Rosa canina

Scientific description

Rosa canina – Spruce / Dog Rose

Division: Angiospermatophyta (Magnoliophyta)
Class: Dicotyledonatae (Magnoliatae)
Subclass: Rosidae
Order: Rosales
Family: Rosaceae
Subfamily: Rosoideae
Origin: Northern hemisphere, continental and subtropical regions

Description:
Thorny shrub 2–5 m high, stiff thorns, slender at base, recurved at tip. Stems elongated, branched, outward curved or pendulous. Leaves pinnately compound, stipules concentric with petiole. Flowers solitary, pinkish-white, fragrant. Receptacle cup-like, calyx 5 sepals (3 pinnately fused, 2 entire), corolla 5 free petals. Androecium numerous stamens, gynoecium numerous free hairy carpels. Fruit an achene enclosed in fleshy receptacle, forming false multiple red fruit, edible.

Propagation: Seeds at physiological maturity, drajons, cuttings, marcottage.

Ecology:
Grows in deciduous forests, rarely coniferous, forest edges, clearings, glades, roadsides. Prefers sunny places, moderate humidity, drought and frost resistant.

Use:
Ornamental in groups or isolated, decorative, rootstock for roses. Pharmaceutical: fruit rich in vitamins, mineral salts, tannin, volatile oils. Recommended in avitaminosis, enterocolitis, peripheral circulation disorders.

Danger:
Vitamin reservoir; in some areas, invasive.

Creative writing inspired by Rosa canina

Written by Merve Sevdanur Meral

The Rosehip and the Shadow

In the quaint medieval town of Lavenham, lying in the green hills of medieval England, dwelled two companions—Eleanor, a young spirited maiden belonging to the aristocracy, and Ludwig, a poor boy whose family lived deeply in the village soil.

Even though their life seemed divided by birth and rank, fate had planned to join their life on a quiet evening beneath the shadow of the ancient castle walls. When twilight cast the village in its purple hush, Eleanor, worn out by the demands of her noble duty, ran for refuge to the overgrown gardens of the forgotten castle—a site as old as legend and said to be guarded by ancient ghosts of the land.

There, under lavender-scented darkness and bramble-kissed wind, she looked down on a single, isolated rosehip. Away from all other flowers, this one shone softly in the fading light, its scarlet petals kissed with gold, like fire that had been kissed by moonlight. Drawn to it, Eleanor extended a hand to gently run her fingers over its soft edges, unaware of the eyes spying through the hedge on the opposite side.

Ludwig, the silent gardener's boy, had been looking at Eleanor for a long time from a distance. But this flower was no accident. In local tradition, the rosehip was said to be a present from Étaín, the Celtic goddess of love and metamorphosis—a gift that would only reveal itself when passion met destiny. Each night, Ludwig would leave the enchanted rosehip where she would find it, hoping it would speak in words he could not understand.

And it did. With every flower, Eleanor's desire grew—a tender ache in her breast repeating the whispers of the old garden spirits. She began to await the flower's return, fantasizing about some hidden one, someone who knew her soul more intimately than silks and ceremony.

On one moonlit night, not being able to bear his quietness, Ludwig stepped into the light of the garden and spoke. His voice trembled, but his words were sincere: he had placed the rosehips, not out of duty, but out of love. The flower was his heart all along—low-key, wordless, and sincere.

Eleanor's eyes grew wide with wonder. She saw not a peasant in Ludwig, but a soul untroubled by the judgments of the world, his love as immovable as the stars. She recalled a tale her nursemaid used to relate to her—that the rosehip, given honestly and accepted in an open heart, would break spells and call forth old ties.

And so they ran—not foolishly, but fearlessly—through lavender fields and into distant lands, where station counted for little and hearts were clearer than names. With every step, they rewrote the story the world had told them. And when they stood beneath the same stars beneath which Étaín had danced, Eleanor knew: she had not found only love, but a myth in the flesh—a flower born of magic, devotion, and defiance.

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