It has become an annual ritual, the cutting of branches from this shapely holly for a winter wreath. A mixture of the wild and of things garnered from my garden, I push twigs and vines into a metal frame packed with moss from drystone walls. Resinous rosemary and pine, silver seedheads of clematis, trails of ivy, lichens, ferns, honesty – each year is different with whatever I happen to find.
This particular holly is always a good source of scarlet berries, but this year it is even more jewelled than usual. It has, for now, been untouched by birds who cannily eat shorter-lived fruits first (wild raspberry, rowan, elder), leaving the solid drupes of holly until other food is scarce. Then its bounty might be guarded by a mistle thrush, possessively seeing off other possible feasters. Hollies are dioecious, with male and female flowers on different trees, so this is a female, its fertility the result of bees ferrying pollen from nearby males.
My secateurs cut crisply through dark stems as I look up through the thickly berried crown to a pale blue December sky. The evergreen leaves of those upper branches are dark emerald ovals, glossy from their thick waxy cuticles. Leaves closer to the ground, though, are sharply spined; this is due to heterophylly, whereby a plant bears leaves of different shapes, in this case because of grazing habits. The lower, prickly leaves are within the height range of browsing roe deer, so the holly has responded by modifying its gene characteristics to produce spines.
It’s the same when you cut a holly hedge. Then, it is pruning that mimics the cropping of animals so that it grows more and more barbed, a stock- and people-proof barrier that gives safety for nesting birds. On a dense tree, the outer leaves can be sharp, whereas those close to the trunk need less protection. The fine points on the leaves have even been discovered to act as miniature lightning conductors, saving the tree from strikes, and holly has long been associated with resilience and protection.
For the wreath that I hang on my door as a welcome, I pick branches with that classic combination of postbox-red berries and dark green jagged leaves – chosen from low down with thick gloves on.
• Under the Changing Skies: The Best of the Guardian’s Country Diary, 2018-2024 is published by Guardian Faber; order at guardianbookshop.com and get a 15% discount
