Submitted by Ursula Kovacs, Folk Herbalist & Owner of Saltblossom Botanicals
Located at "The Wild Soul" on Route 114 in Riverside-Albert
Folk Herbalist, Owner of Saltblossom Botanicals @ The Wild Soul on the 114 Riverside Albert NB
Located at "The Wild Soul" on Route 114 in Riverside-Albert
Folk Herbalist, Owner of Saltblossom Botanicals @ The Wild Soul on the 114 Riverside Albert NB
The leaves are an incredible body tonic when made into a tea, and it can be rolled and fermented into "Ivan Chai," a tantalizing, black-like tea carrying prebiotics with it now as well. A changeling indeed!
There are the goldenrods - as you may have noticed they are absolutely everywhere now.
Brilliant yellow, unapologetic, and impossible to miss, lighting up roadsides, fields, ditches, and old clearings. Many assume that it's this beautiful plant that strikes up many humans' allergies, when in turn she actually aids in giving relief; it's the nasty little ragweed that sets most of the population off.
There is an old piece of farmer's weather lore that says when goldenrod begins to bloom, there are roughly six weeks left until frost. But whether the goldenrod actually possesses a secret weather calendar is a mystery probably best left to the goldenrod itself, but I rather like the old habit of watching and old lores!
Before weather apps, satellite images, and hourly forecasts, people looked to the landscape for clues. The plants, trees, birds, and animals were part of the calendar.
They still are; perhaps we have just forgotten.
Another present show-off currently would be the rowan tree. The berries are beginning to ripen, those brilliant orange bunches slowly turning into red clusters standing out against the deepening greens of the forest.
Rowan, or mountain ash, has carried a remarkable amount of folklore with it. Across Europe, it has long been associated with protection, magic, and warding off misfortune. Sprigs were hung near homes and carried by travelers, and the bright red berries themselves became part of stories and protective charms. Here in Atlantic folklore, the tree has been woven into weather lore. In Newfoundland, a heavy crop of rowan berries has traditionally been said to foretell a difficult winter. Whether the berries can actually predict the winter is, again, another matter entirely (though I wouldn't rule it out myself). There truly is something beautiful about the old habit of looking at a tree and asking it what might be coming. (Don't judge, I talk to the trees often!)
Perhaps that is what we have lost a little in our modern world—not necessarily the knowledge of whether a heavy berry crop means a harsh winter, but the habit of looking closely enough to wonder and to be curious.
For now, the berries themselves will wait a little longer as, traditionally, rowan berries are often gathered after frost, which helps soften their intense bitterness. They can also be frozen before preparation to mimic that effect. Once cooked and properly prepared, those tart little berries can become jellies, syrups, sauces, preserves, and delicious beverages.
There are the goldenrods - as you may have noticed they are absolutely everywhere now.
Brilliant yellow, unapologetic, and impossible to miss, lighting up roadsides, fields, ditches, and old clearings. Many assume that it's this beautiful plant that strikes up many humans' allergies, when in turn she actually aids in giving relief; it's the nasty little ragweed that sets most of the population off.
There is an old piece of farmer's weather lore that says when goldenrod begins to bloom, there are roughly six weeks left until frost. But whether the goldenrod actually possesses a secret weather calendar is a mystery probably best left to the goldenrod itself, but I rather like the old habit of watching and old lores!
Before weather apps, satellite images, and hourly forecasts, people looked to the landscape for clues. The plants, trees, birds, and animals were part of the calendar.
They still are; perhaps we have just forgotten.
Another present show-off currently would be the rowan tree. The berries are beginning to ripen, those brilliant orange bunches slowly turning into red clusters standing out against the deepening greens of the forest.
Rowan, or mountain ash, has carried a remarkable amount of folklore with it. Across Europe, it has long been associated with protection, magic, and warding off misfortune. Sprigs were hung near homes and carried by travelers, and the bright red berries themselves became part of stories and protective charms. Here in Atlantic folklore, the tree has been woven into weather lore. In Newfoundland, a heavy crop of rowan berries has traditionally been said to foretell a difficult winter. Whether the berries can actually predict the winter is, again, another matter entirely (though I wouldn't rule it out myself). There truly is something beautiful about the old habit of looking at a tree and asking it what might be coming. (Don't judge, I talk to the trees often!)
Perhaps that is what we have lost a little in our modern world—not necessarily the knowledge of whether a heavy berry crop means a harsh winter, but the habit of looking closely enough to wonder and to be curious.
For now, the berries themselves will wait a little longer as, traditionally, rowan berries are often gathered after frost, which helps soften their intense bitterness. They can also be frozen before preparation to mimic that effect. Once cooked and properly prepared, those tart little berries can become jellies, syrups, sauces, preserves, and delicious beverages.
Apple blossoms on the old property.
Image by Danica Sherry And so the season begins to turn toward gathering.
