Herbal Blends, Botanical Blends, or Tisanes

Ah. For me, Timothy Monday — baronet of Carrickfergus birth, Cumbrian by long contemplation, and defender of the Proper Infusion — the matter must be handled delicately.

A botanical blend, an herbal blend, or what the French so musically call a tisane, is — strictly speaking — not tea at all.

And that is precisely where I must begin.

Vibrant colours, not real tea.

What It Is (Objectively)

A botanical or herbal blend is an infusion made not from Camellia sinensis (the tea plant), but from flowers, leaves, roots, seeds, bark, or fruit.

Chamomile. Peppermint. Rooibos. Hibiscus. Lavender.All steeped in hot water. All fragrant. All soothing.

Perfectly civilised.

Merely... not tea.

What It Is

A tisane is what one drinks when:

One wishes to sleep.

One has offended one's digestion.

Or one has momentarily misplaced one's allegiance to Assam.

I would never scorn a botanical infusion outright — that would be vulgar. Instead, I would classify it as:

"A horticultural conversation piece."

I would allow chamomile after supper, peppermint after excess, and perhaps a rosehip blend if writing letters of mild regret. But I would insist — gently, impeccably — that tea requires lineage.

Tea has altitude.Tea has empire.Tea has weather.

A tisane has... good intentions.

The Timothian Distinction

Tea

Derived from Camellia sinensis

Herbal Blend

Derived from everything else

Contains tannin & caffeine (usually)

Naturally caffeine-free

Structured, layered, historical

Aromatic, therapeutic, pastoral

Accompanies strategy

Accompanies reflection

And Yet...

In the privacy of his lakeside study in Cumbria, as the wind rehearses its old arguments against the windows, I might prepare a tisane of thyme and lemon balm.

I would not call it tea.

I would call it:

"An agreeable botanical interlude."

And then, the next morning, I would return — properly — to Darjeeling.

Alfalfa Tea

Medicago sativa — the improbable triumph of livestock over lethargy

I first encountered alfalfa in a context that did not obviously recommend it: a windswept Cumbrian field, three sheep, and a thermos whose contents suggested that someone had lost a bet. Yet, upon closer inspection, alfalfa revealed itself to be a most respectable herb, long dried and brewed into tea using its leaves and seeds, and — in a pleasing twist of global irony — employed in traditional Chinese medicine despite its parallel career as dinner for cows.

This dual identity gives alfalfa tea a faintly Protestant dignity: useful, understated, and quietly convinced it is doing you good, even if you are not entirely sure why.

Flavour: Mild, earthy, and gently vegetal, with the sort of taste that feels less like indulgence and more like moral improvement. The kind of tea one drinks while gazing at a grey horizon and thinking, "Well, at least I tried." Particularly suited to winter afternoons in Northern England, when the sun is technically present but emotionally unavailable.

Caffeinated: No.Which makes it ideal for moments requiring reflection, restraint, or the acceptance that nothing is going to happen for several hours.

Tea type: Herbal.

Alfalfa is rather like a four-day county match in April: faintly green, deeply sincere, and somehow nourishing despite offering very little excitement. And, in what I overheard at Old Trafford during a drizzle that lasted so long it developed its own personality:

"In the North, we don't cancel cricket because of rain — we merely allow the weather to participate."

Sir Geoffrey Boycott, I feel certain, would choose this tea for a very specific reason: it wastes nothing. No excess. No flourish. No unnecessary sweetness. It is tea that values occupation over enjoyment, stamina over sensation.

From my notebook:

"This is not a tea for hitting. This is a tea for staying.""Boycott would approve because it bats time into submission."

Alfalfa tea, accordingly, is best enjoyed not in pursuit of pleasure, but in quiet solidarity with the climate and with Yorkshire: both determined, both subdued, and both convinced that endurance itself counts as a flavour.

Ashwagandha Tea

Withania somnifera — the herb that politely asks you to calm down

Ashwagandha belongs to the nightshade family, which already suggests a certain literary temperament: nocturnal, introspective, and inclined to solve emotional problems by steeping itself in hot water. For centuries it has been employed in Ayurvedic remedies, not so much to cure specific ailments as to encourage the body to behave itself in the presence of modern life.

I regard ashwagandha less as a drink and more as a philosophical intervention. It is classified as an adaptogen, meaning it helps one "adapt to stress," which in practice translates to accepting that the train is late, the weather is hostile, and the cricket has been reduced to a rain-affected spectacle involving fireworks and sponsored boundaries.

In other words, it teaches the drinker to cope.

Flavour: Decidedly earthy — not in the romantic "woodland" sense, but in the sincere "this may once have been a root" sense. An acquired taste, frequently improved by honey, fruit, or a strong emotional commitment to self-care. The sort of tea that does not flatter, but reassures.

Caffeinated: NoWhich is fortunate, as its entire purpose is to prevent one from vibrating internally.

Tea type: Herbal

I first tried ashwagandha during a televised Hundred match, a format of the game I might describe as:

"Cricket imagined by someone who thinks time is a personal insult."

Here are some Notable quotations from the broadcast, I carefully transcribed into my tea diary:

"That's another boundary — and the DJ is having a moment."

"We've got drones, neon stumps, and a man in a flamingo costume. Somewhere, W.G. Grace just dropped his bat."

