In the world of British gardening, there are some stories that feel more like folklore than horticulture—quiet traditions wrapped in mist and memory. One of the most poetic of these is the candlelit cultivation of rhubarb in Yorkshire, a practice that sounds almost mythical, yet is deeply rooted in reality.
At the RHS garden showcase at Wentworth Woodhouse, horticulturist Jordan Lister brings this enchanting ritual to life. His feature garden doesn't dazzle with colorful blooms, but instead whispers a softer kind of beauty: ruby-red rhubarb stems pushing through rich, dark soil under the flicker of candlelight, their yellow-green leaves arching gently like sleepy wings. The atmosphere is immersive—not just visual, but sonic and aromatic too. A soundscape by audio artist Duncan Chapman plays in the background, built from actual recordings of rhubarb growing, rustling, breathing in the dark. You can almost feel the plants expanding in real time.
This centuries-old technique is known as "forcing." It involves growing rhubarb in total darkness—often inside low, brick sheds or traditional ceramic pots—where only a single candle guides the hands of the harvesters. Deprived of light, the plant stretches toward the flame, producing sweeter, more delicate stalks in a shockingly short time. Yorkshire’s "Rhubarb Triangle," the area between Leeds, Bradford, and Wakefield, has been the heart of this practice for generations.
If you've ever attended the Wakefield Rhubarb Festival, you'd know that rhubarb here isn’t just a plant—it’s a way of life. Many of the local growers are multi-generational families, tending their fields with the same care one might give a secret family recipe.
For most people, rhubarb brings to mind old-fashioned desserts—think hot crumble, perhaps a spoonful of stewed fruit under a blanket of custard. But this versatile stalk is making a comeback. Modern British chefs have found new uses for it: paired with roast lamb or oily fish to cut through the richness, churned into vibrant jams, or mixed with gin to create a tart, refreshing cocktail.
Emily, a mother of two living in the Scottish countryside, has what she calls a "Rhubarb Weekend" each spring. Her husband Tom buys fresh forced rhubarb from a nearby farm, and the family makes vanilla-infused rhubarb compote to spread on warm scones. The kids love dipping their fingers into the jar, and their grandfather—who used to be a stage actor—jokes by muttering “rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,” echoing the old British theatre trick for mimicking background crowd noise.
It’s these small rituals that make rhubarb more than just another plant. In a world that moves too fast, it offers a quiet, grounding pleasure. A homegrown harvest. A soft pink stalk cooked slowly on a rainy Sunday. A reminder of seasons and soil.
Of course, rhubarb has had its quirky chapters. Once touted as a laxative and digestive aid, modern science doesn’t quite back those claims. Still, it’s rich in vitamins K and C and low in sugar—making it a surprisingly smart addition to the modern diet.
The Royal Horticultural Society now hosts the UK’s National Collection of rhubarb at RHS Garden Bridgewater, where dozens of varieties are grown and preserved. From heritage stalks to experimental hybrids, the collection keeps both tradition and innovation alive.
I once met Paul, a retired train conductor in Shropshire, who proudly showed me five old barrels of rhubarb growing in his backyard. “These came from my grandma’s garden in Yorkshire,” he said. “We’ve been growing the same variety for three generations.” Each spring, Paul invites his neighbors over for “Rhubarb Pie Day,” where everything—from the crust to the whipped cream—is homemade. “I’m no expert,” he smiled, “but I know the third week of April makes the best rhubarb.”
That’s the magic of it, really. Not the fancy names or Instagram-ready aesthetics, but the quiet pride of people who know their plants, their soil, their seasons. Rhubarb may be humble, but in the hands of the British, it becomes something almost poetic—grown in darkness, harvested in candlelight, and passed down like a story.