Of Brass Monkeys, May Blossoms and Other Perils

Growing up in Nottingham in the early 1960s, I shall never forget me mam barking “naer cast a clout till May is out” whenever I dared venture into the Spring air without full Arctic gear—duffle coat, string vest, probably a balacalva too. She assumed, and I dutifully followed, “May”meant the month, which made sense given the time of year and the weather. In fact, it refers to the blossom of the May tree, more tediously known as the Hawthorn. It has other charming aliases too—Whitethorn, Thornapple, Hawberry, and the Faerie Tree, apparently because fairies loiter nearby with nothing better to do.

Hawthorn, it seems, is soaked in folklore. Bringing it indoors guarantees disease and death, and getting married while it flowers is tempting fate. Perhaps its reputation was helped along by the claim that Jesus’s crown of thorns was made from it—because nothing says eternal damnation like a decorative shrub.

Still, nature finds it useful. Around 149 insect species cling to it for survival, and birds feast on its berries, which are helpfully named “haws” in case one was getting ideas about elegance. Some Hawthorns apparently can live for 700 years, which is impressive if one is a tree with nothing else planned.

Of course, even if the May is blossoming, the British weather does not care. It remains cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. The tale that this phrase refers to a naval brass tray shrinking in the cold and dislodging its cannonballs is a lovely bit of nautical nonsense, like most things from the era—picturesque, confidently told, and entirely untrue.