"It's still cricket, apparently, but it's behaving in a way that suggests it's had too much sugar."

"This tea is doing exactly what it promised. I am no longer angry about The Hundred. I am merely concerned for it."

Ashwagandha, therefore, is best consumed during modern sporting events, at T10s or The Hundred, open-plan offices, or any situation where one feels the creeping urge to shout "This isn't how things used to be." It will not fix the world, but it will ensure you are emotionally prepared for it.

Burdock Root Tea

Arctium lappa — or: What I drink when I suspect my bloodstream has opinions

Burdock is one of those plants that feels less like an ingredient and more like a medieval remedy. A root vegetable native to Europe and Northern Asia, it has been used holistically for centuries, which is a polite way of saying that people have been boiling it in water since before anyone thought to write down whether it actually worked.

It is widely credited with containing antioxidants — quercetin, luteolin, and various phenolic acids — which I understand in theory and believe in emotionally. More importantly, it is said to "detox" the blood, a phrase I find deeply reassuring despite having no clear idea what toxins my blood is currently harbouring. One assumes mainly resentment and mild caffeine dependency.

Flavour: Earthy, gently sweet, and unmistakably root-like. It tastes as though it has been grown by monks in a damp field and approved by someone wearing sandals. Not unpleasant — just morally serious.

Caffeinated: No.Which is exactly what it wants you to think.

Tea type: Herbal

I associate burdock almost exclusively with Lord's Cricket Ground, because both give the impression of having been around long enough to remember the invention of time. Lord's is not merely a stadium; it is a cathedral with a scoreboard, where even the pigeons seem to understand the rules.

I first drank burdock there during a Test match that progressed at the speed of geological change. The sun was out, the crowd was whispering respectfully, and the bowler appeared to be considering every delivery as if composing a haiku.

From my notes that afternoon:

"This tea tastes like the outfield smells."

"The man next to me has been asleep since lunch and appears to be winning."

"Three sessions in and nothing decisive has occurred, which feels deeply appropriate."

At Lord's, burdock makes perfect sense. It is a tea for patience, for long formats, for sports where entire days can pass without emotional resolution and everyone agrees that this is, in fact, the point.

On one particularly serene afternoon, with the sun illuminating the pavilion and the score moving with glacial dignity, I wrote:

"Burdock at Lord's feels less like drinking tea and more like participating in a ritual designed to keep history from escaping."

It will not wake you up.It will not excite you.But it will make you feel quietly virtuous while nothing happens for several hours.

Which, at Lord's, is not a flaw — it is the whole aesthetic.

Pure Chamomile Flower Tea

Matricaria chamomilla — or: What I drink when even my thoughts need a lie-down.

A cup of organised tranquility.

Mild, golden, and gently soporific, like being tucked in by someone who owns several cardigans. It doesn't stimulate; it absolves.

This is High Church tea: ceremonial, soothing, and ideal for falling asleep halfway through a sermon or the fifth day of a very dull draw.

Chamomile is the bishop who's fallen asleep in the pavilion.

Chamomile comes from small, daisy-like flowers of the Asteraceae family, which already suggests that it has no intention of causing trouble. The flowers are dried, steeped in hot water, and politely transformed into a beverage whose primary ambition is to make everyone involved slightly less dramatic.

It is widely associated with sleep, digestion, and the general maintenance of emotional peace. In other words, chamomile is the tea equivalent of a cardigan placed gently over one's anxieties.

It contains antioxidants, which I accept with gratitude, but its real achievement is psychological: after one cup, the world feels less urgent and most problems begin to look like they could wait until tomorrow, or possibly never.

Flavour: Light, floral, faintly sweet, with a whisper of earthiness. It tastes like a summer afternoon that has decided not to continue. The colour is a pale yellow, reminiscent of old love letters or forgotten ticket stubs.

Caffeinated: No.Actively opposed to it.

Tea type: Herbal

I associate chamomile almost exclusively with late-day cricket and elderly romance, which are surprisingly similar phenomena. Both involve long pauses, gentle gestures, and the sense that nothing catastrophic is going to happen, but something meaningful might.

I first drank chamomile during a county match that had drifted into its fourth hour without incident. Two elderly members were seated behind me, sharing a thermos and an unspoken understanding that they had been doing this together for decades.

From my notebook:

"The tea is light, the batting is careful, and the couple behind me are holding hands like it's the most dangerous thing they've done all week."

"He offered her the last biscuit. This is more moving than the scoreboard."

Chamomile is the tea of second glances, of relationships that no longer require dialogue, only proximity. It belongs to the kind of romance where nobody flirts anymore, but everyone remembers why they once did.

On one particularly tender afternoon, with the sun setting behind the pavilion and the match drifting politely toward a draw, I wrote:

"Chamomile tastes exactly like staying."

It does not excite.It does not impress.It simply invites you to remain where you are, preferably next to someone you've known long enough to fall asleep beside without embarrassment.

In cricket, as in love, chamomile reminds us that not every moment must be won.Some are merely meant to be shared, slowly, until the light goes.

Dandelion TeaTaraxacum officinale — or: London pretending to be rural

Dandelion is one of those plants that spends its entire life being underestimated. It appears uninvited in gardens, cracks in pavements, abandoned railway platforms and morally ambiguous parks, and yet somehow expects to be taken seriously as a beverage. Remarkably, it deserves to be.

