The Herbal Almanac

There is a particular kind of knowing that lives not in books but in hands — in the press of a thumb against a sprig of rosemary, in the lifting of a pot lid to breathe in the steam of something quietly simmering, in the instinct, passed wordlessly from grandmother to granddaughter, that this leaf, steeped slowly, will ease that ache. I have spent the better part of my long life in a cottage garden that was never grand, never photographed for any glossy magazine, but was always, always useful — and it is from that garden, and from the kitchens and hedgerows and dog-eared notebooks of the women who shaped me, that this little almanac has grown. It is not a scientific text, and I make no claims beyond the humble ones: that nature is generous to those who pay attention, that a tisane made with care tastes different from one made in haste, and that there is genuine comfort to be found in the simple act of gathering, steeping, and tending — to the garden, and to one another. These pages are offered in that spirit, with warm hands and an open heart, as one might pass a favourite recipe across a kitchen table to a friend.

There is a remedy for most small troubles growing quietly by the garden wall. My mother taught me which leaf soothed a cough, which flower calmed a restless night, which root eased a weary body. I have spent a lifetime tending, drying and steeping — filling brown glass bottles that line my windowsill and catch the afternoon light. In these pages I have set down all I know, with care and honesty. These are the old ways: unhurried, kind, and made by your own hands.

— Agnes