
A hedge is the hardest-working thing in most British gardens. It marks a boundary, blocks a sightline, cuts wind, soaks up noise and gives you somewhere to hang the bird feeders. Plant it with native species and it does a great deal more besides. Hawthorn, blackthorn, hazel and holly have grown alongside our insects, birds and mammals for thousands of years, so they are already part of the local food web rather than a curiosity in it.
A mixed hedge will feed something in every month of the year. Caterpillars strip the leaves in spring, birds nest in the thorns in summer, small mammals tuck into fallen nuts in autumn and hungry thrushes strip the berries in winter. Add to that the practical advantages — bare-root whips are cheap, they establish quickly, and a mixed native hedge shrugs off our weather — and it becomes difficult to argue for anything else.
If you plant only one species, plant hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna). It is the classic field hedge, tolerant of clay, chalk and everything in between, happy in sun or half shade, and it knits together into something stock-proof and dense within a few seasons.
The wildlife value is extraordinary. Hawthorn supports well over a hundred species of insect, including the caterpillars that feed young blue tits and great tits in May. Its froth of white blossom arrives with the first warm spell, and the haws that follow in autumn are a lifeline for redwings and fieldfares in hard weather. Left unclipped, it will reach three to four metres, so give it room if you want a nesting hedge rather than a neat one.
One caution: hawthorn is prone to fireblight in some parts of the country, so buy from a reputable nursery with local stock, and avoid planting it right next to a fruiting pear or apple.
Blackthorn (Prunus spinosa) is the first hedge plant to flower, covering bare black stems with white in March, sometimes February. That early nectar is invaluable for emerging bumblebee queens and solitary bees when almost nothing else is open.
Its thorns are vicious, which makes it superb nesting cover — a blackthorn thicket is about as safe as a small bird can get. The sloes that follow in October are bitter but excellent in gin, and the brown hairstreak butterfly and several moths rely on it. Grow it as a suckering thicket rather than a clipped line, and give it the sunniest, driest spot you have; it resents wet feet.
Hazel (Corylus avellana) is the one to plant if you want a hedge that can be managed almost indefinitely. Cut it back hard every few years — traditional coppicing — and it will throw up straight new growth and live for centuries, far longer than an unmanaged hedge.
The lambs' tail catkins open in January and February, dusting the hedge with yellow when little else is moving. By September the nuts are swelling, and the wildlife queue for them is long: dormice, wood mice, voles, jays, nuthatches and squirrels. Its soft, broad leaves also give good cover for moths. Hazel suits heavier soils and light shade, and it makes a beautiful hedge on its own along a woodland edge.
Holly (Ilex aquifolium) brings something the other three cannot: winter shelter that never drops. On a freezing night, a holly hedge is where small birds roost and where insects find a crevice to sit out the frost.
Remember that holly is either male or female. Only females carry berries, and they need a male within about thirty metres to set fruit, so plant one male for every three or four females. The berries are eaten by thrushes and blackbirds once the frosts have softened them. Holly tolerates deep shade and heavy clay, clips neatly, and its prickly lower leaves ease off higher up once the plant is above browsing height. The holly blue butterfly uses it as a larval food plant.
If you want the best value for wildlife, mix the species rather than planting a single line:
Once established, cut one section in rotation each year rather than the whole hedge at once, and leave the berries until late winter. Trim less often than the neighbours do, let the hedge flower, and it will repay you for decades.
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