It can be brewed either from the leaves, which is the optimistic version, or from roasted roots, which is the philosophical one. The latter is often recommended for liver health and "reducing water weight", which sounds suspiciously like something invented by Victorians who distrusted both water and their own organs.

Flavour: The roasted root tastes smoky, toasted, and faintly rebellious — like coffee that has decided not to commit. The leaf version is lighter, sweeter, and tastes as though it once dreamed of becoming salad but settled for tea.

Caffeinated: No.It refuses to participate in modern urgency.

Tea type: Herbal

I associate dandelion tea exclusively with London, because both insist on surviving absolutely everything. This is the tea of parks where pigeons have opinions, benches are always damp, and every view is partially blocked by history.

I first drank it near Hyde Park, purchased from a café that described itself as "urban botanical", which I believe translates loosely as expensive weeds. It was raining in the manner London reserves for moments of emotional reflection.

From my notebook:

"This tea tastes like it grew between two tax brackets."

"The rain is sideways, the pigeons are judgemental, and yet I feel oddly wholesome."

"Somewhere, a barista is explaining that this is very good for my liver. I trust him without evidence."

Dandelion is the perfect London tea because it carries the faint suggestion that one is being virtuous in the middle of mild chaos. You are detoxing while surrounded by sirens, umbrellas, and people walking too fast for no visible reason.

On one particularly grey afternoon, watching tourists argue with a map while sipping roasted root, I wrote:

"Dandelion in London tastes like resilience with a garnish."

It is not glamorous.It is not fashionable (despite trying very hard).But it makes you feel as though you have chosen nature, even while standing next to a bus.

Which, in London, is as close to countryside as one can reasonably expect.

Fennel Tea

Foeniculum vulgare — or: The DRS of beverages

Fennel tea is made from the seeds of a Mediterranean plant that has been used

medicinally for so long that nobody remembers what illness it was originally meant to cure, only that it continues to be recommended with quiet authority. It is credited with antimicrobial properties and immune support, which makes it sound as though it should be issued in small labelled bottles by people in white coats.

It does not seek attention. It simply arrives, does its job, and leaves you feeling that something inside has been subtly corrected.

Flavour: Mild aniseed, gently aromatic, with a faintly bitter aftertaste — the taste of something that has intervened politely.

Caffeinated: No.It does not believe in unnecessary stimulation.

Tea type: Herbal

Fennel is unmistakably the DRS of teas.

You do not order it because you are bored. You order it because something has gone wrong and you need an objective review of the situation. It is the tea equivalent of a calm third umpire peering at the replay and saying, "Yes, that did look uncomfortable."

From my notebook:

"This tea feels like it is checking my internal organs for fairness."

"I did not know my digestion required officiating."

"Nothing dramatic has happened, but everything feels more legitimate."

Like DRS, fennel is not emotional. It is analytical. It exists to resolve disputes between your body and its recent decisions, especially those involving cake, cheese, or optimism.

On one particularly necessary cup, after a lunch that had ambitions far beyond my capacity, I wrote:

"Fennel does not comfort. It adjudicates."

It will not thrill you.It will not charm you.But it will quietly overturn whatever foolish ruling your stomach made earlier.

In short:Fennel tea is not there to be enjoyed.It is there to make sure the system is still fair.

Fenugreek Tea

Trigonella foenum-graecum — or: The of beverages

Fenugreek is one of those herbs that has been doing useful things for humanity for so long that nobody quite remembers who first suggested it, only that it seemed sensible at the time. The seeds have appeared in traditional medicine for centuries, recommended for everything from skin complaints to encouraging the arrival of babies, which already gives it a rather heroic and slightly alarming résumé.

It is more commonly swallowed in capsule form, but in tea it reveals its true personality: warm, nutty, and unexpectedly comforting, like a medical professional who also bakes.

Flavour: Nutty, gently sweet, with a flavour reminiscent of maple syrup that has taken a gap year. It tastes like breakfast, but philosophically.

Caffeinated: No.It prefers steady progress over excitement.

Tea type: Herbal

Fenugreek is, without question, the Duckworth-Lewis-Stern of teas.

Not flashy. Not famous. But endlessly reliable and somehow always there when you need something solid and vaguely nourishing. It does not score centuries, but it keeps the innings alive. It is the tea equivalent of quietly seeing off the new ball while everyone else is still arguing about the pitch.

From my notebook:

"This tea feels like it has played 400 county matches."

"Nothing spectacular is happening, but I feel oddly supported."

"I could drink this for the rest of my life and never complain, which worries me slightly."

Fenugreek does not seduce. It does not dominate. It simply persists, offering gentle assistance to whatever system appears to be underperforming — digestion, skin, morale, or the middle order.

On one particularly uneventful but satisfying cup, I wrote:

"Fenugreek does not change your life. It makes it more durable."

It is the tea of long careers, quiet competence, and people who never get headlines but somehow hold everything together.

In cricket terms:Not the star.Not the legend.But the reason the team still exists at tea.

Ginger Tea

Zingiber officinale — or: The Out for a Duck of beverages

Ginger tea is not a drink so much as a response. It appears whenever something has gone wrong — nausea, colds, questionable life choices — and announces, without ceremony, that it will deal with the situation directly.

