Time for a story, I think….
Once upon a time, in an unassuming middle class English garden, there lived a grumpy old Pyracantha tree.
It had been planted, many years ago, beneath the kitchen window of a very ordinary family house. Its dense evergreen leaves ensured the house never looked bare: and as the Advent season overtook the little cul-de-sac where it lived, it used its greatest strength to brighten the dull winter months. It had fiery berries which really belonged in fairy tales. They charmed passers-by and decorated the dankest days of winter.
There had to be a catch.
Otherwise, with such perfect berries and lush dark greenery, the Pyracantha would decorate the greatest buildings in the land: and do you see any outside the Tate? St Paul’s? The British Museum? No, you do not. And there is, of course, a reason for that.
You know those excessive pictures of Christ in his crown of thorns? The really gothic ones, with inch-long mini-daggers like dragons’ teeth, made for pain? Look on any convent wall. You’ll find it enlightening.
These, Dear Reader, are identical to the thorns sported by the Pyracantha. One grasp of this shrub is a one-way ticket to agony.
The mother of the family who lived in the unassuming little house fancied herself to have moderately green fingers. One Spring she sawed down the Pyracantha’s brother and planted a flower garden to enchant passers-by on the little footpath from the forest to the new town. It did indeed delight everyone who walked past, but the Pyracantha was sad and lonely, and even grumpier than ever.
Meanwhile, the mother had learned a lesson: always get someone else to trim the Pyracantha; preferably one’s husband.
She had become a patchwork of grazes: indeed, she looked rather gothic herself. Her children arrived home from school, wondering what on earth their mother had been up to, and hypothesising that she had invited a tiger to tea in time-honoured literary fashion.
From that time onwards it was the family’s father who sweated, chopped and chipped, braving the wildcat impudence of the grumpiest shrub in the whole garden. The mother would send him out to trim the tree and shut all the doors and windows: for some of the protestations which emerged from the father’s mouth as he laboured and fought the Pyracantha were not for the ears of their little children.
It was not a happy time for the tree. Bereft not only of his brother, but of the warmth of human kindness, he was given unceremonious haircuts at the drop of a hat, and exposed to language which would make a sailor swoon. Really, his life was bleak. The flowers were prissy and dull. He missed the thorny wit of his sibling.
He would pass his days gazing through the kitchen window and watching the mother cook, the children working and playing, and the father joking jovially with his family.
“I am worse than worthless”, he told himself.”The people who pass by gaze in wonder at the flowers and they never look at me. I am invisible to them.”
A Summer came and went, and the days began to draw in. And, unbeknown to the family who lived inside the house, the Pyracantha was using its talents to protect its charges.
For the Pyracantha was a warrior.
The kitchen window looked onto the world, and the world looked onto the kitchen window.
One day a marauding squirrel cast its beady eyes on the shortbread cooling on the kitchen working surface, and its little mouth watered. I must have some of that shortbread, it resolved; and we all know that when a squirrel sets its mind to anything, there is very little anyone can do to stop it.
But the Pyracantha was having none of this.
The moment the squirrel set paw on its lowest branches, the shrub-warrior employed its thorns with deadly accuracy, poking and pricking and generally making life unbearably disagreeable for the squirrel.
Sod this, said the squirrel, I’m off.
And the shortbread was left, safe and sound, ready to grace kitchen table coffee chats and children’s packed lunch boxes for another day.
Still, though, no one recognised the many and varied talents of this disgruntled, disaffected shrub. Until help emerged from a hitherto unexpected source.
The youngest son of the family was a compassionate little soul. He had a great love for anything living, whether animal or vegetable. Sometimes, he would simply sit next to the family cat and declare: “I love you, cat.” Or he would pass the time of day with the family dog by stroking him, even though the dog smelt unsettlingly like a barnyard.
Christmas was on its way, and soon the day for putting up the tree came round. This year, the children had an additional request to their usual list of decorations. May we, they asked their father winsomely, may we possibly have outside decorations this year?
Like the legendary Scrooge, Father liked the dark, because the dark was cheap.
But his eldest daughter made her eyes very big and round indeed, and walked her father round the local garden centre with such an air of happy anticipation, that the father relented; and bought a starry set of environmentally friendly Christmas lights.
When they arrived home, they were faced with a dilemma: where, oh where to put them?
I know, said the little son. I know a sad tree which stands outside the kitchen window. I see it watching our fun and I know it feels a little isolated. Perhaps it is he perfect place for our new, environmentally friendly Christmas lights.
The family draped the lights about the Pyracantha tree, and when it grew dark, at about 4:30 in the afternoon, they switched them on.
Heavens! Was there ever such a transformation in any shrub in any corner of the world?
The tree glittered in his twinkling new garb like a set of diamonds at the throat of a princess. And as any fashionista knows, when one is dressed properly, one feels immeasurably more cheerful about the whole business of life.
The Pyracantha felt like a deposit in a Swiss bank, except much, much more public and admired. Passers-by actually stopped their dogs to look at his fabulous berries and his beautiful new suit of stars. He realised, all at once, that he was both very handsome, and an outstanding warrior, and from that moment on he lived happily ever after.
And the moral of this story? Never underestimate the power of a new, well-cut set of clothes.
The End.
