Elder's Last Gift: On Gathering Elderberries Before the Year Turns

There is a particular morning I return to often in memory — standing at the edge of my grandmother's garden in early September, a basket over my arm, reaching up into the heavy, drooping clusters of elderberries whilst the dew was still cold on my sleeves. The elder tree has always felt, to me, like a living almanac. When she offers her berries, dark and pendulous as tiny plums, she is telling you plainly that the year is turning, and that it is time to put something by.

The elderberry — Sambucus nigra — has been a cottage remedy for as long as anyone in this country has thought to write such things down. My own mother called elderberry syrup "the winter medicine," and she was not wrong. The berries are rich in what we now understand to be antioxidants and compounds that support the body's natural defences, though she would never have used such language. She simply knew that a spoonful stirred into hot water, with a little raw honey, would ease a sore throat and lift a low spirit on a grey November afternoon.

To gather them well, go in the morning after a dry spell, when the clusters hang full and deeply coloured — almost black, with just a faint bloom upon them. Avoid any that are still red, as these are not yet ripe and will make you quite unwell. Snip the whole heads with scissors into your basket, and strip the berries from their stems at home using the tines of a fork, working gently over a bowl. Your fingers will stain a beautiful, temporary purple, which I have always thought a fair trade.

For a simple elderberry syrup, simmer the stripped berries with just enough water to cover, along with a cinnamon stick, a few cloves, and a thumb of fresh ginger if you have it. Cook gently for twenty minutes, then strain and press the fruit well through a muslin cloth. Return the liquid to the pan, stir in good raw honey off the heat — roughly half the volume of liquid — and pour into sterilised bottles. Kept in the refrigerator, it will see you through many a difficult month. A tablespoon each morning is the old way, and I find no reason to improve upon it.

There is something quietly sacred, I think, about tending to the hedgerow in this season. The elder asks very little of us — only that we pay attention, arrive at the right moment, and take no more than we need. In return, she gives us a remedy that connects us to an unbroken line of women and men who understood that the land, if we treat it kindly, will always offer us what we most require. That is a kind of wisdom I hope we never grow too busy to remember.