It is made with nothing more than fresh ginger root and boiling water, which gives it an almost aggressive honesty. No blending. No subtlety. Just a root, a knife, and consequences.

It is widely used for coughs, colds, general bodily rebellion, and when one is out for a duck. It is trusted across cultures for the simple reason that it feels like it is doing something immediately, even if one cannot quite articulate what.

Flavour: Spicy, warming, sharp. It tastes like discipline.

Caffeinated: No.But you will not notice.

Tea type: Herbal

Ginger is, unquestionably, the tea for anyone out for a duck

It arrives, faces the problem head-on, and often disappears just as quickly — but not before leaving an impression. You do not sip ginger tea. You survive it.

From my notebook:

"This tea does not comfort me. It corrects me."

"I feel as though my throat has been given a stern lecture."

"If this were a person, it would not apologise."

Like a batsman walking first ball, ginger does not wait for reassurance. It meets the issue immediately and accepts whatever happens next. Sometimes it works miracles. Sometimes it simply reminds you that you are still alive.

On one particularly unforgiving cup, during a winter cold that had ambitions, I wrote:

"Ginger tea is not meant to be enjoyed. It is meant to be endured."

It will not charm you.It will not lull you.But it will confront whatever is wrong with admirable brutality.

In short:Ginger tea is not there for the innings.It is there for the moment of truth.

Hibiscus Tea

Hibiscus sabdariffa — or: The tea with suspiciously good swing

Hibiscus tea is made from the dried petals of the hibiscus plant and produces a beverage so violently red that one briefly suspects an administrative error. It looks less like tea and more like something that should be accompanied by a medical consent form.

It is rich in antioxidants and antibacterial properties, which is comforting, because the colour alone suggests it might also be capable of minor miracles or polite curses.

Flavour: Sharp, tart, cranberry-like. It tastes as though fruit has decided to be serious.

Caffeinated: No.But it feels alert anyway.

Tea type: Herbal

I have always considered hibiscus to be the tea for round-arm bowlers.

Not fast enough to terrify.Not slow enough to bore.Just enough swing, curve, and eccentricity to keep everyone slightly uncertain.

From my notebook:

"This tea curves in the cup."

"It looks dangerous but behaves impeccably."

"I feel as though it might reverse swing after the third sip."

Hibiscus is not a gentle tea. It has opinions about flavour and is not afraid to express them. It enters the palate at an angle, surprises the senses, and leaves a tart aftertaste that feels faintly tactical.

On one particularly fine cup, watching a bowler who nobody quite trusted but everyone respected, I wrote:

"Hibiscus does not rush you. It simply changes direction."

It is the tea for players who:

never bowl straight,

always look slightly amused,

and win matches without appearing to try.

In short:Hibiscus tea is not subtle.It is not traditional.But it has magnificent movement — and that, in both cricket and beverages, is everything.

Jasmine Tea

Camellia sinensis, scented with flowers — or: The tea of women's cricket

Jasmine tea is usually based on green tea, though it occasionally appears as white or black, like a player who can open the batting, anchor the middle order, and still bowl a tidy spell when required. It originates in China, where it has long been offered to guests as a gesture of welcome — which already feels entirely aligned with the spirit of the game.

The leaves are layered with fresh jasmine blossoms, left to absorb their perfume, and then separated again. It is a process based on patience, timing, and restraint — in other words, on the exact qualities that make for good cricket.

Flavour: Light, floral, gently sweet. The bitterness of the green tea remains, but it has been coached into discipline. It tastes like elegance that has learned how to compete.

Caffeinated: Yes.But without aggression. It wakes you up without making a fuss about it.

Tea type: Green(Occasionally white or black, when it feels like experimenting with formats.)

To me, jasmine is the tea of women's cricket.

Not because it is delicate, but because it is precise. Because everything it does is intentional. There is no unnecessary force, no theatrical violence — just technique, timing, and the quiet satisfaction of things done properly.

I associate jasmine with matches where the fielding is immaculate, the shots are placed rather than bludgeoned, and the game feels less like a battle and more like a conversation.

From my notebook:

"This tea would never sledge. It would simply accumulate runs.""Jasmine is what happens when skill refuses to shout."

It is the tea of clean footwork, of drives played late, of captains who set clever fields instead of dramatic ones. You drink it and feel that you ought to sit up straighter, pay attention, and stop pretending brute force is a strategy.

On one particularly serene afternoon, watching a women's international unfold with almost musical rhythm, I wrote:

"Jasmine tastes like cricket that trusts its own intelligence."

It is not the tea of empire or thunder.It is the tea of control, grace, and sustained excellence.

In short:Jasmine is women's cricket in a cup —technically superb, emotionally intelligent, and quietly making everything else look a bit unsophisticated.

Lemon Balm Tea

Melissa officinalis — or: The tea of the nervous nineties

Lemon balm is what tea becomes when it decides to offer emotional support rather than stimulation. A lemon-scented herb from the mint family, it grows across Europe, North Africa, and West Asia, which feels appropriate, because it tastes as though it has been designed by a committee specialising in reassurance.

Traditionally, it has been used to lift the mood, calm the mind, and persuade the body that everything is, in fact, under control — a claim which, like most comforting lies, is best accepted without too much scrutiny.

