Planthood presents
Words HILARY KENNEDYPhotos JOYA BERROW
Forager and chef Flavour Fred alongside Planthood founder Hilary Kennedy take the team on a guided tour through the marsh land that encroaches on their production kitchen in celebration of Lughnasadh.
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There was something particularly fitting about celebrating Lughnasadh among the marshes.
Lughnasadh is the first of the three harvest festivals in the Wheel of the Year, marking that point in summer when the first fruits of the land begin to arrive. It is a festival of harvest, community and gratitude - but also of transition. The abundance of summer is beginning to give way to autumn, reminding us that every season carries the promise of the next.
On the day, we gathered as a group of parents, guardians, grandparents and toddlers before setting off on a guided walk through the marshes. George led us through the landscape, sharing his knowledge of the plants and food growing around us, before we would eventually gather around a seasonal feast.
There was something particularly lovely about the mix of ages. Little hands pointed at leaves, adults stopped to ask questions, and grandparents shared their own observations and memories. We were all learning alongside one another, and it felt like a simple reminder that curiosity doesn't belong to an age bracket.
Since becoming a parent, I’ve noticed how often we separate people into age-appropriate groups. But I don’t think curiosity needs to be confined that way. Taking the time to slow down, ask questions, and learn about the plants and food systems around us is something we can all share, regardless of age.
On the day, we gathered as a group of parents, guardians, grandparents and toddlers before setting off on a guided walk through the marshes. George led us through the landscape, sharing his knowledge of the plants and food growing around us, before we would eventually gather around a seasonal feast.
There was something particularly lovely about the mix of ages. Little hands pointed at leaves, adults stopped to ask questions, and grandparents shared their own observations and memories. We were all learning alongside one another, and it felt like a simple reminder that curiosity doesn't belong to an age bracket.
Since becoming a parent, I’ve noticed how often we separate people into age-appropriate groups. But I don’t think curiosity needs to be confined that way. Taking the time to slow down, ask questions, and learn about the plants and food systems around us is something we can all share, regardless of age.
I wanted to create an opportunity for our team and their children to explore that curiosity together. Watching little hands discover something new while adults did the same was a beautiful reminder that learning is lifelong.
As contradictory as it may sound, especially for someone who works in food, I don’t want our children to grow up believing food comes only from a packet. I want them to know that it’s part of the land, the seasons, and a larger, interconnected ecosystem.
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“Hawthorn berries over winters is something I tell people to avoid. You want to leave something for the birds to eat.”
Flavour Fred
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For our ancestors, the changing seasons weren't abstract ideas marked on a calendar. They determined when to plough, when to sow, when to harvest and when to allow the land to rest. The four Celtic fire festivals — Samhain, Imbolc, Beltane and Lughnasadh — marked these great turning points in the year, reflecting the cycles of birth, death and rebirth that shaped life on the land. Even the great prehistoric monuments of Britain and Ireland speak to this deep relationship with the seasons. Places such as Stonehenge and Newgrange were constructed to track the movement of the sun, acting as enormous calendars long before the calendars we use today. Lughnasadh itself takes its name from Lugh, the Celtic god associated with light, skill and craftsmanship. According to mythology, Lugh established the festival in honour of his foster mother, Tailtiu, who is said to have cleared the forests so that people could cultivate the land, sacrificing her own life in the process. |
New Grange, Ireland |
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The festival was therefore both celebration and remembrance - a harvest festival, but also a wake for the person whose sacrifice had made that harvest possible.
Over centuries, Lughnasadh evolved into countless local traditions. There were sporting competitions, pilgrimages to mountain tops, berry picking, dancing and bonfires. Corn dollies and wheat knots were made from the first harvest, marriages were celebrated, and blessings were given at rivers and sacred wells. In coastal communities, traditions even developed around riding horses into the sea.
What connected all of these customs was the same thing that brought us together on the marshes: community.
And there was another reason why this particular landscape felt significant. The River Lea, which winds its way through these marshes, is thought to take its name from Lugh. To walk alongside it while celebrating a festival bearing his name felt like a small but beautiful connection between the landscape around us and the traditions that have travelled through generations.
As we set off into the marshes, the history of Lughnasadh became less something to simply talk about and more something to experience. We were walking through a living landscape at the very time of year that the festival asks us to notice it: to pay attention to what is growing, what is changing, and what the land is giving us.
And, ultimately, that is what folk festivals are about.
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They are about place. They are about the turning of the seasons. They are about remembering the people and stories that came before us. But most of all, they are about coming together.
As we walked, talked, explored and eventually gathered around a seasonal feast, Lughnasadh became less a date on the calendar and more a shared experience — a chance to pause in the middle of the year and celebrate the abundance around us.
I ended the day with a little workshop showing our team how to make a corndolly. An goodluck charm of sorts made with the last sheaf of the first harvest of wheat. It was a
And for a little while, among the reeds and waterways of the marshes, it felt as though we were taking part in something much older than ourselves.
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