Sally Walker of Fernhill, Sandyford, Dublin, comes quickly to add to our knowledge of furze (whins or gorse) as a cultivated, regular crop. In her parental home in Kilbrittain, Co Cork, the family had a brake or field given entirely to the cultivation and cropping of the said plant. It was for feeding the ponies. The rule was that one half of the field was cut this year, and the other half the next, and so on in rotation. This meant that the crop was always young and tender, and the ponies thrived on it. It was chopped, she remembers, not pounded, for the growth was always soft. Like a meadow being regularly mowed, in a way. Now living in Fernhill, just beyond the Lamb's Cross on the road to Enniskerry, she presides over a historic garden. Not the best of a daffodil year this time, she says, but the rhodos are just now magnificent, and should be seen, along with all the other delights.
Spring news of fish, too. You remember the apparent destruction of all life for 10 miles or so of the river Borora, after a disastrous fire in Mullagh? Well Gerry Farrell of Moynalty, the father of that river, has been strongly in favour of not restocking. "Let nature do her own healing" has been his plea. And just recently he had evidence of life coming again. He took out his rod and to his great satisfaction. took one good half-pounder (returned to the river of course), and raised and saw several others approaching that size. More, he got a glimpse of a fish of between two and three pounds, which is huge for the Borora. And Gerry doesn't make mistakes or exaggerate. Good news and good luck to him in his care for these waters. Another rodsman, two miles or so downstream, wasn't as fortunate: he kept taking salmon parr and not a sight of a trout. So he gave up soon; anyway, the salmon are getting through.
Spring, and how often were you told when young that you should eat this or that "to cleanse your blood after the winter"? One of the agents for this was rhubarb. Maybe your father forced it by covering it with a bucket or box and hastened the process by piling horse manure round the outside. After the darkness, it came out pale in colour and stringy in length. Almost blanched. You got it stewed or, more acceptable, in a flat tart. Being told it was good for you was always a bit off-putting. Especially when it made you run.