Heritage berries

We walked down the valley, past shaggy Shetland ponies, rustled through fallen leaves and across the stepping stones below the waterfall... but all the time my feet were drawn  towards the one and only guelder rose bush that I know in this area. I thought it might be too late for berries but there they were, hanging like bunches of translucent rubies among the still-green foliage.

Viburnum opulus is a native bushy shrub that bears a froth of creamy blossoms in spring. The berries are acid, mildly toxic, and have a strange odour when crushed (I've seen it described as 'wet dog'), nevertheless I use them to make an esoteric jelly that complements game such as rabbit and pheasant.  The opulence of the ripe fruit produces an unaccountable thrill in me - maybe it's something like the mysterious genetic attraction that re-united kinsfolk are said to experience.

The guelder rose, kalyna, is deeply embedded within the traditions of Ukraine where my father was born. Although his ancestry was mostly Russian, not Ukrainian  (the two are culturally and historically quite distinct), as a small child he preferred to spend time with the local people and not with his own family. He spoke the language of the fields not the drawing room and learned to love the rustic ways. Although he lived most his life in Britain, a recording of Ukrainian folk songs would always bring tears to his eyes, reminding him of harvest home and kitchen borscht.

For Ukrainians, kalyna has magical qualities and bridges the gulf between the worlds of the living and the dead. It symbolises fire, blood, motherhood and death. The bushes are planted on the graves of soldiers and of women and embroidered on wedding garments. The berries are used in rituals and for healing. (Find the details here and here.)
The great Ukrainian poet and patriot Taras Shevchenko wrote at least one poem about the guelder rose, which you can hear sung as Chervona Kalyna. (There are a number of versions available on YouTube.)

Now I've got a nice bag full of  smelly berries and the resulting jelly, if not actually from The Land of my Fathers, will flavour my imagination of that country I've never visited.