I don’t think there’s anything quite like a country track in late May. Everything lush and green, those little pockets of sunshine pooling through the hedgerow, casting honeyed light and dancing shadows along the path.
It’s the time of year when we’re teetering on the edge of wild. Walking it is rather jolly. You have to shimmy and limbo along, doing your best to dodge the outstretched leafy limbs, the cow parsley bobbing near head height, with the added challenge of thick clouds of St Mark’s flies to waft out of the way — all while the trees lean and hug over the path above. It’s a gentle, slightly feral scene. Full of the charm of the English countryside slowly exhaling into summer.
There’s a chance, if you’re stomping down one of these tracks near our little floating home, that you might spot a slightly strange-looking creature. Red-faced, rather sweaty, making the odd grunting noise as it disappears headfirst into yet another bush. Nearby, a bemused dog sits with the expression she reserves for these sorts of days: somewhere between boredom and embarrassment.
Still, her disapproval is worth putting up with. Because with the late May sunshine, the elderflower has burst out — in great foamy, abundant sprays of white.
There’s a real joy in the annual rituals we return to, year after year. I’ve mentioned before how my calendar is increasingly governed less by dates and more by whatever happens to be coming into season. Wild garlic is always the first hopeful sign that winter is finally loosening its grip. Asparagus properly announces spring. And then comes the elderflower, carrying everything gently towards summer on that soft, peachy scent.
Over the years we’ve made all sorts from its flowers, and from the berries later on. Homebrewed champagne, fritters in a light sweet batter, even Turkish delight — a real treat, but a sticky, sugary nightmare to clean up after.
The one thing we come back to, though, is elderflower cordial. For me, summer wouldn’t be summer without it. The perfect accompaniment to those lazy, hazy days — a splash of sparkling water, or (preferably) a decent glug of crémant for a hedgerow bellini.
It’s a bit of a labour of love. Not the making, more the faff that comes with the picking. For some reason the best heads always seem just out of reach. If you have a particularly tall friend, this is the moment to recruit them, unless you fancy standing on tiptoe and leaping at the higher branches like some sort of floral endurance sport.
(I’ve been known to take a stepladder out with me, which must be a curious sight for any passers-by. Less poetic hedgerow gatherer, more painter-decorator slowly toppling sideways into a bush.)
Once it’s picked, though, the alchemy of turning it into cordial is well worth it — and takes almost no effort. A few lemons, a couple of oranges, and the elderflower steep in a sugary syrup overnight. Strain, bottle, and that’s that. And honestly, once you crack open the first bottle, it has a habit of disappearing alarmingly fast, so I'd make a couple of batches while you're at it.
This year, I've been experimenting with a few nettle leaves in the batch. The idea came after trying a nettle and ginger ice cream recently. They lend a lovely, slightly green, gooseberry-ish flavour — it really does feel like bottling the season.
This is the recipe I come back to year after year, here with the addition of nettle leaves. Leave them out if you’d rather keep it pure elderflower, or throw in whatever you think might work — mint, maybe even basil; ginger is lovely. Just go gently, and try not to overpower the delicate elder.
Makes around 1.5 litres
You’ll need:
30 elderflower heads — picked on a warm day; you should be able to smell them before you see them
3 lemons, zested and juiced
1 orange, zested and juiced
12 nettle tops — just the top few leaves, pinched off (optional)
1kg sugar
1.5 litres water
Method:
Start with a simple syrup. Gently heat the water and sugar in a large pan until the sugar has completely dissolved, then bring to the boil and simmer for a couple of minutes. Turn off the heat and leave it for 20 minutes or so — you want it warm and steamy, not boiling hot.
Meanwhile, separate the elderflowers from their stems. I just snip the flower clusters straight into a large bowl, keeping as much of the stalk out as I can. Zest in the lemons and orange, squeeze in their juice, then drop the spent shells in too. Add the nettle leaves, if using.
Pour the warm syrup over the lot, cover, and leave somewhere cool for at least 24 hours.
The next day, strain the mixture through a muslin cloth, squeezing out as much liquid as you can — that’s where all the flavour is. Pour into clean, sterilised bottles and keep somewhere cool. It’ll keep for a few months, and longer still in the fridge. Once opened, keep it chilled.
A couple of notes:
If you’d like it to keep for longer, or you’re making a big batch to give away, add a couple of tablespoons of citric acid along with the sugar. It sharpens the flavour and acts as a gentle preservative. You’ll find it in most eco-stores sold as a natural cleaner.
And a small word of warning if you’re using nettles — wear gloves to pick the tops. The sting softens away completely once they’ve steeped, but your hands will thank you in the meantime.
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