From field to barn
When you say the word harvest, most people conjure an image of late September days; warm, with the smell of freshly cut and stacked straw; abundance – the bounty of the growing year at its most generous. This is a time of plenty - for sharing, storing, saving. I too, at the mention of this word, think of these things. It is the reaping of rewards from all the hard work put in throughout the growing year. I enjoy these times too, harvesting my own vegetables and orchard fruits, and spending time making jams and jellies, chutneys and pickles, preserving the flavours to enjoy throughout the colder months when the garden lies dormant, and to gift at Christmas to friends and family. But the word harvest has extra meaning for me, and it is not quite as homely and cosy.
The willow harvest hits when it sometimes feels as though the celebrations have ended. When the singing and dancing are done, the presents unwrapped and the decorations put away, this is when I take a deep breath, don my wellies and waterproofs, and take on the task that is cutting my willow patch.
Willow likes to be cut when it has completed its full annual growth cycle, from early season spring shoots, through the fast development of rods during the long warm summer days, to the slow falling of leaves in autumn, and finally to dormancy in winter. During those winter months when the days are shorter and the air is colder – this is the time to harvest.
I find December too busy to contemplate harvest, so excepting the few rods I use for fresh handmade wreaths to decorate the house at Christmas, the job is saved for January. It punctuates my year, giving me focus at a time I might otherwise feel like hibernating, and forcing me to be outside when I might prefer to be loafing by the fire or at the very least weaving undercover – and it is slow. I take a pair of well sharpened secateurs, some loppers for more chunky rods and head to the field to start the harvest. Sometimes it feels overwhelming. If I look at the whole patch it seems as though I might never get through it all, so I don’t look up; I take the variety at the front of the patch and start cutting. I cut every rod that has grown, from tiny lengths that never amounted to much, to those that are 8-9 foot in length. I work systematically, one plant at a time, taking each rod back to the base of the stool (effectively the trunk), before moving onto the next one. The stools lie relatively flush to the ground, so the work is tiresome, with lots of bending - hard on the back and hard on the hands. Slowly, however, I work my way through the patch, gathering bundles as they collect on the ground next to me and taking them to lie on the grass next to the patch. Here they grow into mounds of rods, spaced a few feet apart according to variety.
The harvesting takes a few days to complete. There is too much to cut in a day and I find the work too hard to spend more than a morning or afternoon cutting each day. This gives the harvest a less urgent feeling; there is no particular rush. There are highlights too; I get to spend time outdoors in nature at a time of year when I might be less inclined. There is a sense of peace – just me and the rhythmic sound of my secateurs cutting a slow beat through the willow patch; and the sense of achievement as I watch the mounds grow and feel the promise of future weaving. The harvest is undertaken in all but extremes of weather, so it might be waterproofs one day with an occasional trickle down the back of the neck of a raindrop, whilst the next day is calm and still. Last year it was so mild I had my jumper off and sleeves rolled up after just an hour or so. The changeability of the weather is all part of the experience.
When the cutting is done and I feel like I want to celebrate, the sorting begins. Again, this is a slow process, where the rods are dropped into a barrel and removed in height order, the longest first, such that they are graded into bundles of similar sized rods, ranging from 3 to 8/9 foot in length. These are then tied loosely and transferred to a draughty barn allowing the air to circulate, where they are left to dry slowly.
The sorting period is also the time at which I use some of the more branchy rods which are less useful for weaving, to make cuttings. This, then, forms the final piece of my harvesting process. After all the rods have been cut and sorted by variety and length, I return to the field once again to plant my willow cuttings. This is part of an ongoing scheme to gradually grow the size of my willow beds. I add approximately 300-400 cuttings per year, knowing that I can manage this number in a dry spell if they need additional water in their first year. Adding slowly, year on year, also allows me the time to consider how much I can physically manage at harvest time, and how my quantities balance against my need for material. My goal is to be self-sufficient in willow for all my needs, excepting those where specialist willow is required, for example, white willow.
By the time I reach the end of the harvest, I inevitably have what I refer to as “itchy fingers”, where I am desperate to get back into the studio to get weaving, using the previous years’ harvest. The break allows me time to re-enthuse, to dream, to plan, and now it is time to get my fingers working once more, often grateful to be undercover, slightly warmer and full of ideas to realise.