If you’ve been walking the Forest edge recently, perhaps at the end of Avenue Brassine, you might have spotted a flash of yellow among the winter browns. Known locally as ajonc or gaspeldoorn, that’ll be gorse, the prickly shrub that seems to ignore the calendar entirely. I found it flowering on the 20th of December, which felt early, but gorse likes to remind us that nature doesn’t always follow our tidy expectations.
The name “gorse” comes from Old English gorst, meaning “waste” or “uncultivated land,” which makes sense when you consider its fondness for heathland and the rougher margins of forest and field. The Latin name Ulex is thought to derive from a Celtic root meaning “bristle,” a nod to its spines. In Scots and northern English dialects, it’s often called “whin” – probably from hwine or gwhin, meaning thorny. However you name it, you end up emphasising the same thing: yellow flowers and prickles.
Folklore is generous with gorse. It was once planted around fields and dwellings as a protective hedge, both physically and magically. In some traditions, gorse was considered a charm against lightning and mischief, its bright flowers associated with light and protection. It featured in Beltane rituals, sometimes thrown on fires or brought into the home to encourage prosperity. There’s even the old belief that gorse should not be cut during May, as it might offend the fair folk. The evergreen habit and winter bloom also led to associations with resilience and endurance.
Medicinally, gorse was not a major herb, but it wasn’t entirely neglected. The flowers were brewed as a mild infusion for jaundice and scurvy, more for the belief in their solar quality (yellow for yellow) than any strong curative effect. In some rural remedies, the flowers found their way into preparations for sore throats and chest complaints. The plant’s ashes, rich in potash, were once used in soaps and cleaning solutions.
Culinary use is modest but interesting. The flowers have a mild coconut scent and were used to flavour teas, wines, and even to brighten salads. They were also added to ale or mead in place of hops in the days before standardisation. The seeds, roasted, were sometimes suggested as a coffee substitute during hard times, though that’s more a testament to necessity than flavour. As always with wild plants: take care, take little, and be sure of identification.
So if you see those golden flowers shining in the midwinter sun, don’t be too surprised. Gorse has always been the outsider that refuses to wait for spring. It brings its own small defiance of the season, and perhaps that’s exactly why it’s so cheering to find it now, when we need colour the most.