Blackberries are still hiding among their thorny branches, although my basket is usually only partly full by the time I reach home—absolute bliss for sure. Except for when you spot that big, ripe, perfect blackberry, reach for it, and suddenly you're negotiating with a mighty thorn bush that appears to have taken your decision personally. They leave some good marks, grab your clothes unapologetically, and catch you up if you set yourself far enough into a patch. Still, we gather them. Because late-summer berries are one of those simple, sweet, seasonal gifts that ask very little of us except a little patience, a basket, perhaps some bandages, and a sewing kit (humour intended). Blackberries do have a long history as both food and a traditional herbal plant. The ripe berries can be eaten fresh or transformed into syrups, jams, sauces, cordials, and fermented drinks.
The leaves have also been traditionally used in herbal teas, as they are packed with antioxidants, vitamins, and tannins. They may soothe mild digestion issues, ease a sore throat, and even help support your immune system. Win-win, and worth every scratch! This is where I think autumn foraging becomes particularly interesting. We aren't simply gathering food. We are learning preservation. We are taking something that exists abundantly for a brief moment and finding ways to carry a little of summer forward with us.
A jar of blackberry syrup in January is more than a condiment. It is a memory. The same can be said for the wild apples beginning to ripen and fall throughout the Fundy landscape. There are old apple trees tucked into fields that have long since returned to forest, trees growing along forgotten roads, trees standing alone where there is no obvious reason for an apple tree to be there. But there usually is. Someone planted it. Someone lived there. Someone tended that tree. Perhaps there was once a house nearby, a small farm, a family, a garden, a life that has now been slowly swallowed by forest. The apple tree remained - there is something hauntingly beautiful about that. The land remembers in ways we don't always recognize. An old apple tree can be a marker of human history hiding in plain sight.
That is what I love most about this time of year. The landscape is changing, but it is also revealing. The trees begin to tell their stories through colour and fruit. The plants tell us when their work for the season is nearly finished. The berries ask to be gathered. The mushrooms appear after rain. The old apple trees remind us that people have walked these roads long before us. It's a thought I find myself daydreaming about. Again, curious about the past and the memory of it all. The woods, the meadows, the river edges found along old dusty country roads always somehow draw me back towards the water. Everything eventually brings me there; I am a water sign, so it's inevitable, really.
Time spent camping this summer on Martin Head was the most incredible and magical experience, hands down. From listening to the ocean's rhythmic, gentle, thunderous flow, to following the fog and the changing tides whilst wandering the shore, hiking the cliff, and watching the little mink whales in the distance—it was vast and deeply stirring right to the core of us. What a soul-filling gift it was!
Here along the Fundy coast, the landscape doesn't end where the forest meets the shore. The story simply changes. One in particular intrigued me when we headed to Deer Island and Campobello earlier this summer at low tide. Another harvest was revealed. Dulse! The salty treat, a favourite of maritime folk.
Widely gathered as well along the shores of Grand Manan, dulse has been gathered by hand for generations. The harvesters follow the tides down to the exposed rocks, gathering the reddish-brown seaweed before the water returns. It is an old rhythm of work that depends as much on the moon and the tide as it does on the weather.
And then comes the sun. Freshly harvested dulse is traditionally spread out in thin layers on drying grounds, where the sun and wind slowly draw the moisture away. On a good day, several hours of sunshine can transform those wet, leathery fronds into crisp sheets of sea vegetable. It sounds simple. But anyone who lives here knows that asking the Fundy weather for several hours of sunshine, low humidity, and cooperation is perhaps a slightly optimistic request. The fog has opinions. So does the tide. And the rain, as always, seems to arrive precisely when something important is drying. (So east coast chic!) No complicated machinery. No rushing. The tide exposes the harvest. Human hands gather it. The sun preserves it. Dulse has long been part of coastal food traditions, eaten as it is or added to soups, chowders, breads, and savory dishes. Once dried, it can be crumbled into flakes or ground into a seasoning, giving food a deep, salty, almost mineral character. It also provides nutrients including iodine and minerals, although—as with other iodine-rich sea vegetables—it is something to enjoy thoughtfully rather than assuming that more is always better. Dulse is an important part of this September story. It reminds us that here in Fundy country, the land is only half the story. The other half is the sea—the Fundy Coast. The same season that ripens the rowan berries grows the dulse under the tides. The same sun that ripens blackberries dries seaweed on the rocks. The same fog that settles over the forest can make a dulse harvest impossible.
Everything is connected: the forest to the marsh, the ocean to the shore, the tide to the moon, the weather, the people.
And of course, plants. We sometimes think of foraging as wandering into the woods with a basket, but here, for generations, gathering has also meant watching the moon, reading the tide tables, knowing the rocks, watching the weather, and understanding that the ocean gives on its own schedule.
It’s part of the local magic of living here: being present, learning, and growing. Because here, the land teaches us to look down. The trees teach us to look up. And the Bay teaches us to look outward.
Welcome September and the soon Harvest moon! Wander kindly, friends. Gather sustainably, and be present in every moment you can. For summer is fleeting in its glory. Cherish it, live in fullness and adventure.
