GoKawiilNestled within the tarmac lasso around London formed by the M25 motorway but feeling very far in time and space from the city, Charles Darwin’s home, Down House, has a spooky quality: it feels like he just popped out. His office is strewn with correspondence and open books, specimens of insects and fossils; his chair, fitted with castors so he could roll around like a Dalek collecting things, still seems to retain the impression of his body. A wooden slide is propped against a wall: Darwin had made it to fit over the staircase, so the children could slide down on cushions.
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In fact the presence of his children lingers: a mulberry tree growing up the side of the house, gnarled and propped up on stilts, is the same tree the Darwin children would climb down from their bedroom window. There’s a display about poor Annie Darwin, her father’s favorite child, who died aged ten, whose death stripped her father of his last intellectual respect for a Christian god. The gardens are planted with the same flowers Emma grew (she was in charge of the garden) and the kitchen garden still grows the same vegetables that fed the Darwins and their staff.
Antony O’Rourke, the current head gardener, shows me around and encourages me to pick some food. The evening after visiting I eat chard and cavolo nero grown in Emma’s kitchen garden. It’s a pseudo-religious experience. I scraped my boots on the same boot scraper outside the greenhouse that Darwin used. I walked the Sandwalk, the thinking path around the property Darwin would pace every day.
This is the magnificence of orchids: in form their deception, their sexuality, their lust, their behavior is frozen in place.
The path wanders through woodland that didn’t exist in Darwin’s time—because he planted it. People talk about our debt to the future, and the things we should do now for the sake of people not yet born, and walking in mature woods that Darwin created filled me with love and gratitude. I found the spot on the path where he would place a stone, so he could keep count of the number of laps he’d completed (his children would add stones after he’d walked past to trick him). In Darwin’s woods I was moved that I was feeling pleasure from something he initiated but never got to see. And in his woods are some plants he would be fascinated by.
Here and there in the deep shade under the beeches is a species of orchid called violet helleborine (Epipactis purpurata). Antony explains that the orchids time their flowering for when fruits have fallen to the ground and wasps are patrolling for food. Bees avoid the gloom of the understory—with few flowers, there’s little to entice them—but wasps don’t mind it, and are attracted to the helleborines by the promise of an intoxicating nectar (itself made by a symbiosis with fungi). When they drink it, becoming dusted with pollen as they do so, the wasps seem to get drunk. They give up on personal hygiene; they let themselves go. This means they don’t groom themselves with anything like the care they normally would, and pollen remains stuck to them. They stagger to the next flower, like a pub crawl with bonus pollination events. If you examine the orchid flowers, you’ll find a sort of shield stopping the pollen falling from the male parts of the flower onto the female parts, preventing self-pollination.
But the pollen parts are themselves tucked away, meaning the plant can’t rely on wind for pollination. You can predict, therefore, that this must be an insect-pollinated flower. This is the magnificence of orchids: in form their deception, their sexuality, their lust, their behavior is frozen in place. This too is the wonder of trees, how their lives stretch for hundreds of years, fixed in place, experiencing the decades, recording the seasons, capturing their essence; the thousands of seeds produced, rolling with the punches, countless dramas and births and deaths and battles, all taking place in something apparently static, that we walk past and take for granted. And in their relationship with fungi there is more still, underground.
Darwin had long been interested in orchids, possibly influenced by the borderline sexual love his grandfather, Erasmus, felt for them and put into his writings. In The Botanic Garden, Darwin grand-père’s sensational two-part poem of 1791, orchids are portrayed as “harlot-nymphs” trying to ensnare their hosts:
The scaly monsters roll’d
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