rose hip syrup

Last month I made my first ever rose hip syrup using hips gathered on Wanstead Flats in September, which I washed and put in the freezer. Hips are a winter food for birds, so I only took what I needed. Here are foraging guidelines from the Woodland Trust.

The syrup is sweet, high in vitamin C, good drizzled on cakes & pancakes, in porridge and lovely with a shot of gin or vodka with ice.

You will need: measuring scale, pan with lid, wooden spoon, ladle, sieve, muslin cloth, bowl, measuring jug, funnel, Kilner bottle(s). 

Weigh your hips. The following recipe used 350g of hips, so alter amounts depending on the weight of your rose hips. 

1. Rinse & cut hips in half, put them in a pan & add half a litre of water.

2. Bring to the boil, simmer for 5 minutes.

3. Ladle/pour liquid & hips into a muslin covered sieve over a bowl. Wrap muslin around the pulp and place something heavy on top. Leave to stand for 1 hour.

4. Return pulp to plan, add another half litre of water & repeat process 2 & 3.

5. Give muslin with pulp inside a good squeeze. Measure rose hip liquid, for each litre add 650g of sugar. I had 600ml of liquid, so used 325g of sugar.

6. Return liquid to a clean pan, add sugar & heat until sugar dissolves. Bring to the boil & spoon off any scum. Boil for 3 minutes then bottle. 

I gave my bottle a rinse in boiling water before adding syrup. As you can see from my final image I filled 1 bottle plus extra in a jam jar. I didn't rinse the jam jar in boiling water and the syrup developed mould - so do rinse!

 Rose hips & water

 First boil

 Liquid after adding sugar

Finished syrup

measure of quality

While walking an easy three mile circular route from my flat this summer I experienced a moment of clarity and heightened awareness of consciousness in THIS body in THIS time, in THIS place. Aware of myself as a wondering measure of quality, flesh and blood responding to the sensory stimulus around me as finely tuned receptor, genderless, without culture.

My surface, registering the gentlest breeze, hairs rising upon some impulse from my sympathetic nervous system, this system operating me from before birth to my death. Eyes that see and make sense, or find sense in the environment, perceiving light, distance, colour with a sensitivity no camera could duplicate. Turning home, facing the setting sun I experienced its blinding rays, a last hurrah as the horizon rose to conceal the light. This haze of golden light felt timeless, I could be anywhere, this could be anytime, I could be anyone.

Footsteps measuring pace, distance, rhythm, stone crunch underfoot, a buzz and chirrup from the long grass, the music of trees and breeze, a rush of urgent whispers. Breath rhythm, inhalation, exhalation, an emotional swell in my chest as I feel, I feel. Mind, self, cognisant, piecing together now and before. A belly full of wonder at this awareness, connection, consciousness - my time on the Earth is now, this is my time. Recognising the gift of this moment, legs that carry me, a bright and curious mind, the preciousness of taking a deep, easy breath. 

gold or hell

Saw six magpies on the Wanstead Flats today, which means gold or hell depending on which rhyme you choose to believe. A flock of magpies is a tiding, a gulp, a murder or a charm apparently. Such poetry.

mile

● The path on which I released a red admiral butterfly caught in the grass. Tattered wings beating against the dirt path, it flew, with grass hanging, fluttering toward the trees.

● Fallen tree trunks surrounded with empty beer cans

● One for sorrow

● Yesterdays litter becoming a marker, a neatly tied black plastic bag of dog shit

● Shit made beautiful with the iridescent backs of bluebottles coveting it 

● Six for gold

● Leaf shimmer and whisper 

● Breath rhythm 

tempo

While walking on Wanstead Flats yesterday I was fascinated by the trees in open ground, could feel their fizzing energy. Tens of thousands of leaf buds on the verge of bursting, nature felt as an elastic band stretched to its limit and about to ping! Trees in the forested areas have pinged into leaf, sheltering each other from the winds that whip around the more exposed and bud filled trees. 

I thought about tempo, and remembered the quote by Ezra Pound, The difference between a gun and a tree is a difference of tempo. The tree explodes every spring.

As I continued to walk I passed a mature horse chestnut and was made tiny by it! Thinking about the best way to describe it, hulking settled into my mind. Questions tumbled - how much do the leaves weight? How much does the tree weigh? How much water is lifted up through the trunk in a day? Transformation, energy, connectedness.

With leaf the trees have become dense, inflated, huge. They stand their ground.

alone

Without the green of the forest I don't know how I would have turned out. Crossing the road from my house and entering the wood did not scare me, it was simple. 

This summer I created new work and entered the woods alone once more. This time I experienced fear and trepidation. I was nervous. While sitting on a fallen tree amongst a copse of young birches it dawned on me that this was my first time alone in Epping Forest since childhood. My fears about being vulnerable, unprotected, far from others were present.

Still, close to the forest floor, I breathed in constancy, timelessness, rootedness. No one disturbed me, not even a dog walker. On some unseen path beyond my trees children pelted through the wood on bikes, voices raised in excitement. As I arranged my work Army of Me by Bjork played in my head and I thought of my twenties and my friend Marianne. 

Hand stitched arms, 2015
Wanstead Flats, London

This image is a prelude to the work mentioned above. I wandered over to the Wanstead Flats and found this secluded spot to test my idea.