This morning’s walk over Bousdale Hill had the familiar silhouette of Highcliff Nab looming in the distance, but it was the barley that stole the scene. Almost fully ripe, it glowed in the light. I remembered a daft tale from childhood—barley heads tucked into your sleeve would supposedly “walk” their way up. Never did for me.
Barley is no newcomer. It was one of the first crops to be grown in Britain, turning up with wheat at the dawn of farming. It has stuck around since, quietly doing the hard work while wheat tends to get the attention.
Today, barley is the second most grown cereal in Britain. It handles poor soil and dry spells without complaint. Scientists are picking apart its genome, looking to breed tougher varieties by borrowing traits from its wild ancestors. The aim is survival—barley’s, and by extension, ours.
Most of it ends up as animal feed, mainly for pigs. But barley’s more famous role is in beer. Long before the Romans, Britons were germinating barley, steeping it in water, drying it, and fermenting it into something stronger than water but easier to make than wine. The basics of malting were already in place when Roman sandals touched British soil. Barley’s link to brewing never broke. “John Barleycorn” became the folk symbol of the crop, reborn in every pint.
In the 1600s, barley was practically worthless until it was malted. Every farm had a kiln or knew someone who did. The excess was sold at market. Over time, malt-houses took over, and maltsters made a business of it—buying the raw barley, selling back the malt, and keeping the ale flowing11796 The Rural Economy of Yorkshire Vol 2.
Barley is still doing its job. Quietly, steadily, with no fuss. It does not need to walk up your sleeve to be remarkable.
- 11796 The Rural Economy of Yorkshire Vol 2
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