Blackberries are still hiding among their thorny branches, although my basket is usually only partly full by the time I reach home—absolute bliss for sure. Except for when you spot that big, ripe, perfect blackberry, reach for it, and suddenly you're negotiating with a mighty thorn bush that appears to have taken your decision personally. They leave some good marks, grab your clothes unapologetically, and catch you up if you set yourself far enough into a patch. Still, we gather them. Because late-summer berries are one of those simple, sweet, seasonal gifts that ask very little of us except a little patience, a basket, perhaps some bandages, and a sewing kit (humour intended). Blackberries do have a long history as both food and a traditional herbal plant. The ripe berries can be eaten fresh or transformed into syrups, jams, sauces, cordials, and fermented drinks.
The leaves have also been traditionally used in herbal teas, as they are packed with antioxidants, vitamins, and tannins. They may soothe mild digestion issues, ease a sore throat, and even help support your immune system. Win-win, and worth every scratch! This is where I think autumn foraging becomes particularly interesting. We aren't simply gathering food. We are learning preservation. We are taking something that exists abundantly for a brief moment and finding ways to carry a little of summer forward with us.
A jar of blackberry syrup in January is more than a condiment. It is a memory. The same can be said for the wild apples beginning to ripen and fall throughout the Fundy landscape. There are old apple trees tucked into fields that have long since returned to forest, trees growing along forgotten roads, trees standing alone where there is no obvious reason for an apple tree to be there. But there usually is. Someone planted it. Someone lived there. Someone tended that tree. Perhaps there was once a house nearby, a small farm, a family, a garden, a life that has now been slowly swallowed by forest. The apple tree remained - there is something hauntingly beautiful about that. The land remembers in ways we don't always recognize. An old apple tree can be a marker of human history hiding in plain sight.
That is what I love most about this time of year. The landscape is changing, but it is also revealing. The trees begin to tell their stories through colour and fruit. The plants tell us when their work for the season is nearly finished. The berries ask to be gathered. The mushrooms appear after rain. The old apple trees remind us that people have walked these roads long before us. It's a thought I find myself daydreaming about. Again, curious about the past and the memory of it all. The woods, the meadows, the river edges found along old dusty country roads always somehow draw me back towards the water. Everything eventually brings me there; I am a water sign, so it's inevitable, really.
Time spent camping this summer on Martin Head was the most incredible and magical experience, hands down. From listening to the ocean's rhythmic, gentle, thunderous flow, to following the fog and the changing tides whilst wandering the shore, hiking the cliff, and watching the little mink whales in the distance—it was vast and deeply stirring right to the core of us. What a soul-filling gift it was!
Here along the Fundy coast, the landscape doesn't end where the forest meets the shore. The story simply changes. One in particular intrigued me when we headed to Deer Island and Campobello earlier this summer at low tide. Another harvest was revealed. Dulse! The salty treat, a favourite of maritime folk.
Widely gathered as well along the shores of Grand Manan, dulse has been gathered by hand for generations. The harvesters follow the tides down to the exposed rocks, gathering the reddish-brown seaweed before the water returns. It is an old rhythm of work that depends as much on the moon and the tide as it does on the weather.
And then comes the sun. Freshly harvested dulse is traditionally spread out in thin layers on drying grounds, where the sun and wind slowly draw the moisture away. On a good day, several hours of sunshine can transform those wet, leathery fronds into crisp sheets of sea vegetable. It sounds simple. But anyone who lives here knows that asking the Fundy weather for several hours of sunshine, low humidity, and cooperation is perhaps a slightly optimistic request. The fog has opinions. So does the tide. And the rain, as always, seems to arrive precisely when something important is drying. (So east coast chic!) No complicated machinery. No rushing. The tide exposes the harvest. Human hands gather it. The sun preserves it. Dulse has long been part of coastal food traditions, eaten as it is or added to soups, chowders, breads, and savory dishes. Once dried, it can be crumbled into flakes or ground into a seasoning, giving food a deep, salty, almost mineral character. It also provides nutrients including iodine and minerals, although—as with other iodine-rich sea vegetables—it is something to enjoy thoughtfully rather than assuming that more is always better. Dulse is an important part of this September story. It reminds us that here in Fundy country, the land is only half the story. The other half is the sea—the Fundy Coast. The same season that ripens the rowan berries grows the dulse under the tides. The same sun that ripens blackberries dries seaweed on the rocks. The same fog that settles over the forest can make a dulse harvest impossible.
Everything is connected: the forest to the marsh, the ocean to the shore, the tide to the moon, the weather, the people.
And of course, plants. We sometimes think of foraging as wandering into the woods with a basket, but here, for generations, gathering has also meant watching the moon, reading the tide tables, knowing the rocks, watching the weather, and understanding that the ocean gives on its own schedule.
It’s part of the local magic of living here: being present, learning, and growing. Because here, the land teaches us to look down. The trees teach us to look up. And the Bay teaches us to look outward.
Welcome September and the soon Harvest moon! Wander kindly, friends. Gather sustainably, and be present in every moment you can. For summer is fleeting in its glory. Cherish it, live in fullness and adventure.
RSS Feed