A woodland herb of subtle charm

Half the wood at Allen Mills is a mixture of spruce, larch, sycamore and birch. Beneath lies a muddle of fallen branches and plants that jostle one another: bramble, dog’s mercury, ivy and ferns. The eastern end is a contrasting habitat. What grows here is mainly beech, giving the ground beneath a quite different feel. It is open and light and sparse of plants. Curling beech leaves lie crisply over years of rot. There are occasional clumps of woodrush, small clusters of celandines and sanicle, a plant that thrives in these less competitive conditions.

In winter Sanicula europaea stands out against the burnt orange of the leaf litter and years of personal observation show it does not die back here. A woodland specialist, sanicle has glossy leaves with toothed edges and a tracery of pale raised veins. Despite the ground being dry under the beech trees, the plant finds enough moisture from water seeping down the steep bank towards the East Allen. When in flower, the sanicle here will only be 30cm high, though in the damp verges of the Lake District it reaches twice that, as do the examples I grow in my garden.

Though it is not often used as a garden plant, I am fond of the pinkish white flowers that look spiny due to their fan of stamens. In each cluster there are both male and female parts, making it self-fertile. It’s these sprays of tight little flowers and their dark stems that give sanicle a subtle charm amongst the noisier geraniums and aquilegias of my shaded border. Like many umbellifers, it bears plentiful seed, bristly fruits that get carried off on clothes or animals.

Sanicle was once an all-round herbal remedy, taken for wound healing, blood disorders, chest complaints, sore throats and a host of other problems. The old saying was “He who uses sanicle and bugle need have no dealings with the doctor”, but it’s little used today because of the potentially harmful compounds it contains.

In February I look out for its shapely leaves along my walk, where tree roots ridge the stony path, the weir thrums below me and there’s the scent of hops from Allendale Brewery.