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Hawthorn blossoms. Their scent. Wow. The way they look, adorn the landscape in Spring and how they preserve notions of all that, when harvested and dried nicely, then brewed to a herbal tea later in the yeat. Wonderful, simply. Hawthorn Harvest on Full Flower Moon is part of the cultiwilding observation series and the first harvest post.
For the nerds: What we’ve got here is Crataegus monogyna (Common Hawthorn), as opposed to Crataegus laevigata (Midland hawthorn) or Crataegus rhipidophylla (Large-sepalled Hawthorn).
It is somewhat confusing – or amusing as the case may be – that Common (almindelig) Hawthorn is not the Almindelig Hvidtjørn in Danish – in Denmark the Midland Hawthorn is the common one, and it is called Engriflet hvidtjørn.
The common hawthorn is distinguished from the related but less widespread Midland hawthorn (C. laevigata) by its more upright growth, the leaves being deeply lobed, with spreading lobes, and the flowers having just one style, not two or three. They are interfertile, however, so hybrids occur frequently; they are only entirely distinct in their more typical forms. Another species that also hybridises with the common hawthorn is Crataegus rhipidophylla, which is distinguished by having finely instead of coarsely serrated lobe margins.
Hawthorn Harvest on Full Flower Moon
In late spring, as the air grows warm and the hedgerows of Europe stir with life, the hawthorn bursts into bloom. This small, thorned tree—Crataegus monogyna, and its cousin Crataegus laevigata—becomes, for a few short weeks, a cloud of white or pink blossoms. Their scent is potent and polarising: floral, slightly sour, and curiously reminiscent of something both living and dying.
To some, it is sweet and transporting. To others, unsettling. The cause lies partly in its chemistry—volatile oils, and a compound called trimethylamine, also present in decaying organic matter. But this tension between beauty and decay, sweetness and musk, is not accidental. It is what defines hawthorn. This tree belongs to the liminal. It lives at the edge—between forest and field, wild and tended, spring and summer.
The Hawthorn Harvest on Full Flower Moon celebrates this moment. It is a phrase that has grown in popularity among herbalists and land stewards seeking to revive seasonal and reciprocal harvesting practices. But it also captures something timeless: that this tree is not only a botanical species, but a being woven deeply into myth, medicine, and human memory.
A Tree of Folklore and Thresholds
Hawthorn has long been held as sacred across northern and western Europe. In Celtic tradition, it is one of the great fairy trees, often associated with entrances to the Otherworld. Lone hawthorns—especially those standing in open fields—were never cut, nor disrespected. These were sidhe trees, homes to the spirits, and to interfere with them was to court misfortune.
English and Irish tales alike speak of misadventures that followed attempts to move or fell these trees. Even today, roads are diverted in parts of Ireland to avoid disturbing old hawthorns. In this context, the Hawthorn Harvest on Full Flower Moon must be more than a task—it must be a respectful rite.
May traditions across Europe also place hawthorn at the centre of spring celebrations. The name “May” tree is one of its oldest. The phrase “Ne’er cast a clout till May is out” likely refers not to the month itself, but to the flowering of the hawthorn—a reliable marker of seasonal change. In England, young people once gathered hawthorn branches to decorate doors and make garlands for May Day festivals, invoking fertility, renewal, and joy.
Christian lore, too, absorbed the hawthorn’s power. The Glastonbury Thorn, said to have sprouted from Joseph of Arimathea’s staff, is a hawthorn that blooms improbably at Christmas—a botanical miracle. In this, as in other tales, the tree holds a paradox: it belongs to the cycles of earth, yet reaches into the sacred.
Gathering at the Flower Moon
In the world of traditional herbalism, timing is not arbitrary. The moment of harvest affects the quality of medicine. And for hawthorn blossoms, there is no time more suitable than the full moon of May—the Flower Moon, so named in both European and Native traditions for the abundance of blooms it brings.
The Hawthorn Harvest on Full Flower Moon aligns symbolically and practically. At this point in the lunar cycle, plant energies are said to rise, concentrating in flowers and leaves. This belief, found in biodynamic agriculture and old folk calendars alike, holds that the moon’s pull enhances the plant’s vitality above ground. Practically, harvesting at this time—especially at dawn or dusk—means catching blossoms at peak scent and potency.
There is also the moonlight itself. Under the pale silver of the Flower Moon, hawthorn trees appear ghostly, luminous. The act of harvesting becomes contemplative, even ceremonial. Some herbalists whisper thanks before plucking blossoms, or leave small offerings—hair, coins, red thread. These are not superstitions, but gestures of relationship. They acknowledge the plant as more than resource. They affirm reciprocity.
A Cup of Spring: Hawthorn Blossom Tea
Once gathered, the blossoms are spread thin and dried in a warm, airy place away from direct sun. As they dry, the strong musk softens. What remains is a gentle, green-floral scent with a note of fresh apple peel. This subtle fragrance carries into the tea—a pale golden infusion that tastes of hedgerows and meadow air.
Hawthorn tea is both simple and profound. It is not bold in flavour, but its effects are grounding and gently uplifting. In Western herbal medicine, hawthorn is classed as a heart tonic—supporting circulation, rhythm, and emotional calm. The blossoms, in particular, are used for soothing anxiety and nourishing the heart in times of grief or transition.
To drink hawthorn tea during its season is to take in the moment. It is a way of rooting oneself in the spring, of sipping what the landscape offers at its most generous. In a time of speed and fragmentation, such acts become small rituals of connection.
Between Thorn and Bloom
Hawthorn is not a plant of easy symbolism. Its thorns are sharp. Its scent is unsettling. Its stories are thick with caution and reverence. But therein lies its medicine—not only for the body, but for the psyche and the spirit.
It teaches that beauty is edged with wildness. That joy and sorrow often bloom together. That life is full of thresholds—between seasons, states of being, and ways of knowing.
In the context of modern permaculture, rewilding, or cultiwilding, the hawthorn is not just a hedgerow relic. It is an ally. It stabilises soils, supports pollinators, shelters birds. Its blossoms and berries feed both humans and wildlife. And it reminds us that our work with the land must be both practical and poetic.
To mark the Hawthorn Harvest on Full Flower Moon is to participate in a relationship stretching back centuries. It is to honour the moment when the land bursts into flower, when scent carries the promise of fruit, and when the moonlight casts the ordinary into the realm of wonder.
And in the quiet afterwards, a cup of tea. Fragrant, floral, a little wild. A draught of spring, memory, and joy.