About Geanina
The Thyme Keeper
Keeper of stillroom ways, forager of old stories, maker of wild remedies.
I don’t have a certificate in herbalism. I have nettles in my skirt, thyme in my fingertips, and centuries in my basket.
Through Time and Thyme: A Living Stillroom
For 20 years, I taught geography — guiding students through the rivers, mountains, and histories of the world. But my own roots have always run deeper, winding through the quiet paths of the countryside, where the land itself speaks in whispers.I am not just drawn to nature; I am of it.
Wandering forests, crushing thyme beneath my fingers, gathering the wild offerings of the seasons — these are not pastimes, but a remembering.
This love of the earth is inseparable from my devotion to the old ways.
The stillroom is not history to me.
It is a living rhythm — an alchemy of land and hands, of fragrance and fire.
The women of the past did not simply “make remedies.”
They wove the medicine of the earth into the fabric of daily life.
Herbs were not just gathered; they were known.
Waters were not just distilled; they were whispered into being.
This is not knowledge I study from books.
It is a language I’ve always understood.
The Work I Do Now
Throughout the year, you’ll find me bringing these ancient ways to life:🌞Donning Tudor garb at historic houses like Kentwell Hall, distilling herbs and reviving time-honoured remedies
🌞Standing in medieval tents at jousting tournaments, sharing the art of the apothecary
🌞Leading foraging walks in meadows and hedgerows, gathering wild herbs beneath the open sky
🌞Teaching workshops by candlelight — in museums, stillrooms, and forest clearings
I don’t reenact the past.
I carry its living thread into the present — and invite others to remember, too.
From fragrant oils to herbal salves, solstice walks to scrolls of blessing, my offerings are rooted in stillroom craft, historical herbalism, and deep listening to the land.
☀️ And perhaps… in something quietly luminous, too. A warmth that walks beside me, unspoken but always near.
My Roots: A Life Woven in Land and Lore
I was not taught the old ways. I was born into them.My grandparents’ hands shaped the land. Their wisdom was carried through seasons, through hardship, through stories whispered over harvest baskets.
I grew up in a world where self-sufficiency was not a lifestyle, but survival.
Water drawn from the well.
Fires kindled each morning.
Cloth woven from flax.
Rooms lined with pickles, cheese, smoked meats, dried herbs.
Everything was made by hand.
And plants — always plants — quietly known by heart.
We did not learn them. We knew them.
As if they whispered their names before we could speak.
Sweet acacia blossoms.
The nutty bite of mallow pods.
The golden juice of celandine pressed onto skin, just like our ancestors did.
Though village life was arduous, my happiest moments were always close to the land — beneath the vast sky, beside the rivers, among the meadows.
And even now, decades and miles away, I find my way back.
In the forests, under the gaze of old trees.
By the fire, stirring something fragrant, something ancient.
Under the stars, feeling the earth hum beneath me.
The old ways are not lost.
They walk with me still — in my breath, in my basket, in every scroll I send into the world.
💌 Curious about my work?
You’re warmly invited to:🌿 Explore upcoming workshops
🌾 Join a foraging walk
📜 Subscribe to The Stillroom Table newsletter
The kettle is warm, the herbs are waiting, and there’s always space at the table.
My mum and her 5th-grade classmates, harvesting onions. Practical agricultural work was part of the school curriculum.
My grandmother Maria (on the right) and her sister in the 1950s.