Kate Shrewsday 
Well well well.
We had a whole pyracantha hedge when I was a child. We would run around with no shoes and inevetably stand on a thorn every few weeks.(the hedge was kepy well trimmed)
The thorns do burn like iron.
I’m interested that you call it a tree and I a bush. Maybe it grows differently in warmer and colder climates.
Off to put on some new clothes and feel like a fancy tree!
Sidey. my tree and I have delusions of grandeur: it is a shrub, I confess, although I would never admit it in my Pyracatha’s hearing. the Cinderella shrub does not,somehow have the same ring to it….
Enjoy the new outfit:-)
Ah, the dreaded ‘Geelbranddoring’ or yellow-fire thorn; glad it met with a bit of happiness at last. Mine was not as lucky 😉
Oh yes, a yellow fire-thorn: that will do nicely! It fuels our delusions of grandeur very well indeed. I don’t blame you for curtailing the happiness of your Pyracantha. Vicious!
Add to that moral: “Never underestimate the power of a new, well-cut set of clothes. . . nor the effect of well-applied make-up!”
I grew up in the deep south US, and we had a hedge down the length of one side of our house that was all pyracantha. I was especially fond of it at Christmas, because my Mom would combine some of the lovely berry-laden branches, trimmed from the hedge, with some beautiful magnolia leaves, some of which she would spray-paint gold. Made the house so festive! My Mom had the knack for decorating and floral arranging and always came up with extraordinary arrangements – quite breath-taking!
Thanks for this trip down memory lane!
Sounds like the pyracantha has another fan, Paula. What a beautiful arrangement, and a talented mother…
I like your tale, Kate, very much but feel I need to stand up for this plant!
Pyrocanthus is wonderful.
Just now all its berries shine out from the leaves and thorns and once the frost has done its job the berries become a feast for the birds. I have two planted to intermingle in the bed outside my window and one has red berries and the other has orange and it looks as though they both come from the same plant.
Trimming it is tricky…. or it was until I took the hedge trimmer to it and wore thick leather gardening gloves to pick up the trimmings. The hedge trimmer does a wonderful shaping job – so wonderful that a couple of years ago I realised I had gone through the cable that lead to the outside light…..
Now, ask me about cotoneaster berries….
I’m scared of hedge trimmers. Ever since I did a first aid at work course. Erk. Hope the outside light survived to tell the tale.
However, your comments re: the pyrocanthus have been duly noted. It is lucky to have acquired so eloquent a fan 🙂
Now. What of the cotoneaster berries?
Scout was three and we were all in the garden and he came running up to me and said,
“I putted a seed in my ear.”
Lets just say two medically inclined parents failed to get it out and in the end it required a brief anaesthetic, months later. I told the docs it was still in there. . . on our first and second ENT out patients appointment, I’m convinced that the ENT surgeon thought I was a neurotic mother. But afterwards he handed me a small specimen bottle with a cotoneaster seed in it, covered in blood.
“It was a devil of a job to get it out,” he said.
(Remind you of the start of a certain book?)
LOL I can see why you might prefer pyracantha to cotoneaster, Pseu….
And the book?
Just been around the cyberworld trying to second guess you 🙂 I have a feeling I am going to kick myself here….enlighten me?
The start of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin… the doctor clears the ear of an elderly man who subsequently asks for it to be put back in.
Nice as always kate.
These prickly plants are great security guards. We have prickly bushes outside of our front windows.
They do to interlopers what they did for your kleptomaniac squirrel.
Enjpyed this greatly.
Love DAD
Glad you enjoyed it, Dad 🙂
Beautiful, Kate.
Especially enjoyed: “Her children arrived home from school, wondering what on earth their mother had been up to, and hypothesising that she had invited a tiger to tea in time-honoured literary fashion.”
Here’s to well-dressed bushes!
Indeed 🙂 Thanks Nancy. The Tiger Who Came To Tea was always one of my childrens’ favourites 🙂
We have a sickly looking bush out in front of our house. I don’t know what happened to it as it is the same variety as our neighbours’ and yet theirs looks so much nicer. Christmas time is the only time our bush looks pretty because we completely cover it with net lights. Who needs a big ol’ tree when you have an ugly bush!
LOL it feels so much better beautifying something which is usually an ugly duckling, doesn’t it, Kristine 😀
I loved your post about Shiva visiting Father Christmas! And that photo! Classic!
A wonderful story, I enjoyed it so much. I do like the looks of the tree/bush, but have never had personal dealings with one – I might feel differently if I had. 🙂 Loved the children’s hypothesis about why their mother was all scratched up when they came home from school – what wonderful imaginations children have.
Ah, Ruth, I wrote the whole story and then recalled I had been thinking about trees a lot lately because of your beautiful posts. Your site is a wonderful place to visit 🙂
I have always liked the look of this Cinderella of a bush and think it would do well here in our clime. You have me wondering if it would be so thorny as to deter the four legged, hoofed creatures that love to munch on everything here. Pyracantha may just be a plant the deer won’t like. hmmm
A wonderful tale for a winter’s night. I missed reading it earlier – glad I came back.
That is interesting! I wonder if that is why it was planted here in the first place? If you do plant it, Penny, make sure you have some very thick gardening gloves indeed 😀
Glad you enjoyed it…