Witch Hazel

The plant we call witch hazel (hamamelis is its official Latin designation) has nothing to do with witches, for its name derives from the Middle English word wiche, meaning pliant or bendable, though the plant itself originates from North America and was brought to Europe by early voyagers to the New World. For the record, variants also exist in Japan and China, supportive of the theory that the Far East was connected to the Far West by a land corridor at some time in the distant past.

The fact that the leaves and bark of the witch hazel plant were used by the medicine men of Native American tribes also led to its widespread use and reputation in European folklore as an antiseptic and  homeopathic treatment, either in distilled liquid form or as a poultice, for various skin conditions like psoriasis and eczema. In fact it is still used today as an astringent in aftershaves and as an over-the-counter remedy against bee and wasp stings. That it was a folk remedy may have served to strengthen the incorrect etymological association between the plant and practitioners of witchcraft.

witch hazel in winter bloom

I once went out with a witch for a few months. Coincidentally, her name was Hazel. It was many moons ago, when I lived in Devon for a spell, acquiring my PGCE (post-graduate certification of education) qualification from Exeter university. Hazel came from a little local town and was on the same course as me. I never actually had any tangible proof that she was a witch, but nature had given her a good starting-point, that pre-Raphaelite Celtic provenance of long red hair and green eyes, augmented by a wardrobe of flowing Laura Ashley dresses, and she assumed the part well. She cultivated an aura of mystique, was heavily into folklore and pagan rites, could write runes, grew and used lots of herbs, had a love of nature and owned a familiar called Hovis. Oh, and a husband.

It was my first affair with a married woman, not that I knew as much at the outset of our relationship, not for several weeks, in fact. She was full of surprises. It was not that either of us made obvious overtures, it was more a case of a powerful attraction to each other's company that we were happy to go along with. You know how sometimes two people just click? I must have been pre-disposed to be bewitched and she called the shots, suggesting we went for coffee after classes, or that we go for a drive out to the coast on free afternoons (her car, I didn't drive in those days). She would also just turn up unexpectedly some evenings, occasionally at week-ends. I didn't have a phone either in those mad mid-'70s times, but she knew where I lived and took a chance on finding me there... or maybe she really did have powers beyond the normal! 

We'd read or write poetry together, listen to music (frequently James Taylor), drink wine out of the same glass, as often as not end up in bed in combination with any of the afore-mentioned. She bought me a copy of 'Mud Slide Slim And The Blue Horizon' inscribed "Celts & Vikings Together 4 Ever".

When she explained that she had a husband (an accountant I think) and was worried that she might have married too young (we were still both only 22 at the time), she also insisted that it was her problem to manage, that she'd understand if I wanted to end the affair, but she hoped we could continue. I think I was surprised but not shocked. I remember asking if her husband had any idea and she was adamant he didn't have a clue. I also asked her naively what she did when he wanted to make love with her and she replied "I just pretend it's you." We never spoke of him again, though I did meet him once, when I bumped into the two of them at a Fairport Convention concert in Exeter, and she just introduced me as someone on her course.

It all seems so weird looking back nearly half a century to that bright-burning year long liaison. Of course, as we approached the end of our third term, we were all looking for our first teaching jobs. I knew I wanted to live and work in London, inspired by the work that LATE (the London Association for the Teaching of English) was doing and by June I duly got a post at a comprehensive school in the north of the capital, starting in September. I told Hazel I'd be happy to get a flat together in London if that was what she wanted to do. 

We continued seeing each other as normal (or at least what passed for normal in our circumstances) until the end of July when the tenancy on my Exeter digs expired. By then she didn't have a job lined up and we talked about her just coming up to London anyway. I gave her my parents address and phone number because I'd be staying with them for the summer. There was no suggestion on either side that the last day we spent together that July would be the last time we saw each other. She phoned me a couple of times at my parents' house during August (from a phone box) to say how much she was missing me, she was working things through and hoped we would be together soon.

Some time in late September or early October (I don't recall exactly) when I was living in London and with the school term well under way, my parents forwarded a letter that had just arrived for me. It bore the postmark of a village in Suffolk but didn't contain an address inside. In it Hazel recounted how her husband had been transferred from Exeter to Ipswich, that she was applying for teaching jobs in Suffolk, that she felt utterly miserable and hoped we could see each other very soon. She'd let me know.

I never did hear from her again and I can only speculate about what transpired. I think about her affectionately from time to time (as when a blog theme about witches comes along) and hope that she's led a happy life. This little poem is, in a fashion, written in her memory, out of mine.

Witch Hazel

I suppose you bared your soul

when you shared those dark poems

of your deflowering, said you'd

opened up to me like never before,

felt for the first time alive

to the core of your being with love,

romance and passion. It's true

you possessed the capacity for all

of them in our happy months together

and if I was the one who enabled

you to feel such emotions, I'm glad.

I suppose you were a romantic

and fate had paired you in marriage

with a man who offered security

but not the key to the rich mystery 

you hoped life would be. Perhaps

I made it easy for you to cast a spell

in which your fantasies were realised

in our stolen hours, wild woods, walks

hand-in-hand on deserted shores,

a bedroom with curtains closed

and candles flaring in the afternoon.

I suppose as well in retrospect 

I knew that it would take some act

of bravery far beyond the strength 

of your slight sorcery for you to make

the one-way flight from safety 

to another life, to burn more brightly

but with few certainties or guarantees.

The call was always yours. I don't 

presume to judge that you chose 

to remain his wife. I hope you've

held in memory the happiness we had. 

Thanks for reading, S ;-)