Don't judge a plant by its smell: Why 'the little stinkers of the natural world' are just doing their job

It's an ancient word of Germanic origin that was first published in Handlyng Synne, a Middle English work of 1303 by Lincolnshire chronicler Robert Mannyng. Then it made an appearance in The Canterbury Tales of 1387-1400, when Chaucer referred to brimstone-smelling alchemists as ‘stynken as a goat’. A stink is awful — a stench, a reek, a pong. It merits no qualification. Or does it? Human response to a bad smell is to recoil from something messy or unhealthy, so a stink is a natural positive, its purpose transcending repulsion. We are misguided if we dismiss something because it smells bad to us. However, no natural pong compares with the fulsome downwind experience when the farmers are muck-spreading.

Stinking hellebore (Helleborus foetidus) smells only when crushed. Its message is: don’t tread on me. And we should not. This attractive clumpy evergreen, a member of the buttercup family and native to southern Europe and the Middle East, albeit naturalised here in both garden and wild locations, is exceptional. It’s the first species in which botanical research revealed that yeasts colonise the nectar-producing parts of its flowers to raise the temperature and increase the evaporation of volatile organic compounds. A clever process that enhances the plant’s chances to attract pollinating insects. As its green flowers lack the visual appeal of rivals, the stinking hellebore, with its popular cultivars such as ‘Green Giant’ and ‘Miss Jekyll’, needs all the help it can contrive. On the RHS Award of Garden Merit list, H. foetidus is also known as dungwort, setterwort and bear’s foot — and deserves the kindlier labels.

The plea to avoid damage from clumsy passers-by is also made by the stinking iris (Iris foetidissima), which protests when its leaves are bruised by releasing a distinctive odour that some liken to cooking meat (one folk name is the roast-beef plant). Other names — gladdon, gladwin iris and stinking gladwyn — reflect its blade-like leaves and are derived from the Latin gladius (sword). Another plant to earn the RHS Award of Garden Merit, it may be found in shady woodland and in hedge banks. Although its blooms are dull grey-blue or blue-tinged yellow and last a mere couple of days in June or July, they are nectar rich and much liked by bees. Green seed capsules reveal vivid scarlet berries that remain attached throughout winter. They are poisonous to humans and livestock, yet sought by birds when other food is scarce.

In the entomology section, we find stink bugs, a largely undeserved soubriquet applied to shieldbugs, those compact insects distinguished by the heraldic scutellum on their backs. We have a dozen or so native species, the most common being the green, formerly found across southern England, but now widespread northwards, a beneficiary of climate change. The largest, at a little more than half an inch long, is the red-and-green hawthorn (Acanthosoma haemorrhoidale) found on the eponymous shrub. Birch and gorse (Elasmostethus interstinctus and Piezodorus lituratus, respectively) versions are likewise identified by plant source, whereas the forest (Pentatoma rufipes) and bronze (Troilus luridus) browse in woodland. All have glands that secrete a pungent liquid to deter predators. Two fairly recent arrivals, the southern green (Nezara viridula) and the brown marmorated (Halyomorpha halys), give cause for concern over crop damage. The brown affects more than 100 commercial and ornamental plants and takes winter refuge in homes. Defra has funded a trapping programme to monitor its spread. It emits a coriander-like odour to deter attack and attract others of its species and is one bug worthy of vilification. Report it if you find it.

On the woodland floor, the king stinker is better known for its challenging appearance than its odour. The stinkhorn’s classification as Phallus impudicus says it all and Darwin’s daughter Etty was so offended by it that, come the fruiting period, she would sally forth with basket and pointed stick and bear victims back to the dining-room fire, locking the door to protect the morals of the female servants.

In his 1924 novel Der Zauberberg (The Magic Mountain), Thomas Mann described ‘its form reminiscent of love, its odour of death’. Its smell imitates carrion to attract blowflies — and it certainly does — ensuring the distribution of spores, a worthy purpose. Never mind, dear Aunt Etty.

This feature originally appeared in the July 9, 2025 issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe