If you stand among the elder trees this month, the air feels almost enchanted — sweet with bloom, alive with wings. Look closely and you’ll see what most of us miss: a shimmer of movement, a gold dusting on legs, a world built by tiny engineers who are never invited to the banquet.
These small lives — bees, beetles, hoverflies — carry more than pollen. They carry the season’s story from one bloom to the next. Every cluster of elderflowers hums with their labour, a quiet choreography that ensures the landscape keeps breathing.
In old folklore, children were taught to thank the “little folk” of the hedgerow — part fairy tale, part natural history lesson. We’ve learned to see it differently now, but the truth is still the same: everything we taste is paid for by lives so small we almost overlook them.
Here on the farm, we protect these flowering windows — no sprays, no disruption — so they can get on with their quiet craft. It’s our way of saying thank you.
Next time you catch that honeyed scent on the breeze, pause for a moment. That’s the invisible work of the elderflower — and the life it invites.
