by James Alexander-Sinclair
We were sitting in my in-laws' kitchen, when suddenly it seemed that a great cloud of smoke blew across the garden...
Catkin. Oh, catkin what is it for? Don't worry, that isn't the beginning of some mawkish ode in the style of William McGonagall, but merely a casual botanical question. The dangling, butter yellow hazel catkin is a particularly lovely sight at this time of year. Ever wondered why it appears so early and what it is for? If you have no wish to know, or are easily offended by descriptions of sexual congress between plants, then this would be a good point to stop reading and mosey off somewhere else on the internet. Might I recommend this as an alternative?
The catkin is the male part of the plant. Its job is to fertilise the female part (which are little red tufts) of the plant and therefore create hazelnuts. All very straightforward, but there is a small problem: the hazel (unlike many plants) cannot fertilise itself, so needs to find another tree. How to disseminate pollen from one tree to another? Many plants use insects — bees, wasps, moths, butterflies or ants — while others draw on the services of humming birds or bats, although these plants are unlikely to be found in Britain. The hazel uses a much more basic method: anemophily, or wind pollination.
So, very sensibly, the hazel catkins appear at a time of year when there is certain to be some decent breezes and also before either its parent or neighbours have produced any leaves. This means that any pollen is less likely to get snared up in a load of leaves and therefore stands much more chance of travelling further. Birches and alders (cousins of the hazel) play much the same game, as do many conifers and most grasses (albeit later in the year).
I was reminded of all this botany by a peculiar event. We were sitting in my in-laws' kitchen, when suddenly it seemed that a great cloud of smoke blew across the garden. Eager to ensure that there were no smoldering buildings, or even a child enjoying a crafty cigar, I went to investigate. It was pollen, great billowing clouds of the stuff blowing off a large yew. This tree was also taking advantage of the last few weeks of leaflessness to spread its genes far and wide.
Nature is so very clever. Maybe catkins do deserve a sonnet after all…
Oh Catkin facing winter blow
Doth spread its pollen to (and fro)
Where waits another, all fecund
De dum, de dum, de dum, de dum…
On second thoughts, I should probably stick to gardening…
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