Herbcraft in character & scrolls from the past
Sometimes, the old ways are best remembered not through books — but through embodiment.
Throughout the seasons, I bring historical herbcraft to life by stepping into the apron of a 16th-century stillroom mistress, a Tudor herb-wife, or a medieval wise woman. You’ll find me at living history festivals, reenactment events, and heritage sites — always with petals in my pockets, a cordial bubbling, and a tale or two to tell.
I craft remedies on site, distil herbs the old way, and offer visitors a glimpse into what a stillroom once smelled, sounded, and felt like.
Below are photos from events over the years — and one of my favourite character scrolls, written in the voice of Gwen Greywolf, a stillroom mistress of 1540...
🕯️ A Stillroom Tale: The Craft of Gwen Greywolf
Good morrow, traveler!
I be Gwen Greywolf, a stillroom mistress of some renown, a keeper of herbs, and a relentless seeker of knowledge—aye, I do confess, mine appetite for books is greater than for a hearty meal! ’Tis how I came to know the craft of the stillroom, where herbs be more than simples and scents—they be remedies, restorers, and secrets whispered by the earth herself.
Mine foray into this world began at the tender age of nine, when mine curious feet led me into the stillroom at Kentwell Hall, nestled deep in the fair fields of Suffolk. There, I studied under the wise Mistress Agnes, who, despite mine endless questions, did guide me with the patience of a saint.
I was born in the autumn, when the earth is heavy with harvest, though the year remains uncertain—mine parents were more concerned with the crops than the calendar. Raised among six riotous siblings, I soon learned that the stillroom was both refuge and enchantment—a place where leaves and flowers transformed into elixirs, and where the scent of rosemary carried secrets.
As for mine late husband, Harold—a jester by profession and a fool by choice - he did sweep me off mine feet with his juggling and jests. Our home was full of laughter, mishaps, and the occasional explosion of a badly sealed cordial. Alas, his final jest was to leap from a haystack and land squarely in the pig trough—a sight I shall ne’er forget. He left this world with a grin, and I have carried on in widowhood, tending to mine herbs and mine memories.
’Tis now the year of our Lord 1540, and the land changes swifter than a hare on the hunt. King Henry doth rule with a heavy hand, and his whims shape the fates of many. The monasteries crumble, the old ways slip into shadow, and yet— mine craft endures. In times of unrest, there is ever a need for a steady hand, a soothing draught, and a well-placed sprig of valerian.
And so I labour in mine stillroom, crafting remedies swifter than a gossip can spread a tale. Aye, I leave the limb-chopping to the barber-surgeons, but I tell thee true—naught heals like the wisdom of the hedgerow and the touch of a knowing hand.
So may the good Lord—and perhaps a well-brewed tincture—keep thee in fine health, good humour, and the sweet scent of herbs.
Go with care, and remember… the old ways endure.
🌿
Step into the past through images of me at Kentwell Hall, Leeds Castle, West Horsley Place, and other heritage sites, where the stillroom returns to life in apron, bonnet, and rosemary-scented air...
These costumed days are not separate from my modern workshops — they are the roots of the same craft.
Whether I wear linen or jeans, the herbs know me by hand and name.