiting to defend against browsing deer. Conversely, Haw is a rather foreign word to our modern vernacular; a vernacular which has removed acorn, buttercup, and conker from junior dictionaries as wild words are apparently redundant in this digital age.2 But I digress. Approach any Hawthorn in autumn and haws are what you will immediately see: little, round, crimson berries3 festooning the hedges and small trees, each one a little packet of dense sustenance for newly arrived Fieldfare and Redwing in need of refuelling after their arduous migration.

Hawthorns rarely grow to a size deserving of the title “tree”. Bill-hook wielding hedge layers cut the majority down to size, enabling the creation of dense hedgerows whose thick foliage and menacing thorns keep marauding cattle safe within the confines of their fields. Hawthorn hedges are the living green veins of rural England, running for thousands of miles and enclosing fields and meadows alike. They are one of the most quintessential features of the English countryside and an immensely valuable habitat for farmland birds, butterflies, and wildflowers.

Occasionally, a Hawthorn will escape the hedge layers attention and will be allowed to grow to its full potential. Nestled into a corner of Norfolk not far from the cathedral city of Norwich, is one of the country’s most diminutive nature reserves. It is so small that it comprises of just a single tree — though a very special tree indeed: the Hethel Old Thorn. This 700-year-old Hawthorn once had a girth of over 9-feet — a veritable giant in the Hawthorn world. It also has another claim to fame, one that is more mystical — and more dubious. Hethel Old Thorn is alleged to have grown from Joseph of Arimathea’s staff. Now, I don’t enjoy pouring cold water on myths and legends, but I will engage in a bit of iconoclasm here. Partly because I believe this tree is worthy of our attention in its own right regardless to its mythical origins. But more so because there are number of other Hawthorns round the country which also lay claim to this venerable ancestry.4 The most notable usurper is the Glastonbury Thorn, a legendary Hawthorn tree that “miraculously” blooms twice a year.5 If Joseph’s staff is to have budded into any Hawthorn, the Glastonbury Thorn surely is a more worthy contender.

Two species of Hawthorn can be found in the UK, while many more species exist worldwide (including a diverse trove of local species in the Americas). The Common Hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna) is the species one is most likely to encounter out for a walk across the south of England, while the Midland Hawthorn (Crataegus laevigata) is much less widespread and normally confines itself to the edges of ancient woodlands and hedgerows. Distinguishing between the two species is a challenge, requiring the avid botanist to get up close (whilst avoiding being prickled!). There are differences in the shape of the leaves6 and in the number of styles in the haws. But apart from that, the two species are much the same.

The little crimson haws are what the Hawthorn is most renowned for and their genesis can be seen in the early blossom of spring (the Hawthorn being one of the first trees to greet us with their blossom every year). Each white (or rarely crimson) flower represents a delicate symbol and foretaste of the deep red haws to come — a fruit whose noble purpose is the perpetuation of life. Though the haws are edible, very few people forage the berries nowadays and most find the taste far too sour for the modern palette. And anyway, we are not the creature whom the tree wishes to consume its precious delicacies. Fluttering birds are the intended and invited guests at this wild, fruity banquet, who after gorging themselves, will go on to plant forests…

Each bird that flies off with a stomach laden with Hawthorn seeds has the potential to be a forester. As they defecate the seeds in their droppings all over the countryside, what the Hawthorn hopes for is that the seeds may hit the ground in uncharted territory. Uncharted for a woodland, that is. Here in their nutrient-rich surroundings, the seeds can develop into tiny Hawthorn saplings — brave pioneers of nature’s “Operation Reclamation” in the tamed arable and pastoral landscapes of man.

Hawthorn trees are incubators of woodlands.7 If the seedlings escape the attention of browsing deer, cattle, or the plough in their first few precious years, they may grow up to be an impenetrable thicket of thorny, dense scrub that no deer will dare venture in, though a little Muntjac may feebly try. Safe inside this crown of thorns, tiny oak, ash, and birch saplings can begin their journey toward the heavens, safe in the knowledge that their precious green leaves will not be munched on.

It is the Hawthorn’s ultimate sacrifice. Pioneers usually meet untimely ends — they make the initial move, colonising hostile and inhospitable lands, forging a way for others to follow, but rarely live long enough to see the rewards of their exploits. Hawthorns are no exception. The trees which slowly grow safe within the Hawthorn’s thorny embrace will, in time, grow tall and wide. Their crowns absorb the greatest share of the sunlight which streams from above, leaving mere crumbs of light that filter through for the humble Hawthorn below. The “crown of thorns” is starved of light, and eventually life.

The Hawthorn will have no place in community of the future woodland it has incubated, though it may cling on in the outermost margins. But though its membership will be absent deep within the wood, its legacy will endure for ages to come. Foremost to this are the oaks and birches trees themselves, which stand testament to the life which preceded them. Another, more hidden legacy from the Hawthorn also persists deep within the composition of the soil where its twigs and leaves have decomposed. These nutrients are the Hawthorn’s final gift to the woodland community it has borne and now nurtures.

This is what happens in nature. Competition is rife and violent. There are winners and losers, and often the competition is a zero-sum game. But there can be no time for sentimentality on the Hawthorn’s part. There is a woodland to build: a place of richness and plenty where creatures great and small will make their home, all in the land where the Hawthorn first laid its courageous roots. The woodland stands as a magnificent and enduring testament to the exploits of this humble, overlooked tree. There can be no greater reward in nature’s economy than this.

There is much we can learn from the Hawthorn tree. Not least in the example of its sacrifice. A multitude of people have nurtured us to become the men and women that we now are: parents, mentors, masters, teachers, and more. Our gifts, endeavours, and achievements may in time surpass their own; in many cases, that is their wish. But we must not let the parasitic vices of pride, hubris, and vain glory engorge themselves on our lofty exploits. Instead, we should use our gifts, status, or rewards to benefit those who nurtured us — to repay them for the kindness and dedication that made us into who we are. Following that, we should then devote our attention and efforts to nurturing and maturing those who follow in our footsteps — and who will one day overtake us to heights unknown.

This is the lesson of the Hawthorn tree.

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