Flavour: Brightly citrus, gently minty, and profoundly refreshing. It tastes like lemon that has been to therapy. With honey it becomes affectionate; with a dash of lemon juice it becomes almost over-encouraging.

Caffeinated: No.This tea does not wake you up.It sits beside you and breathes slowly.

Tea type: Herbal

To me, lemon balm is the tea of the nervous nineties.

Not the flamboyant ones — the tense, creaking ones. The kind where the crowd has stopped rustling, the scorer has forgotten how to smile, and everyone is pretending they are not calculating probabilities in their head.

This is the tea you drink at 91 for 7, when the set batter has suddenly remembered all the ways one can be dismissed, and the non-striker is offering spiritual guidance instead of runs.

From my notebook:

"The tea is calming. The match is not.""Everyone needs lemon balm. Especially the bowler."

Lemon balm does not promise victory.It promises composure.

It is the tea of long walks to the middle, of gloves adjusted too often, of deep breaths taken for theatrical effect. It soothes the hands, steadies the nerves, and gently suggests that collapse is merely a narrative choice.

On one such afternoon, with the ninth wicket wobbling and the tea steaming politely in my cup, I wrote:

"Lemon balm tastes like hope with its voice lowered."

It is not the tea of centuries.It is the tea of survival.

In short:Lemon balm is the herbal equivalent of saying"Just see one through."And, occasionally, meaning it.

Nettle Tea

Urtica dioica — or: The tea for a drop at 98

Nettle tea is made from the leaves of the nettle plant, a species whose entire reputation is built on punishment, and which therefore feels unusually well qualified to comment on sporting tragedy. The leaves are dried, steeped, and converted from a natural assault into a moral beverage.

It does not sting.Which is suspicious.

There is research suggesting it helps with urinary tract issues and contains a variety of polyphenols, but this is largely irrelevant in moments of genuine despair, where the only true symptom is memory.

Flavour: Vegetable broth.Specifically the broth served in institutions where people are encouraged to reflect on their decisions.

Caffeinated: No.Nothing this serious should be stimulating.

Tea type: Herbal

For me, nettle is the tea for a drop at 98.

Not a misfield.Not a brave attempt.A simple, orthodox, perfectly placed catch that arrives gently and leaves violently.

This is the tea you drink when the scoreboard reads 98,the crowd is already rehearsing the applause,and history is leaning forward expectantly —only to trip over your hands.

From my notebook:

"The ball chose me. I declined.""This tea tastes like the pause before a biography is cancelled."

Nettle is not comforting.It does not say there will be other centuries.It says there will be replays.

It is green, austere, and morally upright.It tastes like the sort of drink served by people who believe character is built through suffering and fielding drills.

On one such afternoon, after the ball slipped cleanly through fingers that will never again be trusted, I wrote:

"Nettle is the flavour of what might have been a standing ovation."

It is the tea of slips,of scorecards with a footnote,of players who smile bravely and then go very quiet.

In short:Nettle tea is what you drink when the century was ready,the moment was merciful,and the only thing left to catchis your reflection in a cup that tastes faintly of boiled regret.

Passionflower Tea

Passiflora incarnata — or: The tea for the timed-out

Passionflower is a climbing vine, which already makes it suspiciously philosophical. It does not hurry. It does not compete. It simply ascends, slowly and beautifully, as though the very idea of urgency were beneath it.

Native to North America and now flourishing across Europe, the flowers, leaves and stems are used for infusions, tinctures, and various gentle attempts to persuade the human nervous system to behave itself.

It is chiefly associated with sleep, calm, and the sort of relaxation normally only achieved by missing one's train and discovering one did not wish to catch it anyway.

Flavour: Mild, grassy, faintly floral.It tastes like a meadow that has taken a deep breath.

With honey, it becomes slightly romantic, in the way late letters sometimes are.

Caffeinated: No.Not even conceptually.

Tea type: Herbal.

I regard passionflower as the official tea of the timed-out.

Not the dramatic collapse.Not the heroic last stand.But that peculiar modern dismissal where one simply forgets to exist for long enough that the game continues without you.

From my notebook:

"He has not been bowled, caught, or run out. He has merely... drifted.""The tea is warm, the pavilion is quiet, and time itself has decided to take tea without him."

Passionflower does not rouse you.It absolves you.

It is the tea you drink when the light is fading, the score is irrelevant, and even the umpires look slightly apologetic about reality.

In short:Passionflower is not the tea of action.It is the tea of gentle disappearance.

The sort you drink when you have been timed out by life itself —and are secretly rather relieved.

Peppermint Tea

Mentha piperita — or: The tea you take after being out hit wicket.

Peppermint, with absolutely no intention of whispering.

Brisk, aromatic, and refreshingly righteous — the sort of tea that clears the head, the sinuses, and any lingering theological doubts. It tastes like moral clarity.

This is Low Church tea: honest, direct, and faintly disapproving of anything flavoured with fruit.

Peppermint is the strict vicar with the rulebook.

Peppermint is an aromatic herb from the mint family, a hybrid of water mint and spearmint, which already sounds like the sort of botanical accident that should be discussed in hushed tones. Native to Europe and Asia, it has been used for thousands of years, largely by people who felt something in their stomach had gone terribly wrong and wished to negotiate a ceasefire.

