As the transition from autumn to winter deepens and the remaining leaves tumble from the trees, the prevalence of ivy across the nation becomes even more noticeable. Ivy garnishes more than just trees; it adorns walls, stony cliffs, brickwork and power poles. It is among the most misrepresented plants native to Ireland, and I regularly find myself in the position of debunking the myth that ivy is a destructive force that “strangles” trees or drains their vitality. The vernacular used to speak about these intriguing plants is evocative of the narratives surrounding epidemics or violent conquerors.
Though it is a true native of Ireland, ivy thrives in heavily shaded areas and often blankets the terrain where other plants longing for sunlight cannot live. However, in line with all photosynthetic plants, ivy requires sunlight and therefore employs its adaptable stem to ascend trees on its quest for the sun. It twists and winds its way into the tree’s canopy, forming vast clumps of evergreen leaves that alter the tree’s silhouette. But, crucially, the ivy’s roots remain in the earth, leaving the host tree unscathed by its lodger, which merely utilises the tree as a climbing support.
The dark leaves and intertwining stems of the ivy prove invaluable to creatures of the forest; birds utilise them to build nests in the spring, whilst bats seek the leafy cover for daytime roosting. During autumn, a time when most flora bear fruit, ivy instead produces yellow-green flowers, providing vital nourishment for pollinators. The ivy bee, a recent addition to Ireland’s insect populace, resides in the southeast and can be observed on cheerful days dining on the newly bloomed flowers of the ivy. This floral show is succeeded in the late winter by clumps of dark ivy berries, acting as a key food source for birds during strenuous foraging periods.
Similar to numerous evergreen plants, regional folklore has associated ivy with the concept of perpetuity. This belief emboldens the faith of the people in the concept of eternal life and rebirth post-mortem.
Risteard Mulcahy, a proficient but now not practicing heart surgeon, embarked upon a campaign against ivy, expressing his strong feelings in his work ‘For Love of Trees’. His argument, while compelling, had noticeable flaws as he objected to what he perceived to be the disfiguration caused by ivy on roadside trees and tree specimens. Mulcahy held the view that ivy damaged and distorted trees, causing their death sooner than usual. He failed to base his observations on any established scientific findings, and acknowledged that his bias towards the effects of excessive ivy growth on trees and hedges was largely influenced by his personal observations. It should be noted that there is no scientific substantiation to support the notion that trees are adversely affected by ivy.
Another plant often perceived negatively is the honeysuckle, known for being one of the earliest woodland plants to bloom in spring. The enthralling fragrance of its creamy yellow flowers in summer is extremely appealing. Compared to ivy, it is more favoured by those interested in wildflowers, as honeysuckle too, climbs trees. Unlike ivy that adheres firmly to bark using aerial roots, honeysuckle grows akin to a bean plant, winding through branches to reach sunlight.
The honeysuckle goes by another name – woodbine, a moniker referring to its knotted, binding characteristic. Its growth generally happens before the tree canopy obscures the sun. The flower once held a reputation as a symbol of loyalty and affection. It was believed that a person adorned with honeysuckle flowers, renowned for their sweet aroma, would dream about their soulmate. The flowers provide nectar for a variety of insects during the day and moths during the night.
The writer John Stewart Collis depicted honeysuckle in an imaginative manner in his acclaimed book ‘The Worm Forgives the Plough’. Born in Dublin, he experienced rural life on farms in England during World War II, where he was tasked with clearing and thinning woodland in Dorset. He noted, in a rather poignant way, how sections of woodland were dominated by honeysuckle, with the twisted, decaying and dead ash trees hopelessly ensnared within the network of ropes, pulleys and loops – all of which exhibited little signs of life on the surface, but were brimming with vitality and strength within, ready to dismantle the woodland.
Naturally, the idea is considerably overstated. While the honeysuckle may leave its mark on the tree’s bark, it certainly does not inflict the ruthless suffocation and throttling mentioned by Collis.
There is a prevalent notion that climbing plants in the wilderness are messy, which often leads to them being negatively portrayed. However, these indigenous species hold significant roles within the woodland ecosystem. I have personally learned to appreciate them.
Our author, Richard Nairn, is not only an ecologist but also a writer. His latest publication, Wild Shores, is available through Gill Books.