Seeking to hide a bare wall or fence? Perhaps it is an unsightly old garage that plagues the eye. How about a now-neglected arbour bought at an impulse some seasons ago? There is, of course, the silver lace vine, Fallopia baldschuanica (formerly Polygonum aubertii), reputed to grow perhaps 25 feet in a single season – true, but only after establishing a supportive root system. Instead, leave the neighbours green with envy by planting Humulus lupus, the hop vine.
Rivalling the legendry jack-in-the-beanstalk, hops speed to 20 or more feet even in northern climes, but die back in fall. The shoots that emerge the following spring can be cooked and eaten like asparagus, as did the Romans, who raised hops for that purpose. Indeed it is advisable to harvest perhaps two-thirds to prevent the vine running rampant.
While hops will flourish in any good, rich garden loam, well watered and in a sunny location, the plants are remarkably tolerant. Humulus will grow in poorer soil, light shade and even under drought conditions. The catch is that few garden retail outlets offer plants. It is necessary to grow them from seed, not a difficult task except for one thing: H. lupus has separate male and female plants. The seed is cheap enough – Richters offers 10 grams for just $16 – enough to cover the entire neighbourhood.
But if it is that vital ingredient of the brewer’s art that is desired, female plants only must be grown. Fortunately many growers will ship these. Richters, for example, offers a modest 16 varieties at $8.50 to $10 depending on variety; more than 130 are known in North America alone.
Strangely, hops did not become associated with beer until the 14th century when the Dutch commenced using the conical, resin-heavy bracts of the female flowers to flavour their brews. In Merry Olde Englande however, this practice was greeted with horror and disgust. In the reign of Good Queen Bess an edict was issued against its use, branding hops a ‘pernicious weed.’
While further north, the Swedes used to tough fibres from the stems to make a kind of cloth, English medical practitioners discovered other uses. By the early 17th century Nicholas Culpepper was recommending hops for numerous afflictions, even including venereal disease and jaundice. Dr. Latham, who treated the Prince of Wales, believed hops a substitute for opium; his colleague Dr. John Mayo, physician to the Princess of Wales, prescribed hops for teething babies. Across the Channel in France, Dr. Losch formulated medicines for treating numerous problems.
Eventually though southeast England became dotted with oast houses, round, brick, buildings with conical roofs surmounted by a gooseneck cowls used to dry the precious brew flavouring. Other methods of preparing the flowers now prevail; many oast houses have been converted in recent years into country cottages.
Hops were formerly widely grown as a commercial crop in North America, including from coast to Canadian coast. Pests and diseases reduced acreages and in the U.S. agricultural subsidies furthered the decline. The rise of the microbreweries has brought fresh life often on an equally micro-scale. Despite this an increasing shortage of hops for brewing looms over the continent: projected requirements this year for the U.S. alone amount to some 32 million pounds.
There should, therefore be plenty of foliage discarded. Not that this might go to waste. Just last year scientists reported in ACS’ Journal of Agricultural and Food Chemistry that hop leaves contain healthful antioxidants and could be used to battle cavities and gum disease.
Finally, if anything is left over from brewing, a pillow stuffed with hop flowers is claimed to overcome insomnia – hoppy dreams?
Wes Porter is a horticultural consultant and writer based in Toronto. Wes has over 40 years of experience in both temperate and tropical horticulture from three continents.