It is widely believed to support digestion, which makes it the official beverage of poor decisions, rushed lunches, and cricketers who have just trodden on their own stumps.

Flavour: Lightly spicy, gently peppery, faintly sweet, and refreshing without being aggressively cheerful. It is mint, but with manners.

The taste suggests clean linen, fresh air, and the possibility that one might still be forgiven.

Caffeinated: No.It does not stimulate. It corrects.

Tea type: Herbal.

I associate peppermint exclusively with the peculiar shame of being out hit wicket — that deeply personal form of dismissal where no opponent is required, and the only witness is your own coordination.

From my notebook:

"He has not been beaten by pace or guile, but by furniture.""This tea tastes like an apology written in leaves."

Peppermint is not drunk in celebration.It is drunk in reflection.

It is the tea of dressing-room silence, loosened shoelaces, and the slow realisation that the laws of physics have, once again, prevailed.

In short:Peppermint is the tea of self-inflicted tragedy.Cool, calming, and faintly judgemental.

The perfect beverage for when the only thing you truly need to digest...is your own technique.

Red Raspberry Leaf Tea

Rubus idaeus — or: The tea for the lost ball shout

Red raspberry leaf tea comes not from the glamorous fruit itself, but from the leaves — which feels immediately symbolic. This is a tea built on quiet support rather than headline performance. Native to Europe and parts of Asia, the plant is best known for producing cheerful berries, but the leaves have long been used for their nutritional virtues and gentle medicinal reputation.

The leaves are dried, crushed, and steeped, producing a tea that is unexpectedly serious for something associated with desserts.

Flavour: Not raspberry at all.More like a polite black tea that has wandered into a garden and decided to stay.Floral, faintly earthy, slightly fruity, and full-bodied in a way that suggests it is trying to be taken seriously.

With honey, it becomes warmer, kinder, and marginally more forgiving.

Caffeinated: No.It offers steadiness, not excitement.

Tea type: Herbal.

I regard red raspberry leaf as the official tea of the lost ball.

That moment when everyone stops.The fielders look around.The umpire looks at the sky.And the ball has simply... opted out of the narrative.

From my notebook:

"The tea is brewed, the appeal is lodged, and nobody is quite sure what has gone missing.""This tastes like waiting with dignity."

It is a tea for pauses, for polite confusion, for situations where nothing is technically wrong but progress has become theoretical.

In short:Red raspberry leaf is the tea of gentle uncertainty.Calm, capable, and faintly resigned.

The perfect drink for when the game cannot continue —not because of rain, or light, or injury —but because reality itself has misplaced the plot.

Rooibos Tea

Aspalathus linearis — or: The tea for One Day Internationals

Rooibos, also known as red tea or redbush, comes from a shrub native to South Africa, which immediately grants it a certain moral authority in matters of sunlight, patience, and resilience. It has no relation whatsoever to green or black tea, which makes it the polite outsider at the tea table — present, welcomed, but not part of the family gossip.

It contains no caffeine and fewer tannins than its more excitable cousins, meaning it does not interfere with nutrients and does not interfere with sleep. In short, it is the tea equivalent of a dependable middle-order bat.

Flavour: Light, earthy, and naturally sweet.Despite its dramatic crimson colour, it tastes calm — like something that looks intense on paper but turns out to be remarkably reasonable in practice.

It is the rare tea that manages to feel wholesome without being smug.

Caffeinated: No.It does not hurry you.It simply accompanies you.

Tea type: Red.

I consider rooibos the official tea of the ODI.

Not the slow epic of Test cricket.Not the hyperventilating chaos of T20.But the perfectly balanced middle form, where things happen at a sensible pace and everyone agrees to finish before it becomes existential.

From my notebook:

"The tea is red, the match is steady, and nobody feels the need to reinvent themselves.""This is cricket with a timetable and tea with self-control."

Rooibos is the tea you drink all afternoon without noticing — until you realise, with mild satisfaction, that you have enjoyed the entire day and remain perfectly functional.

In short:Rooibos is the tea of measured ambition.Calm, civilised, and quietly dependable.

The ideal beverage for cricket that wants to be entertaining...but still remembers it has dinner plans.

Valerian Root Tea

Valeriana officinalis — or: The daisy-cutter of teas

Valerian is a tall, rather unassuming plant native to Europe, but the tea is made not from its flowers or leaves, but from its roots, which feels appropriately subterranean for something so obsessed with sleep. For centuries it has been used to persuade insomniacs that unconsciousness is still a viable life option.

Modern science has largely agreed, confirming what generations of tired people already suspected: valerian root does, in fact, encourage better sleep, provided one is willing to forgive its personality.

Flavour: Woody.Earthy.Faintly reminiscent of a forest floor that has opinions.

It is not a tea you drink for pleasure.It is a tea you drink for results.

Caffeinated: No.Quite the opposite.It actively dismantles alertness.

Tea type: Herbal.

I regard valerian root as the daisy-cutter of teas.

It does not soar.It does not sparkle.It simply skims along the surface of consciousness and removes it entirely.

From my notebook:

"The tea is earthy, the eyelids are heavy, and thought itself has been quietly bowled along the ground.""This is not sedation — this is strategic unconsciousness."

