IT’S hardly surprising that the thistle became a symbol of Scotland. It’s a troublesome weed. I’m sorry, I’ll read that again. It’s a beautiful and hardy flower. If you’re English, you might say: “Is it, aye?” All right, let’s agree that it’s humble and jaggy, a bit prickly if you will.

When did it become the symbol of Scotland? You asking me? Oh, right. Well, as so often with yonder distant past, we begin with legend, in this case that the thistle alerted a Scottish army encampment to some typically sneaky Norsemen creeping up on them at night. The story goes that, in order to go undetected, the Norse diddies took off their ballet shoes and, in a major tactical blunder, proceeded to perambulate through a field of thistles.

Cue lots of shouting of “Ooyah!” and, thus discovered and forced into fighting face to face for a change – they normally preferring to sneak up on unarmed villages at night, or to do mighty battle with pacifist monks – the well-stung Scandinavians were blootered in the traditional manner.

Sometimes, this event – loosely described – is transposed to the Battle of Largs in 1263 when King Haakon of Norway arrived with a big army and, as usual, ended up legging it (because the weather was inclement, according to the Norsemen’s weird and dodgy apologists). Who knows? I suspect it was a smaller skirmish somewhere.

In 1474, King James III issued the first coins featuring a thistle and, in 1536, they also appeared on the bawbee, a sixpence in the pound Scots. A bawbee! That was a thing! Who knew?

The highest chivalric order in Scotland – not a lot of competition, mind – is the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, founded in 1687 by James VII, reputedly after an earlier order of that ilk. Membership is comprised of those who have made an outstanding contribution to Scotland, and you can get an application form in most post offices.

Insignia featuring the thistle appear all over Scotland. It’s on the regimental badge of the Scots Guards, along with the national motto, “Nemo me impune lacessit” (“What you lookin’ at?”).

It’s on the shirts of the losing Scottish rugby team, and “Thistle” has also appeared in various football team names, most notably Partick Thistle, one of the country’s most illustrious football clubs, which still proudly celebrates coming third in the Scottish League in 1963.

Surprisingly perhaps, the woke have also embraced the thistle, with Police Scotland using a stylised version for an emblem.

We should point out, incidentally, that the thistle is also the emblem of Lorraine, in northern France, having been adopted by the 15th century Duke of Lorraine, whose motto was "Qui s'y frotte s'y pique", meaning “Who touches it, pricks oneself”, an expression that requires careful translation as it can acquire different connotations in the wrong hands.

Enough pricks. Time to talk a lot of botanics. The thistle belongs to a group of flowering plants with jaggy leaves in the family Asteraceae. Aye, thaim. They are jaggy to stop herbivores eating them. It says here that, typically, thistles feature an involucre – a collection of bracts that appear in a whorl subtending an inflorescence – with an urn-shaped thing subtending each flowerhead. Allegedly.

As you would expect, the stem leaves are amplexicaul, not decurrent, and the blade’s margins are glabrous, with the underside thickly tomentose. I have no idea what I’m talking about.

Moving swiftly on, even laymen like you might be able to grasp that thistles ain’t fussy about where they hang their hat. You can find them all over Scotland, in forests, swamps, fens, meadows, roadside ditches and by the banks of burns.

They are not always welcome, being as how, left to their own devices, they elbow out crops and repel grazing animals. On the other hand, different varieties provide nectar for pollinating bees and butterflies, seeds for birds, foliage for butterfly larvae, and down for birds' nests.

I have read with my own eyes about horses, during the great drought of 1976 when the grass was knackered, squashing thistles with their hooves and then eating them with generous helpings of broon sauce.

Among other controversial species of animals, human beings have been known to make nettle soup. An online article before my very face describes this as “a satisfying dish”. Takes all sorts, I suppose. It says here too that the roots, best eaten with other vegetables or a steak pie, are rich in indigestible starch that can ferment to produce flatulence. Might try that one.

The thistle may also have medicinal uses, as in “probably doesn’t”. It is said, for example, to help bleeding piles, though sufferers are advised not to shove a whole plant up the affected area. In 1652, the English herbalist and leading nutter Nicholas Culpepper wrote: “It [the thistle] helps plague-sores, boils and itch, the biting of mad dogs and venomous beasts.” Well, you never know. Put some in your medicine cabinet, next to your scurvy drops and lotions for ridding yourself of satanic possession.

The herbalist Maud Grieve claimed that Arthur Pliny the Elder, a Roman geezer, believed that the thistle coud return hair to those afflicted by the debilitating disease of baldness, which has traditionally (in this column) thought to be contracted through lewd thoughts.

At the time of going to press, I’ve been unable to confirm this claim about Mr Pliny and baldness, with no mention even in his classic, Slapheads: A Brief History.

Mind you, I did find him, in his Natural History, vouchsafing that, to prevent baldness (and headaches), citizens should always begin with the forefinger when cutting their nails. Pliny was one of the leading thinkers of his time. The Nutter Era.

I have become sidetracked. Where were we? Oh yes: thistles. Don’t sit on one. Don’t follow the poet Hugh MacDiarmid and gawp at one while inebriated. Approach them carefully and, like the good Scots that they are, they probably won’t hurt you. Unless you call them troublesome weeds.

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