Every September, the hedgerows along the edge of our village turn almost black with elderberries. If you have ever driven past a laden elder bush and felt that quiet itch to do something useful with it, you are in good company. Elderberry syrup has been made in British kitchens for centuries, and for most of that time it was simply a sensible household remedy rather than a fashionable superfood. The berries are rich in vitamin C and anthocyanins, and the deep purple river of juice they give off has long been used to see families through the coughing, sniffling months from October onwards.
What makes it worth the effort is that homemade syrup is genuinely delicious. Bottled versions are often thin and aggressively sweet, whereas a slow simmer with cinnamon, clove and a little ginger produces something dark, spiced and almost wine-like. It keeps for months, costs very little, and turns a free afternoon in the hedgerow into a row of amber bottles on the shelf.
Elder (Sambucus nigra) is one of our most common hedgerow shrubs, happy in scrubby corners, railway embankments, churchyards and the edge of woodland. Look for a bush with opposite, pinnate leaves and, in late summer, flat umbels of tiny white flowers that have now become heavy, drooping clusters of small round berries on reddish-purple stalks.
Take a basket rather than a bag so the fruit does not crush, and go over two or three bushes rather than one. A good hour's picking will give you around a kilogram, enough for two generous batches of syrup.
Back in the kitchen, sit down with a cup of tea and a fork. Run the tines through each cluster over a large bowl and the ripe berries will drop away, leaving most of the stalks behind. Discard any berries that are green, red or shrivelled, and pick out stray leaves and twigs. Do not wash them unless they are visibly grubby; a quick rinse in a colander is fine, but too much water dilutes the flavour.
You can freeze the stripped berries in bags at this point, which is useful if you want to make syrup later in the year, and freezing actually helps the juice release.
This makes roughly 500ml of finished syrup. Use a stainless steel or enamelled pan — never aluminium, which reacts with the fruit.
Tip the berries into the pan with the water and spices. Bring to a gentle simmer, then cover and cook for 20 to 25 minutes, stirring now and then and crushing the berries against the side of the pan with a wooden spoon. The kitchen will smell extraordinary.
Take it off the heat and leave to cool slightly, then tip the whole lot into a muslin-lined sieve or a jelly bag set over a jug. Let it drip undisturbed for an hour or two — squeezing gives you more juice but also a cloudier syrup with a faintly bitter edge.
Return the strained juice to a clean pan and warm it gently. It must not boil once the honey goes in. Stir the honey through until fully dissolved, tasting as you go; 250ml gives a tart, grown-up syrup, 350ml a rounder one. For a thicker, longer-keeping syrup, use sugar instead and simmer it with the juice for five minutes before bottling.
Sterilise small glass bottles or jars by washing them in hot soapy water, rinsing, and drying them in a low oven at 120°C for fifteen minutes. Funnel the warm syrup in, filling to within a centimetre of the top, seal, and label with the date. Kept somewhere cool and dark, it will hold for six months or more. Once opened, store it in the fridge and use within three months.
For everyday winter support, a teaspoon a day is the traditional dose for adults, up to a tablespoon if you feel something coming on. Children over one year can take half a teaspoon. Stir it into hot water with lemon as a soothing drink, spoon it over porridge, or drizzle it over yoghurt. Never give honey — and therefore this syrup — to a baby under twelve months old. If you would rather avoid honey altogether, make the sugar version instead.
Once you have the basic method, the pan is yours. A few star anise and a pinch of dried chilli make a wonderfully warming version for deep midwinter. Swapping half the honey for an equal volume of cider vinegar produces an oxymel, sharper but excellent in salad dressings and hot toddies. Some cooks add a handful of rosehips or sloes to the simmer, which brings a pleasing tartness and a little natural pectin.
Above all, make it your own, and make enough to share. A bottle of homemade elderberry syrup tied with string is one of the kindest gifts you can carry to a neighbour in January.
Search for spiky sweet chestnut husks on woodland floors, then gather nuts for roasting, soups and stuffings throughout the autumn.
I must explain to you how all this mistaken idea of denouncing pleasure and praising pain was born and I will give you a complete account of the system
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I must explain to you how all this mistaken idea of denouncing pleasure and praising pain was born and I will give you a complete account of the system
Reply
I must explain to you how all this mistaken idea of denouncing pleasure and praising pain was born and I will give you a complete account of the system
Reply
I must explain to you how all this mistaken idea of denouncing pleasure and praising pain was born and I will give you a complete account of the system
Reply
Grow wild garlic, sorrel, berries and herbs in pots, window boxes or tiny plots to bring foraged flavours close to home.
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