Valerian does not charm you into sleep.It denies you the right to remain awake.

In short:Valerian is not romantic.It is efficient.

Moringa Passion Fruit

Apple, raisins, carrots, beetroot, pineapple, papaya, moringa & lemon peel — or the tea that would make King Arthur ally with the Anglo-Saxons

This is not a tea.This is a peace treaty.

Moringa Passion Fruit contains apple bits, raisins, carrots, beetroot, candied pineapple, candied papaya, moringa leaves and lemon peel, which reads less like an ingredient list and more like the cargo manifest of a particularly optimistic medieval trading ship.

It brings together fruit, roots, leaves and optimism in a way that feels diplomatically impossible and yet — against all historical precedent — somehow works.

Flavour: Bright, fruity, gently earthy, sweet but not naive.Passion fruit and pineapple lead the parade, while beetroot and carrot provide a faint, reassuring sense that vegetables are still involved and keeping an eye on things.

It tastes like a banquet where everyone has agreed not to mention the wars.

Caffeinated: No.It does not energise.It reconciles.

Tea type: Herbal (but politically ambitious).

I regard Moringa Passion Fruit as the tea that would make King Arthur ally with the Anglo-Saxons.

Not through conquest.Not through prophecy.But through hospitality.

From my notebook:

"One sip and suddenly the Britons are sharing recipes.""This is not a drink. This is foreign policy with dried fruit."

It is the tea of improbable harmony.The beverage equivalent of discovering that your sworn enemy makes an excellent pudding.

In short:Moringa Passion Fruit is not legendary because it is powerful.It is legendary because it persuades.

The kind of tea that suggests history's greatest conflictsmight have been avoidedwith better catering.

Golden Pear

Apple, pear, rose, vanilla — or: The tea that would make Galileo a FLERF

Golden Pear is a blend of dried apple, pear, rose blossoms, vanilla pieces and natural flavouring, which sounds less like a tea and more like the dessert course at a very persuasive philosophical argument.

It is gentle, fragrant, and unapologetically charming — the sort of drink that does not seek to prove anything, but somehow convinces you anyway.

Flavour: Soft, sweet, floral and creamy.Pear leads with honeyed fruitiness, apple provides polite structure, rose adds romance, and vanilla quietly undermines your critical thinking.

It tastes like a comforting lie told beautifully.

Caffeinated: No.It does not stimulate the mind.It seduces it.

Tea type: Herbal (but ideologically dangerous).

I regard Golden Pear as the tea that would make Galileo a FLERF.

Not because it is irrational —but because it is convincing.

From my notebook:

"This tea is so round and reassuring that even the universe feels negotiable.""I know the Earth does not move, yet this tastes as though it ought to."

Golden Pear does not argue with science.It simply offers a cup so soothing that facts begin to feel optional.

In short:Golden Pear is not anti-intellectual.It is post-intellectual.

The kind of tea that makes you think:"Perhaps the world is flat...and perhaps that's perfectly fine."

Pink Rose Buds

Rosa — or: The tea for day/night Test matches

Pink Rose Buds are exactly what they sound like: small, elegant, unopened gestures of optimism, dried carefully and then infused into hot water in the hope that civilisation might briefly improve.

They contain Vitamin C, pectin, malic and citric acid, all of which suggest that beneath the poetry there is, in fact, a functioning chemical operation taking place. The Victorians believed roses cured heartbreak. Modern science merely says they are good for you, which feels like a compromise.

Flavour: Delicate, floral, faintly sweet, and mildly tart.It tastes like a love letter that knows it will not be answered but sends itself anyway.

There is no aggression here. No drama. Just gentle perfume and emotional restraint.

Caffeinated: No.It does not wake you.It accompanies you.

Tea type: Herbal (but romantically overqualified).

I regard Pink Rose Buds as the tea for day/night Test matches.

The sort of tea that survives both sunlight and floodlights.Equally suitable for the optimism of the first session and the quiet melancholy of the final overs under artificial stars.

From my notebook:

"At noon it smells like hope. At midnight it tastes like memory.""This tea does not care who wins. It cares that everyone feels something."

Pink Rose Buds are not practical.They are atmospheric.

They belong to long matches, long conversations, and the kind of cricket where time itself becomes the main opponent.

In short:Pink Rose Buds are not the tea of strategy.They are the tea of endurance.

The perfect companion for cricket that begins in daylight...and ends in poetry.

Yerba Mate

Definitely, the national drink of Argentina.Tea's more intense, slightly rebellious cousin.

Yerba mate, my dear fellow, is what happens when a nation decides that tea requires more stamina, more fellowship, and slightly less porcelain. Properly styled Ilex paraguariensis, it is a species of holly native to the subtropical forests of Argentina, Uruguay, Paraguay, and southern Brazil—regions where the horizon stretches wide, cattle outnumber opinions, and conversation travels at the speed of shared ritual.

The leaves are harvested, dried (sometimes smoked, for a flavour reminiscent of a campfire that has read poetry), and cut into a mingling of leaf, twig, and dust. They are then placed in a hollowed gourd—called simply a mate—and sipped through a metal straw known as a bombilla, whose perforated base functions as both filter and quiet moral guardian against excessive leaf ingestion.

