In the right habitat once you notice it, you start seeing it everywhere, like the Forest’s scruffy little purple-green blanket. In summer it’s all romance: soft mauve haze, bees going berserk, that sweet hum that feels ancient. By November though, it’s bleached and brittle, like someone left a bouquet on the heath too long. Those papery little bells you found aren’t dead flowers exactly but the calyces hanging on, weathering the rain and frost as if they refuse to admit the season’s over.
Calluna isn’t a fan of rich soils or pampered landscapes. Give it fertiliser and it sulks. Stick it in chalk or clay and it sulks even more. But set it on poor, acidic ground, give it a bit of wind, a few larch needles and bracken fronds for company, and it quietly builds a whole ecosystem. Beetles, solitary bees, spiders, tiny moth larvae, they all use it as food, shelter, scaffolding, nursery. It’s unassuming, but leave it long enough, burn it at the right moment, clear the bracken (as I was doing), and it rewards you with a heath that looks like a postcard from Scotland. Or at this location, after a few more years. Reclaiming Heath is a slow process.
The name Calluna comes from the Greek kallúnō, meaning to sweep. No romance there — just brooms. People once harvested heathland heather and bundled it into cleaning tools. The “ling” part comes from Old Norse, possibly meaning heather of the open land, or simply to bend, as in something that’s always being pushed down by wind but never quite breaks.
It’s a stubborn little survivor. It doesn’t mind being nibbled, burned, frozen, or trampled by well-meaning humans with rakes and gloves. It just waits, roots deep, quietly reclaiming the heath with that slow, purplish patience that only long-lived plants seem to have.
Try finding a flower that works harder for the landscape than Calluna. Most of them just bloom; this one rebuilds worlds.