There’s something quietly magical about noticing what grows around us. Last summer I wandered meadows and riverbanks near my home, seeing herbs and grasses everywhere - under trees, along footpaths, even at garden edges.
So many are called “weeds,” yet they return each year, resilient. One of my favourites is Mugwort (Artemisia vulgaris), with its silvery leaves and ancient, quiet power. Herbalism isn’t about teaching or harvesting; it’s about curiosity, slowing down, and letting nature invite you to look closer, always with care.

I’ve been foraging mushrooms since I was a child, growing up in Eastern Europe where families head into the forest each autumn with baskets in hand, gathering fungi to dry and use later in Christmas meals. Mushrooms fascinate me: one day the ground is bare, the next they appear, delicate yet strong, rising from logs, moss, and woodland corners. Even more amazing is what we don’t see - hidden networks beneath our feet connecting fungi and trees, sharing nutrients and supporting the forest. This isn’t about picking or identifying, but noticing, slowing down, and appreciating their shapes, textures, and quiet presence. A small reassurance: all mushrooms in UK can be touched, but only consume what you are absolutely certain about.

As a child in Poland, summer meant wandering the woods to pick bilberries, small buckets in hand, fingers and lips stained purple by the end of the day. Those slow hours outside felt ordinary then, but now I see how much they shaped me. Foraging has stayed with me - these days it’s blackberries in the hedgerows or small, sun-warmed wild plums, with homemade wine carrying the taste of the season into winter. Always with care: only pick what you can confidently identify, as some fruits and plants can be poisonous.