But mate is not merely a beverage; it is a republic in miniature. One does not brew a private cup and retreat behind a newspaper. One prepares a single vessel and passes it, ceremoniously, from hand to hand. The same straw. The same infusion. The same unspoken covenant: we are, for this moment, in it together. Refusing the offered gourd without cause is tantamount to declining friendship. Accepting it is to enter the circle.

In flavour, mate is herbaceous, bitter, grassy, faintly sweet, occasionally smoky—something like green tea that has taken up ranching. It contains caffeine (or, as enthusiasts prefer, "mateine," though chemistry raises an eyebrow), and it delivers a steady, companionable alertness rather than the sharp elbow of coffee. One feels not jolted, but rallied.

I encountered mate for the first time in Buenos Aires. I had travelled there for a Bridge tournament which finished in a scandal, invited by my darling friend Doña Blanca Curi, RIP.

I might have regarded the shared straw with aristocratic hesitation. Yet after a cautious sip—eyebrow raised, monocle metaphorically adjusted—I recognised in it a distant cousin to tea: a leaf, a ritual, a social architecture built around heat and patience. Where tea has its porcelain and its pavilion, mate has its gourd and its thermos. Where tea pauses the innings, mate sustains the ride across the pampas.

In short, yerba mate is South America's answer to the eternal question: how shall we fortify the body while binding the tribe? Not with dainty cups and saucers, but with a single gourd passed beneath an open sky.

Earthy, bitter, and heroically stimulating. The energy lasts longer than coffee and the cultural significance lasts forever. You don't drink mate, you commit to it socially.

In Argentina, mate is football — fierce, ubiquitous, and the very pulse of daily life — while cricket there is like a politely whispered sonnet at the pavilion, beloved by the few and endlessly explaining itself between sips.

Apple Cinnamon Lapacho

Tree bark that somehow tastes like dessert.

Smooth, caramel-like, gently sweet, with apple and cinnamon doing a friendly waltz on top. No caffeine, no tannins, no drama — just comfort in a cup.

I drink this while explaining, for the fifth time, that "yes, it's bark, but so is most of Australian commentary."In cricketing terms: the perfect tea for long evenings when Australia are still batting and everyone has emotionally clocked out.

Hibiscus Flower

Crimson, tart, and unapologetically dramatic.

Fruity, sharp, refreshing, and beautiful enough to distract you from most disappointments, including the Ashes. Excellent hot, even better cold, and dangerously good with sugar.

The reverse of Australian tea: colourful, interesting, and with actual flavour.

Immensely Beautiful

A herbal ensemble cast.

Hibiscus, rosehip, blackberry leaf, lemongrass, mint — a whole botanical committee working in harmony. Bright, rounded, refreshing, and suspiciously well-balanced.

It's what Australian team selection might look like in an ideal universe: everyone contributing, nobody shouting, and everything making sense.

Nine Life Spices Blend

Spices with collective self-esteem.

Cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, clove, aniseed, rosemary, thyme — warming, aromatic, and boldly confident. It doesn't ask for attention; it assumes it.

I drink this before matches against Australia, claiming it "fortifies the spirit" and "helps cope with sledging, sunshine, and the unbearable smugness of winning convincingly."

In summary:These are teas for long matches, long jokes, and the eternal British belief that even when Australia win, at least our tea is better.

Snow Mountain Chrysanthemum

Tea grown so high it has a theological perspective.

Round, sweet, and delicately floral, with a purity that feels almost spiritual. Each infusion reveals a softer note, as if the flower itself were practising humility.

I regard this as Anglo-Catholic tea: mysterious, beautiful, slightly foreign, and quietly suspected of being far too interesting to be entirely respectable.

In cricketing terms, Chrysanthemum is the visiting priest from somewhere mountainous, exotic, and faintly alarming — who nonetheless bowls beautifully.

Fruit Infusions

Forest Berries

A cup that looks like it's already gossiping.

Intensely fruity, gloriously pink, and packed with elderberries, raspberries, blackberries and strawberries. It tastes like summer escaped into a teapot and refused to be sensible.

The Twenty20 of infusions: loud, colourful, wildly popular, and taken far more seriously than one expects.

Lemon

Citrus with a soothing conscience.

Lemon tea and lemon balm tea are not the same. Lemon tea is generally hot water mixed with lemon juice or slices from the citrus fruit, offering a tart flavour. Sometimes, it is a blend of apple, rosehip, lemon and lemongrass in a mix that feels medicinal in the nicest possible way. Bright but gentle, like being encouraged rather than corrected.

Lemon balm is an herbal infusion made from the leaves of the Melissa officinalis plant (a member of the mint family), offering a mild, sweet, lemon-mint flavor

I drink this when recovering from either a cold or a poor batting collapse, claiming both require "acid, optimism, and low expectations".

Mango

A tropical holiday pretending to be tea.

Hibiscus, apple, mango and lemongrass combine into something fragrant, sunny and faintly irresponsible. It tastes like sunshine with administrative skills.

What cricket would be if it were invented on a beach and nobody wore trousers.

Marula Peach

Fruit with good manners.

Hibiscus and apple provide the backbone, while peach and marula add softness and a subtle exotic sweetness. Round, mellow, and extremely easy to like.

The perfect mixed-doubles tea: familiar enough to be comforting, unusual enough to feel exciting, and unlikely to offend anyone important.